Life by Robert Staudhammer

Freud

2010-04-19T12:22:00.001-06:00

By: Robert Staudhammer

The Power of the Mighty

2010-03-24T22:11:00.006-06:00

"The penis mightier than the pen is."

"Also... I'm having trouble with my space bar."

- Robert Staudhamer

Her Handyman

2009-12-11T22:12:00.001-07:00

She grabbed my sleeve and led me away from the people crowded around a backyard fire pit.

“Look,” she said enthusiastically as she pointed to a rough piece of tarnished metal hanging from the shed door, “he made this for me.” She moved the metal bracket back and forth showing how it locked to a fastening plate screwed crooked to the adjacent door. She smiled with excitement.

She bounced over to the crowd to retrieve another friend and I took a closer look at what her handyman had made for her. It was a terrible fix. The battered hinge cut from another door carried with it the jagged scars of its surgery. Sure it worked but the whole thing looked awful. I stood back and watched her show her admiration to another friend. Looking past the ugly patch job I saw her staring in adoration and appreciation at him—her handyman—her man. That was beautiful.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Youthful Truth

2009-12-11T09:45:00.001-07:00

My girlfriend and I were having an inordinate amount of arguments. More than I would have ever expected from such a young romance. I spent a lot of time thinking where we were headed. In the interest of keeping my reality in check, I solicited some input.

Advice ranged from the single male friend’s “Dump that crazy bitch!” to my mom’s eternally optimistic “you should just try harder.” Both cuts of council carried merit; however, given that my friend wasn’t ready to give up a drinking buddy and my mom anxiously awaits her grandbabies, both were taken with a heavy dose of skepticism.

The answer had to be somewhere in between. If it were all awful, I wouldn’t have stuck around. Conversely if it were all wonderful, I would be happily married right now. Put simply, it was a wonderful, awful relationship. I was just struggling to determine whether the good outweighed the bad and it’s always hard trying to assign values to metrics concerning passion, zeal, and emotion. Maybe I wasn’t malleable enough. Maybe I was giving her beauty too much credit. Maybe I was over thinking everything.

That week I took my twelve year old, little brother to the ice rink. At one point we sat in the stands and talked man to man over some ice cream. A lull in our conversation brought the opportunity for me to ask his opinion. I laid it all out for him. I talked about our strengths and our weaknesses. I explained the entire paradigm of an adult relationship and the pitfalls that consume affection and reciprocity and mutual respect. I asked him what he thought I should do. Should I stay or should I move on?

He dove deep into contemplation. He lowered his head and he raised an eyebrow. Staring straight ahead he began to nod his head up and down. Then with a question, he offered me the simplicity of his youthful wisdom,

“Is she hot?”

I laughed and thought about the times in my life when everything really was just that easy. However, the simplicity of his question revealed a metric that I hadn’t given enough consideration—the importance of an uncomplicated life. I made my decision and look back only in fond memory.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Music: Life's Soundtrack

2009-12-01T14:17:00.002-07:00

A good song can make you want to dance; a great song will move you.
A good song can make you think; a great song will inspire you.
A good song can make you reminisce; a great song will allow you to relive.
A good song can make you slow down and listen; a great song will make you pause your life to appreciate.

A great song will always make you wish it was just a little bit longer....

By: Robert Staudhammer

Trousers Devoured

2009-11-18T11:32:00.006-07:00

I was standing in line, waiting to place my lunch order. The long row of hungry individuals crawled forward in half step increments. At one point where the line rounded the counter, bodies turned to place sandwich orders. Then, no longer hidden by the people behind it, there it was; the biggest wedgie I had ever seen.

Whether it’s your eyes seeing one around town or your butt tugging at the seat of your own pants, we’ve all had experiences with wedgies before. Personally, I don’t like having a wedgie. It’s just uncomfortable to have all that fabric crowded in my crack. Additionally, it reminds me of the years spent avoiding school-yard melvins, tight panties, gotch pulls, and, of course, dreaded and feared atomic wedgies. The times spent watching my back around wedgie-prone individuals would be all for naught if in more recent life I walked around, willingly, with my underwear and pants jammed up my ass.

Now this guy ordering his lunch, this guy had issues. He was a rather large individual—tall as well as round. He carried his weight low below his waistline. His hungry ass cheeks were systematically eating away at his pants and his belt struggled to keep his trousers from being completely devoured. The strain of this consumption pulled and folded the fabric of his pants. Lines stretched from every possible side of his hindquarters to the middle of his ass. I tried to look away but I couldn’t.

I kept thinking about how incredibly uncomfortable this must have felt. Even taking into account his size, there’s no way that he could be unaware that his cheeks were holding enough fabric to clothe a small child. I found myself engaged in my own wedgie removal lunge—a wide step to the side and a little shake to remove any vertical creepage. Maybe he’d catch on. He didn’t. He paid for his meal, turned and walked quickly over to a table. With his hurried pace, I was surprised that nothing caught fire with all friction of the rubbing cloth.

Like I said before, I’ve seen wedgies before but nothing like this. And as much as I wanted to un-see what I saw, I realized that had it not been for this man’s astonishing, inconceivable wedgie, I might have nothing to write about. So the next time I see him, I should thank him… well that is if he hasn’t already been completely swallowed by his own ass.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Can You Take Me Home?

2009-11-03T15:00:00.004-07:00

I was nearing her house and I really didn’t want the evening to end. I pulled into her driveway and the song we had been talking about earlier that night rose from the speakers. She sunk back into her seat and closed her eyes. “I love this song,” she said endearingly. I reached down and turned up the volume to fill the air around us. She opened her eyes and glanced over at me. A shy smile pulled at her lips.

The song ended but its chance arrival brought new conversation. We talked about all the things that aren’t appreciated in a crowded setting. We listened to each other’s stories and hopes and memories under the faint glow of a distant street light. A small break between stories gave her the opportunity to pull at the door handle. While we were having a great time in each other’s friendly company, the car’s light cutting into the space between us brought the most appropriate end to our evening. I started the engine. She turned to me and made a surprising request, “Wait here; don’t leave yet. I’ll be right back, ok?”

She soon returned from her house with a bottle of wine and a blanket. I had wanted to share this close, honest time with her since the moment I fell for her. I was happy to see that she seemed to want the same. We talked more and passed the bottle back and forth until its contents were divided between us. The moment was almost perfect and I leaned over to kiss her. She pulled back and I was left feeling the sting of my untimely advance. She explained the reason of her inaction and knew all too well where she was coming from. They say timing is everything. I’ll agree that it’s something.

I once again prepared to leave as soon as the awkward tension subsided. She leaned in for a amiable goodbye hug and her lips found mine. My hand grabbing her jacket and pulling her closer. My fingers moving behind her neck, combing through her wavy hair. Her hands delicately cupped around my face. My mouth tasting her soft lips between mine. Our heat condensed on the cold windows. She pulled back and stared at me for a brief moment. We knew this wasn’t supposed to happen.

She opened the door and before she stepped out, I pulled her back to taste her lips one more time. I was hoping for more someday and at the same time I realized the limitations of wishful thinking. I’d like to think that an unwanted circumstance in her life was what kept her from going any further that night but sometimes even the best timing in the world can’t create what’s not there. I was hopeful for more time with her. However, since then, the time without her has left me appreciative of at least that one beautiful night. She returned to her life and I went home alone.

By: Robert Staudhammer

In Between Olivia and Ophelia Reynolds

2009-10-30T16:28:00.005-06:00

Marcus rounded the corner in the dormitory hall and cautiously approached his door. He was hoping his roommate wasn’t there. Even though he could hear Flip's stereo blasting, he took the pen from the dry erase board and started to leave him a note. Just then the door flung open. Flip stood there in his baggy, heart covered boxers and nothing else.

"Sup man?" Flip said, popping his head up in greeting.

"How'd you know, I was here?" asked Marcus.

"I could smell you" replied Flip as he stuck his face out and sniffed the air around Marcus' face. "Yeah, you stink man." Confused, Marcus began to lift his arm.

"Dude, I could see your shadow under the door.” He paused for Marcus to feel the weight of his own gullibility. “Sup?" Flip repeated as his foot tapped to the music.

“Ah nothin’."

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” Flip investigated. “Looks like you were about to leave a note.”

“Na… I was just—“

“You were gonna draw another picture of a cock, weren’t you?” Flip crossed his arms and tightened his lips as his head nodded up and down, satisfied with his judgment.

“Dude, I told you I didn’t draw that dick last week,” argued Marcus in defense, “I just came by to—“

“I know, draw another giant penis on our board,” Flip interrupted again. He reached out and snatched the pen from Marcus’ hand. He gently placed the pen back in the board’s pen clip and punched Marcus in his shoulder. “That’s for liking cock so much.”

“Dude, never mind,” Marcus said as he turned to walk away.

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties all in a twist!” Flip pinched the back of Marcus’ shirt between his thumb and index finger and pulled him back into their dorm room. “So what’s up?”

Marcus walked over and slumped down on his bed. His hands rubbing together in apprehension, he began, “alright so Robyn’s sister is coming to visit next week and she thinks you’re cute—“

“Of course,“ Flip blurts out, combing his fingers through his messy hair then flexing his skinny arms, admiring his pale reflection in the mirror. “Wait. How does she know what I look like?”

“Robyn emailed her a picture from Halloween.”

“which one?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh, the one where Robyn and I are hugging and you and our suite mate are rubbing your nipples in the background.”

“Ok good, I look great in that picture.”

“Ah, anyway, Robyn wants me to set you up with her sister and she—“

“I’m in!”

“Wow, just like that?” Marcus asked in amazement.

With a smug grin on his face Flip responded, “Yep, just like that.”

“Alright, cool then. I’ll let Robyn know and she’ll set everything up.”

“Wait!” Flip put his hands up and held himself perfectly still save for his eyes darting back and forth in deep thought.

“What?” demanded Marcus.

“Is she fine like Robyn?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never met her.”

“You’ve never even seen a picture of her?”

“Nope.”

“How long you been with Robyn?”

“I don’t know, a few weeks or so.”

“Duh, a few weeks or so,“ Flip mocked Marcus with an idiotic voice, “and you never seen her sister? Whatever. Chicks have stupid pictures and personal shit all over their dorms.”

“I’m not exactly interested in the pictures on her walls when I’m over there.”

“Nice!” Flip reveled in the implications of Marcus’ comment.

“Dude, do you want to be set up with her or not?”

“Does she look like her sister—“

“I told you, I don’t know.“

“Eh, Robyn’s fine, so what the fuck… I’ll do it.”

“Wait!” Flip ran his hands from side to side and shook his head.

“What!?” Marcus let out a sigh in frustration.

“The Reynolds sisters! Remember the Reynolds sisters?”

“What about ‘em?”

“Are you kidding me man!? You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“Shit.” Marcus conceded. He knew Flip was right. The Reynolds sisters were an enigma. They both had the same parents, same genes, same upbringing but Olivia was smokin’ hot and her younger sister, Ophelia, was absolutely not. How could it be that Olivia had the looks, the personality, AND that bangin’ body while poor little Ophelia had nothing but those thick glasses and that giant gap in her teeth, flanked by two cruelly positioned snaggle teeth? “Dude, you’re right. I never thought about Ophelia.”

“But I bet you’ve thought plenty about Olivia,” Flip offered as he rocked his pelvis around in a circle, grabbing imaginary hips and slapping the air in front of him. Flip was an idiot sometimes but this time he was right and beyond anything else, Marcus had to make sure that his friend was protected from any chance of being stuck with an Ophelia.

“Shit. What are we gonna do? Robyn is going to meet us over here in a couple minutes and she’s going to ask for your answer.”

“Let’s get out of here!” Flip said in a panic. He grabbed a pair of shorts from a drawer and thrust his feet into his flip flops. He picked up a pile of t-shirts from the floor and sniffed them until one suited him. He grabbed his keys and pushed Marcus into the hall, closing the door behind them. Marcus grabbed the marker and removed the cap. “Dude, we seriously don’t have time to draw dicks.”

“Shut up, asshole! I’m leaving a note for Robyn.”

“Ahhh!” Flip yelled as he ran down the hall, “Ophelia! No!”

“Moron,” Marcus said under his breath as he penned the note for Robyn. He then ran down the hall to catch up with his friend. “Dude, I just bought us fifteen minutes. I told her we’d meet her at her dorm room.”

“I’ll just tell her that I’m not interested,” said Flip.

“Yeah but that’s just cuz you think she’s an Ophelia.”

“Dammit! You’re right. What if she’s the Olivia and Robyn’s the Ophelia,” offered Flip. Marcus furrowed his brow and pulled his head back, shuttering in disgust and disagreement. Noticing his friend wince, Flip furthered his comment. “No man… I mean Robyn is hot and all but what if her sister is super hot!? Like movie star hot?”

“And of course a super hottie would choose you?” Marcus punched back.

“Of course,” Flip said confidently.

“Alright, whatever. I see where you’re coming from.”

“Fuck it, I’ll just ask if I can see a picture of her and then I’ll decide.”

“Dude, no. You’ll be an asshole if you so say no after seeing her.”

“So?”

“Robyn’s not going to take lightly to that. It’s her sister.”

“So?” Flip honestly saw nothing wrong with his plan.

“Man, just pretend for once that you know how normal adults interact. It’s not a good idea. Just trust me.”

“Alright, alright. Calm down Dr. Phil.” The two of them paced the length of alley next to the basketball courts.

“Wait! I got it,” the idea was still rolling in Marcus’ head, “We go to Robyn’s room. Once we’re inside, you pace around and I’ll ask if she has any pictures of her sister. If she does, She’ll show me and I can make some sort of a sign that she’s hot—”

“Or not,” reasoned Flip

“Yeah, or not,” said Marcus dryly.

“That’s even worse than my plan. That’s you telling her that her sister’s ugly instead of me.”

“No. no. See, I wait for her to turn away and then I make the sign behind her back.”

“So? I still have to say whether or not I’ll go out with her.”

“That’s the beauty of it.”

“Beauty of what? Dude, that’s the worst plan ever.”

“No, listen man. You go into the room. I, and only I look at the picture. You’re too busy doing something else. Ah, she has a Rubik’s cube on her nightstand. Play with that and I’ll look at the picture. You ask her a question and when she turns to answer your question, I’ll give you the signal.”

“Then what?”

“Seriously? … ok when I give you, um say, thumbs up for example, that means she’s an Olivia. If I give thumbs down, that means she’s an Ophelia. So based on what I signal, you can either say something like ‘you know, I’ve got a lot of papers due and I’m going to be pretty busy all week’ or ‘hey, thanks for the offer, I would love to take your sister out.’”

“Lame.”

“No, this is good. See since you didn’t look at the picture, you look like a good guy if you offer to take her out and show her a good time without knowing what she looks like. But if you turn her down then Robyn will just be impressed that you’re actually taking an interest in your grades. Win-win."

“Why didn’t you tell Robyn that we’d meet her in an hour?” asked Flip not fully convinced that any of this was going to work.

“You’re not even throwing out any ideas. This’ll work. Trust me.”

“Eh… alright. For lack of a better plan… wait! So it’s thumbs up for an Olivia, thumbs down for an Ophelia?” clarified Flip.

“Yeah. It's not that difficult man,” huffed Marcus.

“That leaves a HUGE grey area don’t you think?”

“How do you mean?”

“Dude, a lot of levels of hot and disgusting can fit between Olivia and Ophelia.”

“So?”

“…So I don’t want you giving thumbs up if she’s only 5% above Ophelia.

“Alright. Fair enough. Set a standard and she’ll be the line in the sand.”

“Hmmm.” Flip searched his memory bank. He smiled and announced his decision. “Quiet Chemistry Chick!”

“Dude, good call.” Marcus knew that quiet chemistry chick was the perfect perimeter marker. Flip had talked about her a number of times in class. She was very Jane plain; cute but not cute enough for Flip to admit publicly that he liked her. He made a lot of fun at her expense but Marcus knew that deep down Flip had a thing for her on some level. It was all in the way he looked at her. Marcus would often catch Flip with a crooked smile on his face, staring straight at her. Flip deflected his crush by poking fun at her glasses often saying that if she had contacts, she might be something to talk about rather than joke about. The two slapped each other’s hands in accomplishment—Marcus thinking about his great plan and Flip thinking about Olivia and quiet chemistry chick. Off to Robyn’s dorm.

“Hey guys,” Robyn greeted the two conspirators at her door. She hugged both of them and Flip hurried over to her nightstand. No Rubik’s cube. Shit! Flip froze staring at the wall behind her bed. “Hey Flip, I was going to ask you something—“

“Hey Robyn!” Marcus interrupted, “Ah…” pretending to nonchalantly peruse her wall of pictures, “why don’t you have any recent pictures or your family up here?”

“I do. They’re on this board.” She grabbed Marcus’ hand and walked him to the wall across the room. She tapped a photograph pinned to the corkboard. Before Marcus could get a good look, She immediately turned back to see Flip and his unusual interest in her bed side lamp. “So Flip…” He looked over her shoulder at Marcus whose back was still turned investigating. Flip’s eyes yelled out for Marcus to hurry with his verdict. “I want to know something…” Flip pushed a dry swallow down his throat, “… why is there always a penis drawn on your guys’ note board?”

“Ha-ha!” Flip belted out a nervous laugh. The calm of avoiding the question before its time put him at ease. “Marcus left that note for you. I knew it was you drawing those dicks,” he said to Marcus. “I knew it.” Marcus smirked and slowly shook his head. Robyn was genuinely interested in knowing more about Flip’s apparent penis doodle fetish. She stared at him waiting for a response. “What?” he asked shrugging his shoulders, “It was Marcus!” Flip once again peered over Robyn’s shoulder to catch Marcus’ secret signal. To his disappointment Marcus was shaking his head. His hand was open palm down, rocking back and forth indicating the universal so-so. Then his hand balled up with just his thumb protruding from his fist. His hand turned until the thumb pointed down. An unsavory image of Ophelia Reynolds flashed in Flip’s mind.

“Whatever, pervert. So my sister’s coming in to town next week and despite your pee-pee fetish, she wants me to hook you up with her. You down?”

“Ah...” Flip stretched his arms over his head feigning consideration. He looked at Marcus who was still shaking his head. With a bitter taste of disappointment inside him, he grew a sweet smile knowing exactly how to respond.

By Robert Staudhammer

At vs @: Stupidity Pursues Simplicity

2009-10-27T15:18:00.003-06:00

The path of least resistance is the path where you can often find me.* Well, that is unless I find something truly insignificant on which to waste my time. That being said, I don’t see a need for adding more complication to my life. Granted there are always complications in my life, I just don’t see a need to compound them. I understand laziness in epic battle with effort. Moreover, I understand limiting effort while still retaining functionality. However, where do we draw the line?

I understand the need for abbreviations and shortcuts. Believe me, I make use of them whenever it’s not ridiculous. For example: Who wants to write out electronic mail when Email is widely known? And (save for the purpose of this essay) I won’t ever use “light amplification by stimulated emission of radiation” or “self-contained underwater breathing apparatus” because “laser” and “scuba” are now part of everyday vernacular, not to mention that they are time savers and steer clear of pretension. Now, as far as shortcuts are concerned, my philosophy is simple: If the shortcut is shorter and easier than the original route, take it. However, if the “shortcut” is actually longer and more difficult, don’t take it… and try your best to make fun of those who do.

At this point, I would like to turn your attention to the symbol @. Why is this symbol used so often in place of “at”? It’s not easier. It’s not a shortcut. The @ symbol has been living inconspicuously with the number 2 on the keyboard for decades now. It really wasn’t until the use of the internet and the influx of email addresses that most people even knew what the symbol was. Then all of a sudden it started surfacing in quick messages: “Party @ 9pm” or “Meet @ Sophie’s house” or “My friend Chris likes the @ symbol.” Ok, maybe the last isn’t a good example but at least it’s true; Chris really does like the @ symbol… a lot.

It may seem like a shortcut since it’s only one character as opposed to the ludicrous two characters that are required for “at.” It’s not. To make the @ symbol, one must first press the shift key, hold it down, and then hit the number 2. That’s two keys. No shortcut. Furthermore, if simplicity is the motor behind this reasoning, think about the distance covered in typing the word “at” verses the “@” symbol. Assuming that you have your fingers on the home keys (and if you’re still hunting and pecking, stop reading right now as this essay is way over your head), when typing “at,” your left pinky is already where it needs to be; just push down. Lateral distance traveled: zero. Then the “t” key only requires that you move your left index finger diagonally over one key. That’s it. Done. By my measurement, it’s just under one inch from the center of the “f” key to the center of the “t” key. That’s not very far at all for your finger to travel.

Now when it comes to typing the “@” symbol, the total distance traveled is about 2.75 inches (a conservative 1.25" from the “;” key to the left side of the right “shift” key and 1.5" from the “s” key to the “2” key). Go on, check my measurements. Typing “@” requires that your poor fingers cover 2.75 times the distance than they do typing “at.” That’s a ridiculous shortcut. That’s like saying: “oh, I know the easiest way to get from Los Angeles to New York… go north to Seattle; south to Mexico city; north to Bismarck, North Dakota; southeast to Frankfort, Kentucky; east to Newark; lose yourself on the Jersey turnpike for about 100 miles and then continue to New York. That’s the worst shortcut ever!

So seriously, why do people continue to be so fond of @ and aren’t they worried about being made fun of?

* I realize the irony in using 657 words to write about simplicity and shortcuts… isn’t it great!?

By: Robert Staudhammer

Kryptonite the Clamp

2009-09-09T16:58:00.006-06:00

It’s a hard thing to gauge before it’s too late. There’s usually something hidden in the way he carries himself. Maybe in the way he talks or the way he walks. Maybe the way he dresses. He usually gives a clue but I must have not been paying close enough attention. Now my negligence has left me hanging on to a tiny shred of dignity as he shakes my arm up and down holding just my fingers in his hand. Yeah that’s right, I let myself get tangled in a premature clamp. I can feel my masculinity lessen with every second that passes.

When I was young, my good friend’s dad always, always, gave the premature clamp handshake. His hand would grip firmly around only my fingers. My hand then deflated to a limp, lifeless shake—my testosterone level drained to an ultimate low. Whether or not it was his intension to reduce me, I will never know.

By the end of high school, even the most conservative estimation would put the number of our encounters at an embarrassing tally. Then one day it hit me: the years of premature clamping weren’t his fault, they were my fault. I was the one who enabled this to continue. I was the one who was perpetually having his manliness squeezed from his fingertips. I was the only one who could stop the clamper from clamping. I formulated a strategy and finally, after years of humiliation, I put my plan into action. By my calculations, victory was all about trajectory.

“Hello Robert. Nice to see you,” he said as he stuck out his hand to greet me. This is it. Do it. Don’t be scared. Stick with the plan.

“Hello, nice to see you too,” I replied.

My hand moved in slowly toward his. I held a slow, but constant speed of approach. I stared directly into his eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. I maintained my approach. He broke from our stare and I watched as he calculated, given my unchanging rate of approach, exactly when my fingers would be within clamping range. My fingers were inches from being caught. Then, a split second before his hand snapped closed around my fingers, I thrust my entire arm forward, using a never before seen and previously undiscovered acceleration to propel my hand completely into the shake. My fingers sped past his closing grip and the web between my thumb and pointer finger rested perfectly against his web. His clamp already in motion closed securely around my entire hand. That’s it! I’m in! He was taken aback. The slightest look of surprise swept across his face. He tried to hide it but I saw.

I used that technique with him from that day forward and we never had another awkward moment. Maybe he was testing me all those years—maybe he was just a dick. I leave a tiny window open for the possibility that he actually had no idea how his belittling handshakes affected me. In any case, I no longer felt emasculated by his premature clampage.

Fast forward about 15 years. Terrible handshakes still tell me a lot about a person’s character. While the dead fish, the sweaty palm, the vice grip, and linger-too-long all bother me, only the premature clamp makes me feel inadequate. All of the others just show me the level of inadequacy at which the other guy lives his life. Put simply, when shaking hands, I don’t care if another man makes himself look like a jackass but I refuse to be corralled into that same category by someone’s thoughtless or malicious, unanticipated timing.

In later life I have continued to make it my responsibility to skillfully navigate through a premature clamp using my highly evolved talent to shoot past the trouble zone. Then again, that’s only when I know it’s coming. However, I fail myself as a man when I fail to recognize any telltale sign that I’m about to be prematurely clamped. From time to time it still happens and there I stand, immediately reduced to the know-nothing, insecure, delicate young boy of yesteryear. Hmm, he didn’t look like a douche. He didn’t present his hand palm down to show his dominance. He’s not wearing a toupee. Finally he lets go and I’m awarded the opportunity to gather myself. It’s my kryptonite.

I do what I can to maintain my dignity but I can only do so much. My guess is that no matter how hard I try to avoid awkward moments, whether it’s from ignorance or ill will, there will always be people out there who try even harder to be social retards.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Ridiculous Terminology #3: “Follow Your Dreams”

2009-08-26T13:42:00.006-06:00

It seems to me that “dreams” could have easily been substituted for “aspiration” or “ambition.” Maybe even a catchier word—a word that could add a little alliteration—follow your fancy. While I feel the prior two are more accurate, not to mention slightly more articulate, the latter option still illustrates my point. Either way, both alternatives add the benefit of lucid, rational thought.

So why the need for change? If you had any idea about what I have typically dreamt about over the years, you’d understand. It’s safe to say that my sense of morality, albeit somewhat loose, keeps me from following my dreams into embarrassment… or prison.

So last night I dreamed that I was clad in a bathrobe and flip flops, drinking heavily in an elementary classroom surrounded by loud, unruly children. My teacher was mad that was late. I was mad that I couldn’t fit in the tiny desk. I knew I was out of place but for whatever reason I didn’t care to leave. That was it. Yeah, I didn’t get it either. No rhyme or reason. No desire for advancement or anything useful for that matter. Not even any urge to have fun. Now who is his right mind wants to follow that?

So I leave you with this advice: Trust a man who has the fortitude to follow his ambitions but never trust a man who is adamant about following his dreams; he’s the most likely to show up at work naked.

By: Robert Staudhammer

"Naughty" Changed Everything

2009-08-18T11:05:00.011-06:00

Did I ever tell you about that one date I had with that cute redhead—the date when I knew without a doubt where our relationship was headed?

It was a third date so all of the formalities of meeting one another had since passed. There were still many boundaries to be tested and crossed but at this point we were comfortable in each other’s company. Beyond comfort, I didn’t know where she stood but I was stuck in dating limbo. I knew enough about her to know that I didn’t hate her but I didn’t know enough to be sure that I liked her. All I really knew at this point was that she was very attractive.

So after a great date we end up at her place, a small but cheerful rental house. I sat on her little love seat and waited as she brought out a bottle of wine from the kitchen. Funny how our conversation seemed to move from good to great as the wine emptied the bottle. Playful conversation progressed to overt flirtation. Her hand reaches over and finds my knee. She locks her beautiful green eyes onto my eyes and shyly tells me, “Wait right here. I’ll be right back.” She darts off into her bedroom. I smile.

I’m perched at the end of the sofa cushion and she pokes her head out from her doorway. A seductive smile grows on her lips.

“You wanna do something naughty?” she inquires.

Of course I want to—what kind of a ridiculous question is that? I manage to nod my head up and down in agreement.

“OK,” she says with excitement then she irresistibly winks at me and pulls herself back into her room. Shit, what do I do now? Do I go to her room? Do I stay on the couch? Should I take my clothes off? Shit. I settle on taking off my shoes and socks, unbuttoning my modesty button, and leaning back. I’m comfortable, minutely undressed, and completely ready to follow this established path. If she comes out completely naked, remember she has eyes.

She jumps out of her room, unfortunately fully clothed. Damnit! She’s holding a small box that now captivates my interest. She sits next to me, closer than ever before, and removes the lid. Hmm, this could still be a lot of fun. She reveals the content and I immediately know that things would never be the same between us.

I didn’t know what exactly to expect when she asked if I wanted to do something naughty. What I did know is that whatever she had in mind, I was going to be a willing participant. However, it’s just cruel when a woman asks a man if he wants to do something naughty and then pulls out a notebook of Naughty Mad Libs. I really couldn't be more wrong about being a willing participant. So very wrong. It was humbling.

I wasn’t mad that she didn’t show me the new sexual world I had created in that short time she left me hanging in the other room. I wasn't mad that sex, not even regular sex, was nowhere near our evening's agenda. I wasn’t even mad that I was inhumanely deceived and mislead. I was just pissed that anyone would truly think that doing Mad Libs is an appropriate, enjoyable activity… well of course with the exception of children under the age of nine, and most likely retarded. What a sad end to a relationship that had so much potential if nowhere else than in my thoughts.

Touch

2009-08-07T00:43:00.009-06:00

She lays next to me in silence. She rests on her side facing away from me. I watch her body move with every breath. Her hair falls graciously to the pillow exposing the beauty of her delicate neck. I reach over and place my hand on her hip. She places her hand on top of mine. Her fingers find and fill the space between my fingers. Her hands are always cold and I love it. My skin warms hers and she squeezes my hand once before she returns her hand beneath her pillow. I lean forward and hold my lips so close to her neck. I can feel my breath held in the space between us. She arches her head back until her neck meets my mouth. I kiss her softly and return to my own pillow. My hand glides from her hip over her side and down her back. Her body lifts to my touch because she likes the way I caress her. I touch her because I like the way she feels.

She effortlessly turns around and her arm reaches out to find me. Her hand stretches wide open and caresses my chest in a big circle. Her fingers slowly curl back into a loose fist, her nails brush over my skin. I look at her hand on my body and I feel no apprehension. It doesn’t matter to her that I’m not perfect. Her hands caress my body’s imperfections—all that makes me insecure. They don’t judge me. Her hands touch me because she likes the way I feel.

By: Robert Staudhammer

10 Seconds to Spare

2009-08-07T00:24:00.011-06:00

Mike’s attention was on the driver behind him. He was driving a black Mustang, gradually swerving from side to side trying to find a way around Mike. Mike plugged along, pretending to ignore him. It was obvious to Gabe that Mike was irritated as usual but he decided not to bother him about it.

“Sometimes they really piss me off” Mike said under his breath.

“Who?” asked Gabe.

“Hmm… what?” Mike was surprised that Gabe heard him.

“Who pisses you off?” Gabe probed again.

“What?” Mike acted aloof.

“You heard me. Stop acting like an idiot.”

“I didn’t say anything,” proclaimed Mike hoping Gabe would let it go.

“No, you said something. I heard you say something about someone really p…”

“They piss me off,” interrupted Mike as he pointed to the Mustang in his rear view mirror. I know we’re supposed to be helping them but sometimes they make it so damn hard. Like this guy for example; he’s been riding my ass for about three miles. Gabe turned to see what the big deal was. “Look at him, he’s been yelling at me like I can hear what he’s saying. Idiot.”

“So?” said Gabe.

“I know, but some cases are much worse than others.” Mike clenched his hands tighter around the wheel. “Look! He’s trying to pass on the right again.” His foot floored the petal and they sped up just in time to box the guy in and keep him from getting into the left lane.

“Holy shit! Man, did you see the look on that guy’s face?” asked Gabe as he tried to keep from laughing. “He must really hate you.”

“Damnit Gabe! That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Relax…. You know you really need this one,” offered Gabe. “Aren’t you sick of flying in circles?”

“Ha. Funny.” Mike said as dryly as he could manage. “Ya know, you’re not helping.”

Gabe was used to poking fun at Mike but he could see that this time Mike was serious. Gabe dug way down below his comical exterior. “I know exactly what you’re going through. I had to go through this myself you know.”

“Oh please! Cars didn’t even exist when you had your assignments,” replied Mike.

Mike’s comment stung a little bit and Gabe fired back. “Whatever, people were still assholes back then too, ya know.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that I…” Mike had let his guard down for a couple of seconds and the Mustang edged out on to the shoulder and passed the car in front of him. He pulled back onto the highway kicking up dirt and rocks from the side of road.

“You know, you’re not very good at this,” laughed Gabe.

“Shut up!” I can get this one. I still have 35 seconds! Mike pushed his car and crept up next to the Mustang. There were no cars ahead of them and Mike had 23 seconds left. The Mustang punched the gas again and took off.

“He’s not going to let you catch him,” said Gabe calmly.

“I got him, I got him” replied Mike with an overwhelming sense of confidence. Mike inched up to the left of the Mustang. “No problem, and with ten seconds to spare.” The window of the Mustang rolled down and out came a hand with its middle finger extended for all the world to see.

“Fuck You, Asshole!” yelled the driver.

Mike felt his foot move away from the gas pedal. Gabe saw Mike’s determination quickly wash away. Mike’s hands loosened their grip and the car couldn’t keep up.

“You still have 7 seconds,” encouraged Gabe. “You got him…”

The Mustang pulled ahead and Mike hung back while it swerved into the left lane in front of him.

“Four, three, two…” counted Gabe. Mike slammed his brakes and the road tore at the bottoms of his tires. Bang! In oncoming traffic, debris fell from the back of some careless driver's truck and skidded into the car following behind. It pierced into the tire and the rim dug deep into the pavement pulling the car over the median. The car smashed head on into the black Mustang. The heavy lumber the oncoming car was hauling on a roof rack came to rest in the middle of the driver's face exactly where Mike was supposed to be, instantly killing him and his middle finger. Gabe stared at Mike in amazement and without looking back Mike pushed the shifter back into first gear and crept past the accident.

“Tough luck, I thought you had that one. I’m sure you’ll get another chance, man.” said Gabe.

With a lump in his throat, Mike looked up and relied “Let’s hope so…”

A Friend Not Forgotten

2009-08-03T17:05:00.003-06:00

After looking at some party pictures from this past weekend, I realized that someone was missing. It's been a while since I had seen him in person. Looking back at old pictures, the last time I saw him was the summer of 2005. A lot has changed in those four years and I’m overwhelmed with the burden I feel knowing that it was my decisions that perpetuated our estrangement.

Life was just always easier for him. Never an issue before but now it makes me jealous. He had a way about him that made life’s apprehension and human insecurities fade to obscurity. He carried himself lighter across the world and that gave more weight to the things that we choose to make important. We’re a lot alike but I can honestly say that I wish I were more like him again.

The years since I last knew him were never bad, save for the inevitable downs of any life. But those valleys always had peaks that followed. I changed so slowly, I didn’t seem to notice the growing deviation until it was too obvious to subconsciously or cleverly hide. All in all it’s been a good life since but I know that, given the same opportunities, he would have lived twice the life I have lived—been places I have never been, seen things I have never seen, and experienced so many more things that I long to experience myself. I want to be more like him. I want his opportunities. I want his life because while mine is good, his is great—I remember.

He would welcome seeing me as I welcome seeing him again. And even with all the modern technology, the only way that I can ever see him again is by completing a drastically long journey of hard work and dedication. My will to live a life less ordinary mirrors his and it starts now with a step forward.

Assholes...

2009-07-28T13:09:00.003-06:00

I used to revel in the idea that I pretty much get along with everyone. Though as I accumulate knowledge over the years, I find that some people are just plain assholes. I don't get along with assholes because they are... well, assholes. I met a new one the other day and it reinforced my values. His name is Bill and he's a real asshole. If I could provide everyone with his last name, I wouldn't hesitate but unfortunately, I don't know it.

Given that I have built such a powerful aversion to assholes, I try to avoid them whenever possible. However, back in the days of yore, I would eat my pride and try to make connections with assholes in order to make them less asshole-ish around me. It was tiring work with little to no positive ground gained. Too many uphill battles will tire even the strongest soldier.

Nowadays I thankfully have a different solution to dealing with assholes. I avoid them. I don't try to bring them closer. I don't try to make friends with them. I simply stay as far away as I can. Now ascertaining whether or not a person is an asshole is a little more difficult than it might seem. Not always can you tell from a distance that an asshole is approaching. The level of one's assholeness is inversely related to the distance at which you can make a positive determination that he or she is an asshole. If you can tell that someone is an asshole from across a sizable parking lot, then that asshole is a HUGE asshole... get in your car and leave is my advice.

However, a smaller asshole (and by that a mean a person who is less of an asshole and not an asshole who is a midget) usually can't be outed unless talk to. Unfortunately it's not as easy as spotting a bad hair piece. Though it is true that most assholes have the capability of outing themselves by simply opening their mouths and pushing the shit that fills their brains past their lips and into the air that surrounds them. I find that the more shit someone has in his head, the bigger asshole that person is. It's a pretty linear scale unless it's mixed with arrogance or indifference.

Like I said before, whenever possible, I avoid assholes but when this is not possible, I find that a simple "Sir/Ma'am, you are an asshole" usually gets my point across quite clearly. I mean maybe these assholes are assholes simply because nobody has ever told them that they are assholes. You know, kind of like the smelly kid continuing to stink just because nobody has the balls to say: hey guy, you smell like ass. Not to be condescending but merely to convey the truth that his odor is wretched. It's really doing a favor for him as well as everybody else. The same goes for assholes.

So if you happen to meet an asshole, politely point out what he is.

True New Mexicans

2009-07-28T13:04:00.004-06:00

I was sitting in a bar on the south end of Santa Fe on a slow Sunday afternoon. I comprised half of the bar's patrons. Sitting four stools to my right was the other half.

He was a dried up, leathery man. His well cared for black hat, no doubt his city hat, kept him company on the stool to his right. He remained silent with the exception of telling the barkeep what he wanted to drink. His only movement was confined to his powerful, unpolished left hand and the arm that followed it. His grip never loosened from his favorite and well-deserved vice. Up and down his hand went until his heavy white mustache had claimed every last drop from the mug.

He was an interesting sight; he was straight out of the past. Sixty years ago I'm sure he fit right in. Though as the years crept along, his trendy style faded to out-of-date, to ridiculous, to really fucking cool. Funny how it works that way, right? Anyway, his clothes were worn down but clean. He was definitely in his city clothes.

After he tossed back a couple more drinks and rolled and enjoyed a few cigarettes, another fellow walked in to the bar and headed right for him. The new patron, clad in almost identical attire, meandered over to his near twin and rested his bones on the open stool next to him. The stool to his left held his gleaming white city hat. The two ordered beers and shared each others space and second hand smoke but not a word was spoken between them. Even though they didn't physically resemble one another, their faces had lived the same life, leather next to leather, scruff next to scruff. I was truly amazed that these two guys apparently didnt know each other.

After about half an hour of sitting next to each other at the bar in silence, black-hat asks white-hat in his deep scratchy smokers voice, "Where you been?" Neither takes his stare away from the wall across the room. "I ain't seen you in bout two years," prodded black-hat.

"New York City," returned white-hat, his disinterest strengthened by his free hand scratching the scruff under his chin as he spoke.

"Oh." The two sat again in silence for another minute.

"New York, huh?" black-hat continued with his intense interrogation.

"yep."

"Thats somewhere back east, huh?"

"yep."

Then with a calculated mix of confusion and disgust pouring out of his expression, black-hat turned to look white-hat in the eye, "Why the hell d'ya go and do somthin' stupid like that?"

White-hat slowly raised his shoulders to give a non-verbal I dont know and the two returned to the pleasure of each others silent company.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Traffic Circle: Logic Optional

2009-07-16T17:16:00.005-06:00

Why is the concept of the traffic circle so hard for some to understand? I was thinking that maybe within the circle there appears a rip in the space-time continuum where a void of logic emerges and entrances passersby. Then I think that for this to be true, all motorists entering into the vacuous circle must be affected by this anomaly. Then why is it that some drivers enter and exit with no problems and others are helplessly caught in the throes of this whirling vortex. My guess is that while the utter madness and confusion of a traffic circle has no effect on normal people, morons and dipshits are subject to its disorientating effects.

For all of you who sadly fall into the latter category, let me take the time to explain how a traffic circle works in terms you might be able to understand. Since you have arrived at the circle, it seems likely that you have somehow managed to drive in a straight line. Think about that straight stretch of road like the letter “I.” Now, since the idea of a circle is scary and intimidating, let’s take some baby steps. Now envision a small (very small… don’t want to scare you off) curve in the road. That small curve is represented by the letter “J.” Understand that if you follow the curve, you’re still on the same road. Good. Now since you are getting a bit more adventurous, let’s cast off “small” from the curve and make it a big curve. You can do this. Be strong. This big curve is represented by the letter “U.” I know, crazy how fast this course is moving. Don’t freak out, we’re almost to a major resting point. Let’s take this just one more step. You can do this. Follow me because this step is very important. If you continue driving from your straight line and then start to turn and then hold that turn for a little while, then a little while longer, you will eventually make a shape like this: “O.” It’s ok if you feel overloaded. Don’t get down on yourself. It’s hard to comprehend but if you think about it, it’s just a straight line that has been curved into a circle—really not so scary if you can understand it.
Now for review: this is the progression from straight to circle.

l --> J --> U --> O

Now, unfortunately, is the advanced portion of this lesson. Think about driving on that safe, easy, unintimidating stretch of straight road. You come to a cross street and you have a yield sign. Another car approaches on the perpendicular road (forget the geometric definition… perpendicular is when two streets make this shape: +). You wait patiently at your yield sign. Then when the other car is right in front of the intersection what do you do?

A. Pull out right in front of the other car causing either an accident or a near miss.
B. Wait for the car to pass because it has the right of way.
C. Freak out, pull half way into the intersection. Stop. Honk your horn. Yell at the driver of the car you cut off. Then drive off cursing because you’re such a clueless asshole.

It most likely does not surprise you that the answer is “B.” Logical right? Now why the fuck are you pulling A and C on traffic circles? If you wouldn’t pull right in front of oncoming traffic with the right of way on straight streets, then why in the world would it be considered an option in a traffic circle? Remember if you wouldn’t do it on the road that’s shaped like this “I” then don’t do it on the road that’s shaped like this ”O.” Regular road signs like “STOP” and “YEILD” are actually expected to be followed on any road no matter what its shape. Write this down if it helps.
Now, for all of you who fall into the prior category of “normal people”: thumbs up. Thank you for not driving around with your heads up your asses.

By: Robert Staudhammer

Life in Leather Pants

2009-07-14T14:19:00.002-06:00

I realized one day that I would never be cool enough to wear leather pants. I can’t play an instrument so I would never be part of the next giant rock band. I will never race motorcycles because it scares me. I’m too sexually conservative to follow any desire to strap on S&M gear. And I’m too rational to lose myself in the rave scene. It was actually humbling.

I thought about missing my opportunities to turn and walk down any of the roads that could have led me to a life of leather pants. My parents bought me a guitar when I was a young and I never learned how to play—I never took the initiative. I have a motorcycle but the last time I rode it on the interstate, I pissed myself a little. About 50 mph is fast enough for me and the last I checked, racers run faster than that for a warm up. I don’t want pain and promiscuity and humility to be part of my sexuality and I find the draw of monotonous music and bright neon lights of raves to be beyond ridiculous. However, I do have respect for the person who chases his happiness in whatever form it may present itself. Maybe it’s the lack of impassioned drive that marks the inaction of my past and places me where I am today.

Then days later two things dawned on me:

1) Do ravers even wear leather pants?

2) I get hot pretty easily and leather pants just seem like they’d be a green house for ass pimples.

Ban on Candy Cigarettes Stops Smoking... yeah right

2009-07-10T13:34:00.004-06:00

Picture it:

“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep,” a commanding vaudevillian radio voice punches from your speaker box, “This just in from the Whitehouse: No more ‘light’ cigarettes or candy-flavored smokes. Bigger, scarier warning labels will be attached to cigarette packs. Fewer ads will run featuring sexy young smokers. This has been an emergency message from your broadcast station. Beep, beep, beep, beep.”

And just like that Obama ended the smoking epidemic.

This I pulled from the MSN homepage: “Historic anti-smoking legislation sped to final congressional passage on Friday — after a bitter fight lasting nearly a half-century — and lawmakers and the White House quickly declared it would save the lives of thousands of smokers of all ages. Even more important, they said, the measure could keep countless young people from starting in the first place.”

Is anyone buying this bullshit?

Personally, I think that smoking is fucking disgusting. Beyond causing the numerous heath afflictions I could rattle off, I don’t understand how someone would pay to have yellow teeth, premature wrinkles, and turd breath. Just lie in the sun for three months and chew on pieces of dog shit… at least that’s free. I remember when I was younger. When I was at a bar and I had my eye on a girl, if she lit up, I didn’t let it bother me. Fast forward five years. If the girl lit up, I was pretty put off but I would deal with it if she had the personality and looks to help push me past my negativity. Fast forward another five years. Now when the woman lights up, no matter how amazing she is, she removes herself from any level of romantic interest. Smokers taste bad. Smokers smell bad. Whenever I have kissed a smoker, I always had this thought that the rest of her is going to taste just as bad and immediately she loses her appeal. Then again, that’s just me.

I think that pulling a tasty candy cigarette from a child’s hand, ending “light” on labels, and pasting giant, morbid warning labels on cigarette packs isn’t going to do a damn thing. It’s not like people don’t know that smoking is bad for their health. Smokers are not surprised to hear that smoking causes all sorts of health problems. Who are we kidding? Placing the blame on the tobacco companies is ridiculous. And seriously, smokers who think that “light” cigarettes are less lethal are morons. In this case I’m glad that smoking increases chances of impotence in men. Maybe then these idiots will have less opportunity to pollute the gene pool. I say let smokers smoke. Let an entire mass of people slowly kill themselves. They are not uninformed. When it comes down to it, smokers aren’t incapable of choosing not to smoke. They smoke because they want to.

Adults are free to make up their own minds and I have no problem with that. Despite my personal views, smokers should not be told they can’t smoke; they should not be considered second class citizens. Smoke if you want to; however, if you choose the life of an emphysemic tar sucker, why should I be expected to pay for it? So you don’t care that you stink and will need oxygen in your later life; cool, I don’t care either… Unless you’re a beneficiary of Medicare or Medicaid. Why should I pay for your idiocy? I believe that, unfortunately, we are a ways from universal health care but should that day come within my lifetime, I don’t want to be responsible for taking care of your cancerous throat and lungs. Take care of your damn self. If I ate lead paint chips daily for twenty years, and somehow managed to survive, would you be willing to pay my medical expenses? I certainly hope not because I wouldn’t deserve it.

Penis and the Proper Course of Action

2009-07-07T11:40:00.005-06:00

You know you’re at a good party when the naked guy shows up. Chances are he was there all along but you didn’t recognize him until his civilian attire was gradually pulled off his body by too many shots of diarrhea-inducing, bottom shelf tequila. Then from out of nowhere, there he is in full uniform… naked and smiling.

I wondered why the girl I was talking to had a sudden and seemingly urgent desire to bail from our conversation. I’ve been ditched plenty of times but rarely mid sentence and without justification. “Hmm, alright… psycho” I muttered to my cup of beer. I turned around and there he was… the naked guy standing right behind me. Hmm, that guy’s naked. Weird.

“Hey, what’s up man?” he asked all naked.
“nothin’” I bounced back.
“Ah, cool. Fun party, huh?” he hung out for my consideration.
“Yep.”

Silence.

I didn’t run away like everyone else. Naked guys are people too. Though what to talk about? Inane chatter about the weather and sports seemed somehow even more ridiculous at this point. I always have something to say but somehow naked guy got my tongue. No, not like that, pervert… the figure of speech. Damn, this guy threw me off my game. What to say?

“That’s a nice penis” I offered.
Confusion eventually reaching his face, “What?!” he demanded.
“Nice penis” I repeated. I entertain the idea that maybe hearing is affected when naked.

“Man, that’s a weird thing to say,” he paused to complete his judgment—his head slowly nodding up and down. “Yeah man, you’re weird.”

Thus far my scientific field research has yielded the following as empirical facts:
Naked guys only show up when the party is balls out.
Naked guys are hard of hearing and prone to hypocrisy.
Not all compliments are taken well.

Absurdity and the Advice Amiss

2009-06-24T16:37:00.008-06:00

His older sister, as always, was concerned. After their hostess sat them down, she jumped right in to it. She talked about reciprocity and giving and receiving and something about the expectations that precede and weave throughout a relationship. Swallowing unsolicited advice was never one of his strong suits. Intermittent nods and mumbles of agreement were the easy route to a free lunch without actually having to listen.

Ahhh, Here we go.
“In a relationship—a successful relationship—there has to be a balance of give and take.”

Yeah right. I’ve heard that one before.

“Blah. Blah.”

His head slowly bounces up and down not in agreement but to the baseline of “Back in Black” that plays in his head. Damn. That waitress is way too hot to be working here.

“You need to give as much as you take.”

Give and take. Got it. Hmm, I feel like a burger. Damn, she’s quality. I bet she runs. Look at those legs. Too bad she’s not on the menu. Look at that ass; I bet she wouldn’t even get all mad if I came home all drunk. A chick that hot has gotta be cool.

“She really does a lot for the two of you. You have to give her credit where credit’s due. And beyond credit you need to appreciate her and consistently encourage her.”

I’d appreciate that ass on my face.

“Are you listening to me?”

His head rocks to AC/DC.

“Sorry, it looked like I was losing you there.”

She is fucking FINE!

“You know it’s ok if you two have separate interests right?”

Yeah right.

“No, seriously.” She noticed his face turn to attention. “I think it’s actually a good thing for a couple to have separate interests.”

She can’t be serious. No way I could work on my truck all day without having to watch some shitty movie with Hugh Grant that night.

“Now I’m not saying that you go an entire lifetime without connecting…”

That’s exactly what you’re saying.

“Look… it’s like this.” She grabbed her napkin, pushed her empty bread plate to the side and unfolded it in front of her. She dug into her purse and retrieved a red pen.

If she starts making a list of Dos and Don’ts, I’m out of here.

On the paper she drew a circle on the left side. On the right, she started another circle. The drawing finished at two circles slightly overlapping in the center. One was scribbled red, the other left white. In the tight overlapping section she drew carefully spaced red lines showing a pink mix of the two circles’ colors. “Pick a color.”

This better not be some new-aged, hippie bullshit.

His hand touched the closer circle—the white one.

“Ok so this is you and she’s the red one.”

Red for rage. I bet hot ass over there doesn’t get mad at nothing.

“Alright this is you. Now all your interests fit in here. And all of hers fit over here.”

So cool stuff in mine and stupid shit in hers. Got it.

“So you can have whatever you want on your side…”

That’s right, hands off my paintball gun bitch.

“… and she can have whatever she wants on her side. Now the caveat is that she can’t touch any of the stuff on your side and you can’t touch the stuff on her side.”

No problem, she can keep her fucking journaling.

“Now this part where the circles overlap, that’s where you share commonality. This is where you share experience and interests. Everything that’s in the center is to be shared. This is your life together. You should strive more to be in the center. Chase the center. Right now it’s just a sliver but in time if you work hard at expanding your intimacy, it will get bigger”

Holy shit! She’s right! It really is all about the center. A tight sliver. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this before? What really matters in life is chasing the pink center. Now where’s that hot ass waitress?

By: Robert Staudhammer

Ridiculous Terminology # 16: "Speed Demon"

2009-06-23T15:27:00.004-06:00

Let’s make two assumptions here for this ridiculous terminology:

1) “Speed” refers to someone moving fast. Most often this is manifested in a person driving fast. Additionally not just fast, but rather faster than you, as “fast” is a relative term.

2) Religious doctrine, and personal opinions aside, for the sake of the terminology in this analysis, being a demon is a bad thing.

So now a speed demon is someone who drives faster than you and therefore is deserving of vilification.

Think about this: who pisses you off more, the highway driver who passes you like you’re standing still or the oblivious driver who refuses to take a quarter second to look in the rear view mirror to confirm that he or she is the asshole holding up traffic twenty cars back? Moreover, who pisses you off for longer?

I say that we as a society should refocus our collective value of unacceptability from those who speed to those who slow. A speeder can’t make you drive faster but a Sunday driver can easily keep you from where you want to be. I now pause for you to re-appropriate your rage.

So in conclusion, the term “speed demon” should universally be renamed “slow demon.”

By: Robert Staudhammer

Ridiculous Terminology #12 "Razor" Sharp

2009-05-19T16:01:00.007-06:00

Why do people find the need to attach “razor” to sharp? Sharp and razor sharp are definitely not interchangeable as Animal Planet would have you believe. Apparently every animal with sharp teeth has “razor” sharp teeth. Aside from actual razors, maybe a few things could be added to the “razor” sharp list—broken glass, chipped obsidian, and some types of ceramic blades—that’s really about it.

Ok, so I get it; people want others to believe that something is really, really, really sharp. What’s wrong with simply saying sharp? And just because something can cut you, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s razor sharp. A brick tossed at someone’s face can cut him up pretty bad but that doesn’t mean it’s as sharp as a razor. Unless it’s a brick made out of razors and broken glass that is.

I’ve heard this before: “a hippopotamus has razor sharp teeth.” Well, it doesn’t. They have pointy, elongated canine teeth with raised edges that run down the back sides of the teeth. Granted they are sharp enough to slice into and kill a Nile crocodile but they are far from being “razor” sharp. I played with a hippo skull once and never did the “razor” sharp teeth come close to slicing me open.

Think about a 4000 pound hippo charging you at 30 mph—faster than Olympic sprinters. Think about how even a 20-foot long crocodile avoids hippos because of the hippos’ ability to bite him in half. Now does falsely claiming that their teeth are “razor” sharp make the shit you dropped in your underpants any less disgusting?

By: Robert Staudhammer

Ridiculous Terminology #22: "Ass-less Chaps"

2009-05-15T14:13:00.005-06:00

What’s the deal with “ass-less" chaps? Why do people feel the need to throw in the term “ass-less”? Chaps are ass-less! That’s like saying “two-wheeled bicycle” or “stupid musical”—it’s implied. I don’t like this need to over emphasize everything… If I’m going to wear chaps without underpants, does the modifier “ass-less” really give a more descriptive picture? Wow, I hope not.

By: Robert Staudhammer

The Case of The Purple Prince

2009-04-29T12:21:00.003-06:00

“I’m going to work. Clean this damn place up!” his roommate barked from inside his lame-ass Gap uniform as he pushed the week-old, half-empty box of pizza off of the coffee table. He opened the door and before leaving he offered Felix some encouragement, “get off your ass and get your shit together man,” while he pulled the door shut tight behind him.

“Hey watch it! You almost knocked over the beeramid! Asshole…” Felix fired at the back side of the closed door.

Felix sunk his pudgy frame back into his ass dent in the couch and un-paused his video game. “Pfft, Tell me to get my shit together,” he murmured under his breath. His chubby fingers clicked away at the controller. “Fucker’s lucky he didn’t wreck the beeramid,” he declared to his loyal mutt, Vegas, who was stretching out on the couch next to him. “You saw the whole thing. Didncha, you wittle shtinky monshter,” Felix said to Vegas in his annoying high-pitched doggie voice—the one that only managed to come out when nobody else was around. Lucky Vegas. “Stinky Monster! You’re my little boo-boo head... ” Felix belted out in atrocious falsetto song. Vegas did as usual and stared blankly back at Felix.

Felix opened his little box and reached inside. Nothing. Not even a tiny little bit of shake. Empty. Shit. Maybe it was time. This was a special time, right? Felix marched himself over to the movie shelf. His index finger with accompanying unkempt fingernail slowly combed past titles in search of the Prince. Or was it something about purple? Purple case? Purple prince in the title? Ah, there it was: Purple Rain—20th Anniversary DVD. And there steaming up the cover was Prince with his Little Richard mustache, and ruffled pirate shirt on quite possibly the gayest purple motorcycle of all time. “Oh, I love you Prince Purple Rain,” Felix said to the picture as he walked back to the sofa. “Don’t we wuv the wittle Puwple Pwince, Vegas?” he said in that all too familiar annoying voice.

Five and a half days earlier on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, Dusty Pete was packing some heavy-duty kush into a condom, then in another, then in another just to be sure. This was the good shit, more white hairs than he’d ever seen before. Amazing how grass could catch light with such brilliance. Dusty Pete wasn’t easily impressed, not since grade school that is. Well this shit; this shit made everything tingle like it did back in the day.

To the untrained eye, Dusty Pete was just laying there, high as a colorful rocket ship, not saying a damn thing. To the untrained eye, it was an experience like any other—a road traveled more times than anyone in his right mind would bother to count. But the thing is that the untrained eye is exactly that: untrained. While Dusty Pete lay glued to the floor his mind was racing through time and space and reason and Mexican food. Oh, Felix definitely needed to get on this stuff. How in the world could he get some of this back to the States?

So there he was. Dusty Pete, pants and underwear bunched down around his ankles in a hostel bathroom in Amsterdam, some loud-mouth Australian bloke banging on the door because Dusty Pete had been in there way too long. It wasn’t a big deal; Dusty Pete was just a bit unfamiliar with exactly how much lube one would use to successfully shove a rubber sack full of contraband up one’s asshole with minimal problems. He imagined that too little would be painful and too much would have him constantly wiping up juicy leaks. Since he was being rushed, he quickly calculated his amount, smeared, and shoved. It disturbed Dusty Pete on so many levels how it really didn’t hurt like he thought it would—and it was a lot going up there.

After he made it back to LA safely—no cops, no dogs, no embarrassing stains from excess leakage, no weird overdoses—Dusty Pete went fishing in the toilet. After the disgusting unmentionable work was finished, he had himself three piles of stink weed. One for him. One to sell for some quick cash in a pinch. And one for his best friend, Felix Bradley. That pile he put in a sandwich bag. He then grabbed a DVD case that happened to be resting on the edge of the table and pulled out everything inside but the paper label with some hairy little man on it. The bag lay flat between the purple covers of the DVD case.

“It’s time, my little boo-boo head. Let’s see what the purple prince is all about,” Felix directed toward Vegas as he gave him a slap on his head. He popped open the DVD case and closely examined the contents in the light of the kitchen window. “Wow. The Hollanders really know how to party, huh Vegas?” His index finger and thumb worked together as a precise tool pulling the perfect nugget off of the stem. Into the bowl it’s dropped. As his hand searches deep between the seat cushions for the ever-missing lighter, Dusty Pete’s voice rings in his ears from their conversation yesterday. “I brought this shit all the way from Holland man, it was tricky getting it across the border but it’s worth it... you’re gonna love this shit man.” Felix never knew how true that statement actually was. In his growing excitement his fingers mistake a fossilized half eaten chicken wing for the lighter. “Hey,” Dusty Pete said with authority, “This stash is for a special occasion, alright. Don’t waste it on video games.” His hand finds its prize. His thumb slides over the top of the lighter and rolls over the wheel pulling the flint across the striker. Felix wets his lips and brings the glass cylinder to his mouth. The flame licks downward, painting the tiny white bristles black as Felix pulls air through the gurgling water. Then for the next thirty-seven minutes, there he laid, shit weed pushing him farther into the folds of the couch, running time, space, reason, and the munchies all through his brain one right after another.

Funny how fate works. Felix’s picky stomach cried out for a bite to eat. It was very specific about wanting a slice or four from the Pizza Shack. One problem: on a Friday night, delivery time is close to two hours. In disappointment Felix fell to his side, his face drooping over the end of the sofa cushion. Then right there in front of his face was fate answering his request—the box that his asshole roommate almost ended the beeramid with was lying on the floor, slightly open, revealing its simple treasure. Felix and Dusty Pete never allowed a pizza to retire to leftovers. But given that Dusty Pete was out of country last Saturday when Felix last ordered a pie, about half a pizza was still in the box. Felix picked up the box from the floor and returned it to its rightful place on the coffee table. He then took care of what was left in the better part of five minutes. To the purple prince he returned.

“Man the Hollanders know what’s up. Don’t they, Vegas? They know how to put some stank on it! Whew. Huh, boo-boo head? Huh?” Felix condescendingly rubbed Vegas’s head. “Who’s a good doggie? Huh? Who’s a good doggie?” he repeated to Vegas in the most atrocious baby voice. “We wuv the Howandwers, huh Vegas?”

Vegas yanked his head back away from the demeaning head smacks of his idiot owner and blurted out, “Alright, I can’t hold my tongue anymore! Enough is enough. Hollanders? Really? Or wait, was it actually ‘Howandwers’ that just fell out of your mouth?...Are you legally retarded?”

The baked little hamster fell completely off the wheel and Felix’s brain came to a screeching halt. Twenty seconds came and went with the same dumbfounded look plastered to Felix’s face. Glazed eyes locked on Vegas. Mouth slightly open. An idiotic freeze frame. No fuckin’ way. That did NOT just happen. The purple prince was good... really good, but no way was it that fucking good. His only movement was confined to his eyes as they dipped down, breaking from the staring contest with Vegas, and landing on last week’s newly emptied pizza box. “Wha tha fuh?” he asked of the old greasy cardboard.

Then silence.

His eyes darted back and forth from the pizza box to Vegas, to the bong, to Vegas, to the pizza box. No way. Brain glitch. Nothing weird just happened. It was a daydream. “Or maybe there was something in the Hollander shit...”

“That’s not even a word, you idiot... ah, could you stop talking? Please, just stop talking. Please!” Vegas blurted out as he slowly shook his head from side to side in an understandable mix of frustration and annoyance. Felix returned to his blank stare, his open mouth making him look even dumber than he actually was. “Yeah, and that doltish look frozen on your face isn’t helping you.”

“What?” Felix continued with his stare.

“Doltish. It means stupid. Blockheaded.”

“Wha...”

“Never mind,” Vegas interjected. “Sorry to come off so harsh but I just couldn’t take it anymore.” Infrequent blinks marked that Vegas’s comments were slowly registering.

“You can talk?” Felix asked. His eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“Well, let’s see. We are having a conversation aren’t we?” Felix stopped blinking. “Yes. Yes I can talk.” Vegas declared. “I can talk and I can understand… unless you choose to speak coded in moron. Then I just quit listening.”

“How long have you been able to talk?”

“I knew it was just a matter of time before we would be having this exact conversation again.”

“Again?”

Vegas groaned in disappointment knowing he was going to have to repeat himself yet again. “You seriously have no recollection of us ever talking?”

“Ah, no. And, uh, I think that I would remember something this huge.”

“Well you didn’t. My guess is that all the stupid nonsense you hold on to is clogging up space in your brain.”

“What?”

“You got too much shit in your head to hold on to useful information.”

“I do?”

“Thanks for confirming my theory,” Vegas said smugly.

“So what did we talk about?”

“Well the last time was a couple months ago when you and your genius buddy, Peter,” Felix noticeably disengaged himself from listening while he searched for a guy named Peter.

“Dusty Pete,” Vegas clarified. “Yeah you and Dusty Pete were having your little shot-for-shot to the Duke party. Seriously who splits a bottle of Crystal Palace in honor of John Wayne?” Felix smiled and let out a small chuckle as he remembered parts of that evening.

“You got something against The Duke?” Felix challenged.

“No, not at all, but I doubt that vodka was his poison, much less cheap-ass, disgusting, bottom-shelf vodka. In fact, I bet it would have pissed him off. It’s like drinking Margaritas in honor of James Bond.” Sensing that Felix would fail to make the connection, Vegas offered a simple alternative. “My guess is that The Duke was more of a whiskey drinker.”

“Yeah I guess, or maybe moonshine, huh? Yeah, moonshine. Now that’s a man’s drink.” Felix, now engaged in remedial logic, forgot all about the fact that he was sitting next to a talking dog. Vegas shook his head and sank back into the couch as he said “why bother?” under his breath.

“Wait! You never told me what we talked about?”

“I was trying to,” said Vegas. “Well let’s just say that the Crystal Palace was making you and Pete even more retarded than usual. Yeah, I know, hard to believe. Anyway, Pete passed out in the hallway and you thought it would be funny to take a leak on his pants so that when he woke up he would think that he pissed himself.”

“So what did we talk about?”

“Well, let’s see. We talked about how disgusting your idea was and then ‘we’ agreed that it was a better idea to put his shoes back on his feet and draw marker lines all over his face again.”

“Ha! Yeah, that was a good one.”

“Yeah, hilarious,” Vegas said dryly, “and funnier every time you do it!”

“Yeah, huh?” he mentally pated himself on the back not catching the sarcasm Vegas had spit on his words.

“No! It’s stupid! Okay, maybe it was funny the first time,” Vegas reasoned, “and maybe I laughed a little that time when Pete went the entire next day with I love COCK written on his forehead without noticing.” Felix grabbed his stomach in laughter.

“Yeah then he tried to act all suave when that delivery chick he likes brought us our pizza. Don’t tell me that wasn’t the funniest shit you’ve ever seen.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll give you that one,” Vegas struggled to keep his laughter in check knowing that it would derail his point. “Ok, but from then on it was less and less funny until eventually it was just frustrating to see all the ink smears on the couch and carpet. They look like ass skids. And I know that nobody looks at these skid marks and thinks that you made them. You know, I bet all your friends think I have worms. And then they probably think how disgusting that you don’t clean up all these shit stains!”

“Ha. Shit stains.”

“ And enough already with the beeramids. It’s great that you and Dusty Pete can drink like fish. Great accomplishment…”

“Thanks,” interrupted Felix.

“… but these shrines you guys build to your alcoholism make the entire house fucking stink. Doesn’t it bother you that it always smells like rancid beer in here?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool, huh?”

“Ah, you’re not understanding me. No wonder your roommate hates you.”

“Eh, he’s a dick,” justified Felix.

“I’ll agree with you there but that doesn’t mean that he’s automatically wrong all the time.”

“So, do you have a point or is this ‘appreciate my ass-face roommate day’?”

“Well now that you mention it, yes, I have a few.”

“Ah, here we go…” Felix rolled his eyes prepared to receive a lecture.

“Stop slapping me on the head. I don’t mind pats but sometimes you’re just slapping me. You’re like a retarded kid squeezing his beloved hamster to death. I get the sentiment and I don’t want you to think that I’m unappreciative but could you tone it down a little? And while I’m talking about toning it down, just stop with the ridiculous voice. Stop calling me ‘pooh-pooh bottoms’ and ‘boo-boo’ and ‘stinky face’; fuck, you stink more than I do!” Felix lifted his arm and took a whiff. He nodded slightly in agreement and returned his arm to the couch. “And please stop with the Bee-Gee singing. It’s terrible. I mean, you know how dogs have much better hearing? Yeah, well it’s painfully being destroyed by your shitty singing. Seriously man, no more singing.”

“Wow, tell me what you really think.”

“Really I’m very easy going. I don’t complain much since I get to eat whatever you’re eating and you let me sleep in your bed and you don’t dress me up in stupid holiday costumes and you didn’t care when I bit that annoying Pomeranian next door. Ahh, I hate that fucking dog,” Vegas retreated into his memory of that wonderful day.

“And? Go on,” Felix said with his arms crossed—one hand occasionally reaching up to nervously scratch at his scruffy stubble.

“Is it really that much fun to pick up my hind legs and walk me around like a damn wheelbarrow? What the hell is that all about?” Felix tightened his lips and gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “And would you mind feeding me before you take your marathon showers in the morning. I know what you’re doing in there and you don’t need the shower to be running… it’s a waste of water.”

“Hey, I’m taking a shower!” Felix protested.

“Yeah right. It doesn’t take forty five minutes to take a shower that leaves you smelling the same as you did before the shower. Wet hair isn’t clean hair. Frankly I’m surprised that your ‘showers’ aren’t only one minute long.”

“Alright. Alright. Slow down.” Felix could tell that Vegas had a lot more to say and he was anxious about what was next. “Well… what about you?” hey blurted out to distract Vegas.
“What about me?” huffed Vegas.

“Well…uh. Oh, why do you love to stick your head out of the window when I’m driving somewhere but you freak out when I blow on your face? It’s the same thing. And why do you start biting your nails as soon as I start to fall asleep? You have all day to chew on any part of your body you want but you wait till the moment that I’m about to go out before you start moving around and making noise. What’s that shit all about?”

“Well first of all, it’s not the same thing. One is fresh air and beautiful scenery and the other is you blowing stale, bad breath in my face. Not the same thing. Not even in the same ballpark.” Vegas took a moment to gather his next justification. “And, well… well I guess I wasn’t aware that I was bothering you when I bite my nails… it’s just a bad habit.”

“It’s not that—I don’t care that you bite your nails. Bite them. Stretch and move. Lick yourself whenever you want… just not at night when I’m trying to fall asleep. Just find a comfortable spot and go to sleep!”

“Ok, duly noted. No more bed time biting.” Vegas afforded.

“Or licking,” persisted Felix.

“Right, or licking.” Vegas was a little embarrassed to be caught with his face in his crotch. But as he thought more about it, he realized that Felix was standing on very shaky ground. How was Felix going to play the moral authority and think that he wouldn’t bring it up? He didn’t want to, this was supposed to be about stupidity under the influence but Felix opened the door. “So about licking, we both know that I love peanut butter, just not the way you want me to love it. Know what I mean?” Felix was taken aback. He felt tricked into the subject.

“Oh yeah, well if you don’t like it, then why are you always so quick to lick it up? You’re the disgusting one!” he fired back at Vegas.

“Like I said, I really like peanut butter and I am a dog, you know, so actually that makes you the disgusting one.”

The discomfort pulled heavily on the space around them. Both embarrassed by their balls being up for discussion. Felix huffed in anger and grabbed the remote off of the floor to click himself away from the conversation. The two sat in each other’s silent company not wanting to dig up any more discomfort.

“Look, I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I just thought that you should know that a person from Holland is ‘Dutch’ not ‘Hollander.’ No big deal.”

“I’m hungry,” Felix offered as his white flag.

“Me too,” agreed Vegas. “Let’s order from the Pizza Shack and if Pete’s girlfriend delivers it, let’s show her that picture you took of him passed out on the toilet.”

“Ha! Good idea… then I’m gonna hit the purple prince again.” He studied the little Purple Prince on the cover again as he placed his call for another pizza.

“You know, that stuff really smells like shit. Literally,” said Vegas.

“Whatever, that’s what the good stuff is supposed to smell like.”

“Alright if you say so,” suggested Vegas. “Just leave the cash on the table this time.”

After hanging up the phone, the gravity of the day’s events really started to sink in. Felix sat there reveling in the idea that he was the only man in the world with a talking dog. He was rich. And Famous. Though as his mind raced, he considered the possibility that Vegas wasn’t the only dog who could talk. Shit! What if they all can? Then he wouldn’t have anything special, just a regular talking dog. Just like all the others. Nothing special. No Riches. No fame. Damn!

“So are you the only dog that can talk?” Felix asked. Vegas sat quietly on the couch; his head rose slightly and turned imperceptibly to the side. “Well, are you?” demanded Felix. Vegas turned his head away from the conversation and he pulled himself up off of the couch and dragged himself over to his water bowl. “Fine!” Felix yelled at him. “So I guess we can only talk when you want to talk. I see how it is.” Vegas finished his drink and before he returned to life on the couch he double-checked the still empty bowl of food just in case something had magically appeared. “Whatever,” barked Felix as he opened the Purple Rain DVD case and pulled out another little bud from the bag. Into the bowl he dropped it and once again the lighter’s flame shifted downward with every pull of the bong. Gurgling water. Glassy eyes. But before the purple prince could pin Felix to ground, Vegas finally spoke up.

“Hey, before you get too comfortable can you crack the front door open?”

“Wha…”

“I’m a dog. I can’t let Dez in.”

“Who?”

“You know, Dusty Pete’s girlfriend,” Vegas explained waiting for Felix’s brain to catch up, “The pizza chick,” he clarified.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Felix said, his limited attention divided by the Purple Prince. Gurgling water. He turned the knob and cracked the door open then He swung around and took four steps back toward the couch when the room’s gravity overpowered him. He lay stuck to the carpet with a huge grin on his face.

Dez let herself in as she had done dozens of times before. “Hello?” she called out. “Pizza Shack!” She set the new box on the coffee table on top of the empty box. She gently pet Vegas from his head down the length of back while she stared at Felix lying on the floor. “Thirteen, twenty seven,” she said coldly.

“Hey pizza chick, my dog can talk,” said Felix from the floor.

“That’s great man. Fifteen bucks. And my name is Dez.”

“Seriously pizza chick, ask him a question,” encouraged Felix.

“Ok. Hey doggie, why does your house smell so bad?” she asked and Vegas said nothing, possibly out of embarrassment. He simply nudged with his wet nose the hand that had stopped petting him.

“Hey pizza chick, my friend wants you.”

“Oh yeah? Which one? The dork who tucks his polo shirts into his khakis or the guy who loves cock?”

“Ha-ha!” Felix started laughing, “Dusty Pete.”

“Which one is he?”

“Uh,” Felix blew a few strings of saliva from his lips trying to hold back his laughter, “the guy who loves cock.”

“Charming. Sixteen bucks please.”

Still fighting his laughter, “There’s twenty bucks on the table,” he managed to offer.

“Thanks,” then she turned to Vegas and said, “Bye puppy,” while she gave him one last rub. She grabbed her money from the coffee table along with a small picture hidden between the two tens. She kept the change and left the inexplicable picture of some guy sitting on a toilet.

“Thanks pizza chick,” Felix managed to shout before she shut the door on her way out.

“Mmm, pepperoni,” Vegas said with excitement as he pushed the box open with his nose and pulled a slice from the box.

“Holy shit! You can talk?!” said Felix in amazement.

Seven Blocks with Michael Jackson

2009-04-23T15:28:00.003-06:00

It was one of the most interesting short walk I’ve ever taken. Only seven blocks but wow, how it changed how I thought about the world.

About three months prior to my walk, my co-worker had received from her boyfriend quite possibly the greatest gift of all time. It was a foot-tall Michael Jackson action figure—or maybe it was a doll. Either way it was amazing. He was clad in classic stage gear. He wore a red military style, commander-of-the-high-note jacket. His chest was adorned in various medals for moon-walking, expert crotch manipulation, and creating Thriller—the best selling album of all time! His shiny socks pouring out of his high water pants sparkled in the light. In his little hand he gripped a tiny microphone. The other hand boldly covered in his signature white sequined glove. Every day, there he proudly stood on her shelf above her desk looking down at us in our cubicles.

So anyway, after months of coveting this miniature Michael, my coworker breaks up with her boyfriend and shortly thereafter she purges her life of his presence. I realized true happiness when I was the first one (and I should add, only one) who yelled out “ME, ME, ME, ME” when hearing “Who wants this doll?”

Mini Michael was mine and everything was as it was supposed to be. That day after work, I started on my seven block journey to my car—my steps on beat with Billy Jean playing in my head. Nestled in my hands in front of me was my tiny Michael and all his glory. I carried my treasure proudly. I walked past stores and restaurants across streets and through parking lots. The same walk I had taken every day for more than half a year.

Today, however, was different. People who never noticed me before were now staring. As I pressed forward, I noticed that all the people who stared at me could fall into one of two groups. The first group consisted of people who were happy to see me walking with a little Michael Jackson—most likely other, possibly jealous, fans of the King of Pop. The other group consisted of people, possibly assholes, who generally seemed quite uncomfortable seeing a grown man with a doll. Initially it was easy to ignore weird looks but the farther I walked, the more people seemed to join the second group. Maybe I became more aware. Maybe their numbers increased. Maybe both.

It was starting to frustrate me. I remembered a woman smiling at me on block one and it was a stark difference from the man on block three who looked down his nose at me when he saw the doll in my hands. Funny how you can receive a compliment in the same hour as an insult but you’re always more likely to remember the insult.

On Block six, I stopped for a few minutes to test a theory. I wanted to see the reactions of passersby. First with Michael in my hand, carelessly held by my side with disregard; and second with Michael displayed proudly in front of me. It was interesting watching the people who noticed that I was dangling something from my fingers by my side. Most thought nothing of it even after their eyes registered recognition of a doll. However, when I proudly held him in front of me showing the world my affinity, frowns and judgmental stares seemed to come from every direction.

This walk I had taken so many times without ever bothering a soul was now a parade through enemy territory. Today I really am the same person as I was yesterday but these people don’t see me. To them I am different today and that makes people uncomfortable. I’m judged for something that has absolutely nothing to do with who I am. The people who scoff and laugh and talk under their breath—the people who judge me—they can’t see past the lacking value that they have assigned me. Sad.

I grew defensive. So what if I want to walk down the street with my little Michael. I’m not hurting anyone. Am I less deserving of people’s acceptance because of one small thing that makes me different from the rest?

A man was bold enough to stop and stare directly at the little doll and then at me while somehow managing to completely ignore me. His stare moved from the doll to my face but his eyes never looked into mine. He slowly closed his eyes while his head shook slowly from side to side. He snorted a disapproving gust of air out his nose. I wasn’t a real person carrying a doll. I wasn’t even there as far as he was concerned. He could make fun of me right to my face without even acknowledging my existence. It was interesting how not only could a little doll dehumanize, but it could also make a rather large man somehow disappear. Fuck this guy.

“What?!” I threw at his face.

In amazement, the man recoiled. He hadn’t even considered that I might have something to say. I doubt that he would have been more surprised if Michael himself would have said something. Maybe this guy had never been confronted about his judgments before but he sized up the wrong person. I hate it so much when people talk under their breath or huff disapproving grunts. If you have something to say, say it. If you don’t have the courage to back your beliefs, then shut the fuck up. I awaited his response.

“Huh?” he replied.

“You got something to say?” I said as I stepped into his personal space—his face in line with my shoulders.

“Ah…”

Then silence. He didn’t make eye contact—no longer because he was better than me, but now because my surprising presence made him rethink his actions. I stared at his face with the same intensity of his contentious stare. He eyes shot to the floor and never pulled away from this uncomfortable gaze. He took a step to the left and I mirrored his movement. Nervously he took a step back and then walked around me.

“Have a good evening,” I said to his back.

I wondered if he ever thought that a man carrying a doll would ask him to voice his prejudice conviction—much less question his method of estimating another person.

I always thought it funny how people who live in such small worlds are so quick to cast stones at anyone is different but then when asked to articulate an explanation or justification of a judgment, “huh?” is pretty standard. I arrived at my car and placed Michael on the seat next to me. I wondered: if carrying a little doll could so easily make me different and therefore drastically change people’s perspective of me, then arriving at a harmonious, inclusive world is sadly much farther away than I thought.

Insanity and the Incomplete Lunch

2009-04-04T11:14:00.007-06:00

Today I had a sandwich in my lunch--a sandwich that almost drove me insane.

I had a couple pieces of meat in my humble sandwich--three to be exact. The last three cuts left over from last night's dinner. The little pieces were just big enough to almost fill a sandwich. Almost. there was a bit of meatless bread but no big deal.

Now to me, every sandwich, with the obvious exceptions of PB&J and the likes, is better when the bread is toasted or grilled and the meat is nice and hot. In Mexico it's called a "Torta" and if you've never had one, hurry up and broaden your taste horizons. They are taste explosions of deliciousness.

So I opened the little bag that kept my treasure fresh. I carefully dismantled my sandwich, peeling the meat from the bread and lettuce. I placed the three little pieces of beef on a paper towel. Into the microwave they went for forty-five seconds. Ding! I opened the door and to my dismay only two pieces lay waiting. How was it possible to lose an entire third of my meat wealth?

I checked the microwave. I checked the countertop. I checked the floor around me. I checked the microwave again. The countertop again. The floor. I scrutinized the microwave for a fourth time. Maybe it somehow stuck to the ceiling. Maybe it jumped onto and clung to the little plastic ledge around the inside of the window on the door. Maybe it fused to one of the other pieces. But it didn't. It was lost. Poof. Gone. It completely disappeared. Granted, I was bummed that my sandwich now had significantly less beefy scrumptiousness, but my agitation was pulled far beyond that initial annoyance. What the fuck happened to my Meat!?

Dumbfounded I returned to my office. I sat down and ate my would-be fantastic sandwich, with one third less enjoyment, of course. It was driving me insane. What happened to that round, little piece of meat? I actually abandoned my sandwich halfway and returned to the kitchen. One more look into the microwave--empty. Countertop--bare. Floor--nothing. I wondered if this is how it starts for crazy people.

Did I imagine that third piece of meat? Did I carefully place only two pieces of meat on that paper towel? Wait! Maybe is was stuck to the paper towel. That was it. It must have stuck to the paper towel and then I must have thrown it away. Yeah, that had to be it. I didn't care if I looked like a homeless man digging for a meal. I would rather be a bum than crazy. I found the paper towel and pulled it from the trash. I opened the towel and my fears were pushed closer to reality. No meat and just like that I was back on track to crazy town.

I returned to my office even more disheartened than the first time. I ate what was left of my sandwich--mostly bread and lettuce at this point--and let my mind drift. What if I am crazy? Would "the sandwich made me do it" hold up should I ever need a solid defense in court? How many pieces were in that damn sandwich? Maybe I should check the microwave again.

By the days end I had moved on and forgotten all about the departed piece of meat--well almost forgotten. I walked down the hall past the kitchen on my way to the bathroom. My day was already ruined and as I reached the bathroom door I saw a little something on the floor. Could it be? Is that? Nasty! Someone shit in the hallway. What kind of a disgusting person would leave a turd outside the bathroom door? Fuckin' gross! My self-righteousness immediately kicked in and I went through a mental rolodex of who in my building would be the most likely suspect. Only one guy came to mind but I realized that it was only based on the fact that the guy's an idiot--not on actual evidence that he would take a dump in the hallway.

Talk about a bad day. First my meat goes missing then this. Wait. Is it? I bent down and picked up the little, round turd. Never did I think that something like this would make me so happy.

So if your sandwich ever starts to make you question your sanity, remember that a round piece of beef can roll pretty far down a hall and play tricks on your eyes.

Ridiculous Terminology #11: "A Watched Pot Never Boils"

2009-04-01T21:39:00.004-06:00

I don't understand why people say "a watched pot never boils." I watched a pot of water boil the other day. Though, it did seem to take a super long time--probably because the whole time I was standing and waiting in the kitchen with my gaze glued to the pot. Staring. Watching. Waiting. Then finally, after what seemed like forever, I mean a really, really long time, it started boiling.

By : Robert Staudhammer

Synchronicity

2009-03-16T22:27:00.001-06:00

I try as often as I remember to look up words and phrases that I don’t know. Often they are words or colloquilisms that I have heard a couple of times—enough to register my ignorance. I’m sure I’ve heard the term “Davey Jones’ Locker” numerous times but since I never seemed to have a piece of paper handy to jot it down, I always forgot to look it up.

Anyway, this morning Davey Jones’ Locker popped into my head again—I must have heard it somewhere this weekend. I typed it into a search engine and Wikipedia answered my inquiry.* Satisfied, I moved on to check my email. I opened my inbox and there he was—Davey Jones—David M. Jones. He’s doing well. He’s got a great job as a database administrator and he helped me map a new drive to my computer. Oh, and I guess now he goes by Dave.

So right now I’m going to type “Eva Mendez looking for a new boyfriend” into that same search engine and see how long it takes her to get back to me.

* In order to pass along knowledge to those of you who don’t know, Davy Jones’s Locker is an idiom for the bottom of the sea: the resting place of drowned sailors. It is used as a euphemism for death at sea… taken from Wikipedia

[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Davy_Jones%E2%80%99_Locker].

It's All Relative

2009-01-03T22:57:00.001-07:00

Dario took strange pleasure in listening to someone who had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He never called them out on their shit. He just smiled and nodded. There’s such a simple pleasure in knowing you’re smarter than the person you’re talking to. And even though being smarter than all the other line cooks isn’t much, it’s still something. Too bad it wasn’t enough to overshadow the fact that of all the disgusting people on this earth, even Spaghetti Eddy was getting laid.

Work paid the bills but not much else. Dario’s pleasure was not of hobby nor of flesh; it was mostly scribed between the covers of books since his daily commute into the city robbed him of most of his free time. The restaurant grew from a part time job to a mundane life. At work he consumed chapters in five minute swallows on his breaks. He didn’t smoke like all the others but he would never admit to that. It was the only way to keep the same amount of break time as everyone else. Funny but everything that’s often described as an attribute in higher social classes is viewed as a weakness in the back of a greasy kitchen. A fact often called to everyone’s attention when Spaghetti caught Dario with his face in a book. Playful annoyance more than spiteful prodding. Dario didn’t mind; it’s the mechanics of a kitchen to belittle one another.

Spaghetti Eddy was the senior line cook—not a proper title more just a description of a late-thirty-something burnout who had called this particular grungy kitchen home for the longest amount of time. It was hard to understand how a man who ate nonstop could be so disgustingly skinny. Hence Spaghetti. Somewhere between a starving refugee and any garden variety meth-head, he was a skeleton wrapped in blotchy skin. His narrow fingers, long nails always packed with grease, found their way into seemingly every dish, violating every entree before it left the kitchen. A bit here and a bit there to even it out, his finger utensils always licked clean in between grabs. Expert manipulation of garnish always camouflaged well. Skilled hands indeed.

Spaghetti talked a lot. If he was thinking it, everyone was hearing it. So it was no surprise that most talk revolved around the juicy asses and perky tits of the female servers. Though none of them was put off by Spaghetti’s graphic comments. Most of them were young ladies working their way through college, the majority of whom had worked in restaurants before. And it’s just a restaurant industry standard that every kitchen have at least one, if not two or three, sexually deranged, loud-mouth cooks. The industrious ladies wouldn’t react out of appeasement but rather out of encouragement. A girl’s blushing giggle in response to Spaghetti’s offer to slide his finger down the crack of her tight ass wasn’t flirting. God no. This performance was the only way to guarantee quick ticket times and accurate orders. It was obvious to everyone that this was just a free market exchange. Well, obvious to everyone but Spaghetti. He had convinced himself that a wink, a smile, a giggle, a touch on the arm as a waitress walked by was a clear sign that soon he would get to bury himself inside a willing, young, college girl. No doubt in his mind.

The kitchen was a strip club with no poles. A two minute turn around on a cheese stick appetizer bought Spaghetti license to talk freely about his urgent desire to shave some pussy. The servers eating words for services rendered. Faster cook times put more money on the table when the patrons were finished eating. Simple perverted math. The girls made exchanges with all the cooks just the same but no one ever seemed to notice that Dario always cooked everything in order. Ticket in, food out. No favors. The girls thought they were on the same exchange rate with Dario as with Spaghetti but Dario was just a better, faster cook since he wasn’t perpetually fucking around and chasing tail. It only took two minutes to cook a cheese stick appetizer so that’s how long it took him. Dario never asked for payment nor did he ever expect it but when given he just smiled and nodded politely. To him it just felt right not to mess with the system. Plus he didn’t want to embarrass any of the girls by shining light on any shameful unspoken agreement.

Spaghetti took every opportunity that the kitchen wasn’t weeded to talk about his sexual conquests. Obvious to Dario that they were all a slight variation of the same fabricated story with a revolving cast of fictitious neighbors—ex-girlfriends—friends from out of town—girls he met at where ever poor, uneducated, greasy little men run their errands.

“So last night I was at home having a couple beers and I hear this knock at the door. My neighbor and her girls wanted to party. Those bitches are always down for a good time. Always....”

“Hey, I forgot to tell you guys: Last Saturday my buddy and I were getting all wasted and my ex shows up all horny as fuck. By the end of the night, me and Tom were doublin’ down on her....”

It amazed Dario how the other guys just ate up this complete bullshit. There were so many holes in his stories but apparently when a story is just filthy enough, it’s easily taken as gospel. Sometimes a great story transcends truth and a deranged sexual tale, no matter how tall, is almost exclusively well received in the company of like-minded men. Dario wondered if he was the only one who could see through Spaghetti. His only hard evidence was simple—Spaghetti was a fucking disgusting moron. Who in her right mind would fuck him? Dario held on to this truth for as long as time and abrasion would allow. Funny how perpetuation, no matter how unreal, can erode logic. What started out as laughable contempt slowly faded to an unlikely improbability. However, by that point the door to believability had officially been cracked open and through that tiny gap crept an even smaller belief in possibility. Days and weeks passed and his perception changed so slowly, it was impossible to notice.

“Hey, did I tell you about this weekend? I met this chick at a gas station and I shit you not but about four hours later I was eating this bitch’s ass.”

Maybe it was a low point in Dario’s defenses, maybe it was the accurate description Spaghetti gave of the innocent beauty he saw sitting at the corner booth when he clocked in—the girl who also happened to catch Dario’s eye when he clocked in ten minutes prior, maybe it was something he ate, maybe all three but for some reason, Dario’s mind created a character. It was the star of Spaghetti’s fantasy. She had a simple beauty about her. Elegant. And she wore glasses with cute, studious frames. Intelligent. What was she doing with Spaghetti? Was his game actually good enough for her to overlook how repulsive he is? As Spaghetti continued, she mirrored every line—her actions followed his every word. His story lead her right to the foot of his bed, unlacing and pulling his stained and tattered work boots from his feet. When Spaghetti’s narration had her pulling up the sheet and climbing into bed with him wearing nothing but an eager smile, Dario shuddered in mix of revolt and confusion. Why? Why the fuck would this woman being willing to go anywhere near this fucking loser? What did she see in him? Dario couldn’t listen anymore. The other cooks were too enthralled with the story to notice that Dario had slipped away.

That night after work Spaghetti asked Dario for a ride home again. Spaghetti didn’t have a car. Big surprise. On the way to the trashy, dilapidated one-bedroom apartment that Spaghetti called home, Dario was once again treated to the second telling of Spaghetti on top of the elegant glasses girl. Though he tried to mentally shoot holes in the story from beginning to end, never did it successfully happen. The devil’s in the details and this chronicle was full of juicy, very specific details. Dario was caught actually paying full attention to Spaghetti’s “Dear Penthouse” letter.

True that Dario had been in a funk for a little while. And true that it had lasted a lot longer than it should have but how in the world is it possible that this complete piece of shit was getting laid and he wasn’t? How? That was a sad, sad night for Dario. He woke up late the next day since most of his night after work was wasted wondering how Spaghetti’s sexcapade all of sudden carried some weight. And while vodka put the noise in his head to rest, it didn’t help with anything the next day. Pissed and hung-over is no way to start a morning. One or the other’s alright, but not both. What was really starting to bother Dario is that not only was he distraught that a good guy like him couldn’t get laid, but also that he started to entertain the idea of tagging along with Spaghetti one of these nights after work. Maybe to discredit his tales. Maybe to pick up some pointers.

“Hey, you guys remember that chick I told you who gave me her wet panties at the bar that one night? She’s coming over after work... I’m definitely gonna fuck this bitch tonight. Bet she brings a friend too!”

There she was again—elegant glasses girl. Dario fought the idea of her taking her panties off specifically to give them to Spaghetti. Maybe she was the friend. Spaghetti rushed to close down the back of the house early. Everything wiped clean. Everything restocked. Everything put to rest for the night. Dario usually bolted right after he clocked out, never interested in throwing any end of the night perversion at any of the closing servers. However for some reason, tonight he dragged his ass in clocking out. For the first time ever, Dario and Spaghetti left the building at the same time. Dario looked over at Spaghetti and an invitation for a ride fell out of his mouth. Besides, it was kind of cold out. And it was on the way. And the more he justified, it really was the nice thing to do. Spaghetti was hesitant. Probably because he didn’t want Dario to see that nobody would be waiting at his apartment like he boasted. Probably because he made up all his stories. Fucking liar. Dario insisted and Spaghetti caved.

Making the final turn into Spaghetti’s parking lot, Dario’s headlights brushed past the railing in front of all the second story apartments pushing back the darkness and revealing the facts behind Spaghetti Eddy’s autobiography. No party people in front of his neighbor’s house. Not even a light on. No ex-girlfriends lining the stairs. No cars of strange women waiting in the parking lot. Dario smiled to himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought” echoed in his head. Then there, at the end of Dario’s turn were two women waiting for Eddy just like he said there would be—two women leaning on the railing in front of Eddy’s apartment in anticipation of his arrival. Dario’s smile nowhere to be found. Two women who were actually waiting for Eddy. Waiting for Spaghetti Eddy. Two women who were actually going to fuck Eddy tonight and officially destroy Dario’s perception of all that is good in this world. He was dumbfounded. The women, eager to greet Eddy hurried down the stairs. “You wanna take down her friend? I bet she’s a freak too,” Eddy asked Dario as they approached the car. Dario was incapable of responding. His stomach attacked by anxiety. Once at the passenger window, the headlight reflecting from the first-story windows exposed the greater truth. Dario all of a sudden wasn’t comfortable with Spaghetti’s offer so he cordially declined. Spaghetti didn’t understand but truly didn’t care. More for him. The three of them climbed back up the stairs and disappeared inside Spaghetti’s shack.

Dario went home that night and slept better than he had in months. Finally he understood that in life, it’s all relative. A fairytale can be true. But what’s dream for one is nightmare for another. Those two women that crawled over to greet Spaghetti were quite possibly the ugliest women Dario had ever seen in his life. Ever. And funny how such abhorrently ugly women could bring such peace to Dario just in knowing that never in his life would he ever fuck a woman that disgusting.

Just hold it; what's the worst that could happen?

2008-12-16T14:45:00.005-07:00

It's funny how it creeps up on you. It happens all the time but it only affects you if it's about to happen at the most inopportune time—in a meeting, in a crowded elevator, worst of all, on a date. The overwhelming uncertainty washes over you. You have to fart worse than you ever have in your entire life and right now there's nothing you can do about it.

It started all so innocently. A little one registered on your radar but it's nothing to leave a meeting for—nothing to break the momentum of your date. You can hold it. No big deal. You're in control. Your gut rumbles a little but since you have a great poker face, nobody's the wiser. Well played. Discomfort handled and you didn't miss a beat. You send it back to where it came from giving yourself temporary relief for a few fleeting moments but you always seem to forget that every time it comes back, it'll be a little stronger than it was before. It's got something to say but you're not ready to hear it. Once again you show it who's boss around here and return it to sender. It retreats, dragging it's heels at every turn.

You've been just a little uncomfortable for a short while but now your discomfort has swelled to outright pain. You passed the opportunity long ago to let out the demon while it was young and insignificant. Now it's really grown… and it's angry. It moves inside you, bouncing off the walls of your insides recruiting reinforcements. Outwardly the low grumbling is barely audible. A little embarrassing but easily mislabeled as being hungry—easy to ignore as something you can't control. Maybe it's been a while since you ate. Nothing abnormal there. You're safe for the time being so you continue with your meeting, your date, your quiet time in the library.

Now it's back and even angrier than you thought it would be and this time it brought back some friends. Its determination for escape is all too clear. Excusing yourself right now would be way too awkward. Being hungry doesn't require a trip to the restroom. Your cover will be blown. Stick to the plan. You can beat this. This time the rumble in your stomach is louder than even you expected. People on the other side of the room heard that one. You foolishly play the hunger card again. You think you've outfoxed them again but it's obvious to all in earshot that no one is ever that hungry. However, you're too distracted to notice that everyone knows you're trying to hold back a huge one. Idiot.

You're stomach churns in agony. It's throwing a full blown temper tantrum—kicking and screaming. You smile every time it yells out. If you act cool then who would know those deep and profound grumbles are coming from you? Maybe it will be briefly satiated if you lean forward. Nope. Maybe if you lean back. As you squirm in search of temporary relief, you find that no pleasant position exists. Your focus shifts from chasing appeasement to fortifying the castle gates. Muscles you didn't know you had have joined the fight in keeping you clenched tight as humanly possible. Your rigid body remains motionless while your head nods about struggling to maintain a descent level of continuity in conversation. Keep it cool. Nobody knows the war your ass cheeks are fighting against a stampeding militia. You can play it off.

It's too late. This war is not going to end well. Finally you're man enough to admit defeat but it's way past being able to graciously excuse yourself right now. Besides you're way too pre-occupied with this persistent battle to come up with any viable reason to be in another room at this exact moment. Worry crushes your demeanor. Your central nervous system has gone into emergency remediation mode and the result is a stoic disposition. Only necessary thought and speech are functioning at this time. The immediate change in your mood is beyond noticeable and soon you start hearing some form of "are you alright?" And without further explanation, a detached "yes" is all your mouth can manage. Whatever happens you can't move for the next five… ten seconds. If you can hold out that long, you will definitely have enough time make it out of the room. Hopefully. Maybe. You have a plan in mind. You see the most efficient way to exit the room. Fast. OK… on three. One. Two… Then the worst horror hits you: What if you were wrong all along and it's not just a fart? Think fast. Did you have Taco Bell today? Did you check the expiration date of the creamer before you dumped it into your coffee mug?

It's obvious you missed any chances at extricating yourself from your situation with any polite social grace. You've fully moved to damage control. The slightest wrong move could tear a hole in your internal defenses. You stand up in the middle of the budget projections or her story about her beloved childhood puppy and without explanation, you shuffle toward the nearest exit. You're asked where you're going and your brain tosses out an incomplete response like "oh, I just have to and I was, uh…." while you round the corner and attempt to make a run for it. Your body won't allow you to run and that's a good thing because in this state of confusion you can't remember if you had Indian food for lunch today. Or was it yesterday? It's just your overwhelmed mind playing it extra safe.

Finally you've made it to a safe distance and relief comes in four or five enormous clouds. Whew! That was close. You wipe the emerging beads of sweat from your brow and sigh. You're starting to think clearer and you remember that the Indian buffet was last week and you haven't been to Taco Bell since college. The mind plays terrible tricks when in extreme distress. You wonder now how in the world you're going to make a smooth return. And although you truly were defeated, there's still the slightest glimmer of pride in knowing that you didn't shit yourself in front of an audience.

Dignitaries, royalty, diplomats, the rich, the famous have all tried to beat the system. Like you, they have all, at some point in their lives, quickly walked awkwardly out of a room, mumbling something incoherent. Farts are the great equalizers. The harder you fight, the harder they fight back. And if you think about it, if you gamble on this match up, you're really the only one with anything on the table to lose. So the moral of the story is that no matter who you are, you can't beat an angry fart.

Menudo

2008-11-25T15:31:00.001-07:00

Sitting quietly at a restaurant counter in Albuquerque, a man turns to his friend seated beside him, “Hey, do you like menudo?” he asks casually.

His friend finishes his gulp of beer and returns the glass to its coaster, “yeah,” he answers.

The man nods in barely noticeable agreement and the two return to their drinks.

“Wait! You mean the soup, right?”
“No. I was talking about the band… Faggot.”

“Damnit” his friend says under his breath in defeat.

Hello, I’m a moron… wanna get nekkid?

2008-10-24T13:59:00.003-06:00

I read a lot. It’s safe to say that I read more crap than literature—a lot more useless information than useful information. I find that when information comes to me, I’m much less particular than the times that I set out in search of knowledge.

Ritualistically, every morning after reading my email, I head to MSN’s homepage in a paltry attempt to gather the worldly goings on. It’s American “news”—news that includes one part events of actual importance mixed with three parts inconsequential pop culture bullshit. I do read what’s meaningful and relevant to life in these times; however, I also spend more time than I should reading the filler crap. I can attribute this to two things: 1) I’m reading at work, and 2) My hotmail links right to the MSN homepage. Effortless.

Most of all I just crave the written word in all of its forms. So I read and read and read and stop from time to time when stupid yet captivating story liners make me stop and write what you’re reading right now. So today on MSN I come across some of the most ridiculous nonsense to date (an article link courtesy of the geniuses at Glamour Magazine), and mind you that this site perpetually offers links to advice for things like dressing your pet for a holiday and ways to pick a handbag according to your mood. Take my word, they were all extremely informative. So I make fun but I still read them. I know, I’m on par with the angry citizen who doesn’t vote, the fat guy who takes the elevator to the upstairs gym, the woman who smokes but won’t give a blow job. I’m not trying to be pretentious or judgmental. I am… but I’m not trying to be.

Alright, so into the nuts and bolts. The link was an enticing “5 Pickup Lines That Actually Worked on Her.” I was compelled to read all about it. With a title like that, I couldn’t fight it even if I wanted to. This is what I was lured into:

1. "A man crossed a packed club to say, 'You have great hair, can I play
with it?' His boldness made me giggle, and we spent the night kissing as he
twirled his fingers through my curls."—Angie, 27, Boulder,
Colo.

2. "A stranger held a cigarette up to me and said,
'Baby, can you light my fire?' I laughed so damn hard because I couldn't believe
someone could be that corny--and, yes, I lit his fire."—Rose, 37, Berlin,
Germany

3. "When a guy I didn't know said, 'Hey, number one,'
I asked him what he meant. His explanation: 'After seeing you, I had to tell my
number one that she was now number two.' Today I groan thinking about that line,
but I ended up being his number one for more than a year."—Itika, 28, Los
Angeles

4. "This vendor selling body oil told me, 'I'll make
you smell as beautiful as you look' as I walked by. Ew, right? I turned to say
no thanks but stopped when I saw how hot he was. Best-scented summer fling
ever."—Ayana, 34, Brooklyn

5. "'Is that drink for me?' Of
course it wasn't, but he was cute, so I decided to play along and give it to
him. Five years later we're together, with a baby boy."—Melissa, 33, Minneapolis

Really? Seriously? This is the drivel that makes it, not only once, but twice to a national audience? I would say that I’m surprised that Glamour Magazine would print such bullshit but then again, I’m not versed in Glamour’s style. Maybe they exclusively print bullshit articles. I’ll check out an issue the next time I’m in line at the market buying bulk hot dogs and a handle of store brand whiskey.

Rather than “5 pickup lines that actually worked on her,” the article should have been titled: “5 examples of how even a man with trite, pathetic verbal diarrhea can get laid… if he’s hot.”

The example that best illustrates this point is good old #4. However, before I get into that one, I want to run a little exercise here. Women: think about any of the top five men that you would fuck, famous or not. Now picture the two of you in any of these scenarios. Hmmm, scenario #5 is actually pretty cute, huh? The kind of story you would love to tell your grandkids about how you met. Now go ahead and run through these exact same scenarios with yourself and, oh say, a hairy knuckle, gold jewelry wearing, tubbo. You know, the one guy whose obviously too old to be hanging out where you and your friends hang out—the guy who thinks personal space is better shared—the guy you can smell before you can see. Yeah, that guy. Now those scenarios aren’t looking so magical are they? It’s the difference between office flirting and sexual harassment. The same words spoken, it’s flirting if it’s George Clooney, sexual harassment if it’s George Costanza. See what I mean?

Now let’s examine #4 in greater detail. Let me start out by saying that I do appreciate the spirit of blatant honesty with which this scenario is presented. That being said, this chick is fucking retarded. She remarks at how his comment alone was, how does she so eloquently describe it…. “ew.” So how can the “ew” comment of some guy selling perfume knock-offs out of the trunk of his car in Brooklyn turn to “ooh”? Apparently it’s effortless if he’s that hot.

So where does it end? Are all inarticulate, verbal dwarfs awarded the free pass to panty town as long as they’re hot? Hopefully so because this article was hilarious though I doubt that was its intention. Now before anyone gets all hurt, I’m not trying to say that women are exclusive in acting the fool for a pretty face… unfortunately it’s the same for men, and has been for a long time. It’s just funny to see idiotic prattle passed off as something charming or even romantic. So ladies, set the bar really low and maybe a hot guy will hop over it into your bed. Kudos Glamour Magazine. Well Done.

Why My New Office Sucks....

2008-10-16T16:36:00.001-06:00

I got moved to a new office. I don’t like my new office. It’s perpetually cold and I sit next to a crazy old woman who often wears skin-tight, flesh-colored English riding pants and electric blue, suede, pant suits to work. She talks a lot about stuff that I don’t listen to. In fact she’s talking to me right now even though I’m wearing headphones and typing away. About what? Who gives a shit?

On top of that, the worst part of being in the new office is the bathroom. It stinks. It always smells like urine—asparagus urine… all the time. This makes nose breathing impossible. Deep breath before entering and then commence to mouth breathing when that first breath dies away. No biggie you might think. Not true. You know what mouth breathing sounds like? It sounds like an asparagus-urine-loving pervert is in the next stall. I know this because some other unfortunate bathroom patron was mouth breathing in there this morning and it sounded like he was anxiously looking for the nearest glory hole. None here pervert. I know what clawed its way into my mind and I hate to think that my mouth breathing could do the same to someone else.

I guess my only viable option is use the ladies room. I don’t know if it stinks too but at least I’m comfortable mouth breathing in there.

Transcend This!

2008-10-14T14:07:00.003-06:00

How much are my stories worth? Well, I've never sold one and I've never had to buy one so I don't really know. What if someone offered me a sum of money to purchase one of my stories—maybe a story that I worked very hard on—maybe one of my favorite stories that I have written since The Mustache? Eh, I bet I would sell it for pretty cheap.

Then again that's just selling a copy of it. What if selling the story meant that I could never see it again or show it to other people? If selling it meant that, in a manner of speaking, it would cease to exist, I bet that I would ask a lot more for it.

Jump back to Sunday night, three days ago. I spent the majority of the weekend face pressed to the screen of my laptop, thoughts woven around many different stories pushing them closer to completion. All advancement saved to my little flash drive.

Monday morning comes and I plug my flash drive into my work computer. Nothing. My Dell sounds off that new hardware has been introduced. Then nothing. No prompt to sync my drive. No error message. Nothing. My computer can't read my drive. My co-worker's computer can't read my drive. My home computer can't read it either. It's dead. My stories are dead. All of them. I had about 30 stories on that little drive. Some finished, most unfinished. Some of the unfinished were real pieces of crap but there were some that were golden. Of course it's the gold I hate to lose.

Mondays are terrible enough, I didn't need this also. I don't want to overdramatize in saying something akin to me losing a loved one—I was just fucking pissed. What to do? I contacted the makers of my little flash drive, pretty much knowing that they weren't going to really do anything. I just wanted to see how little they cared that their product is shitty. I got an email response from the company and it went as follows:

Robert,
Sorry for any inconvenience that this drive
is causing
you.

If
you need to recover files, you should try this link http://download.pcinspector.de/pci_filerecovery.exe.
Also, try to go to www.download.com
to get some other software to see if it can help you or
not.
Thanks,
Transcend Information Maryland, Inc
Richard
Martin
Tech Support Engineer
richard_martin@transcendusa.com

Thanks Richard Martin! Glad to know that you're sorry for any inconvenience that your drive is causing me. His lack of effort to even care that his ingenuous first sentence is in a different color from the rest of the email is so blatantly apparent. Even if it is just hot air, make an effort. It was the shittiest public affairs email merge I have ever received. Then the level of tough shit, consumer deepens with the ridiculous advice that is offered me in appeasement. File recovery software? That's the best that Rich from Transcend (Transcend Information, Inc.) could offer me? Seems to me that a tech support engineer would know that even the best file recovery software still has the shortcoming of needing to recognize the media. Once again, thanks Dick.

So with no love from Transcend, and especially with no $1,000,000 offer to make me happy (or even an offer to replace the $17 drive), I am forced to find other viable alternatives. It boils down to the following two options:

1) I could just forget about it and move on, hoping that maybe my half-written stories have left enough in my mind for recreation.

2) I could send the little piece of shit Transcend JetFlash USB flash drive to a data recovery company so they can perform an open-drive transplant to save the life of my stories.

Of course I want option 2. Why wouldn't I? I mean, if information can be pulled out of a back box from a downed plane, then surely my little stories can be pulled out of a malfunctioning Transcend JetFlash USB flash drive. Yeah, that's right, malfunctioning Transcend flash drive—malfunction and Transcend: two words that should be considered synonymous when shopping for electronics and storage devices.

I researched data recovery companies on the web and my first round of estimates all came in around the $1000 ballpark. One Thousand Dollars! Yikes. The moving on option seems more viable at this point. I dug deeper and I found a cheaper place. This is what they quoted me:

"…Thank You for the opportunity to quote you. The cost to recover data from a 4GB USB stick that has less than 1GB of data will be $250.00 depending on how much actual data is recovered…."

Alright, $250—that's more like it. I still have the drive and I have yet to make a decision. Are "Hamza the Hamsterfucker" and "13 Beers Unlucky" really worth $250? I guess if you see those titles mixed in with my other stories, you know what choice I made. After writing this little article, I see two morals:

1) Always back up your data… that's how I lost the original The Mustache when my last laptop died (though I did get about 7 years out of it so I'll leave the manufacture's name out of the mud).

2) Fuck Transcend Products.

Boyfriend vs Boyfriend

2008-10-14T14:03:00.002-06:00

There's a delicate line a woman must walk when uttering the words "I have a boyfriend." These are never words that an interested man wants to hear. Bedeviled tease or conceited bitch? I guess it's all about timing.

Here's the first scenario… or more appropriately, the first scenario in one of its hundred forms:

Guy sees girl. He's interested so he smiles at her. She's obviously interested because she smiles back, right? It's not a social courtesy type smile; it's a blushing, come talk to me smile. Her nonverbal invitation gave him the balls to bridge the gap. He makes his move to initiate conversation. He's overtly flirtatious. She responds. He baits and waits for a bite. At a bar maybe he offers her a drink. At the store maybe he comments about the bottle of wine in the basket. At the park he compliments her on her dog handling skills. It lives in more forms than I can list. His foot's already in the door so he tries enticing it open inch by inch. Her smile and receptive small talk give the green light. Things are moving along great. She seems happy, he's definitely happy. He goes for it, "I'd like to get to know you a little better; can I get your number?"

Silence.

Awkward silence.

Her smile fades and out her mouth comes "I have a boyfriend." What the fuck?! You have a fucking boyfriend? Then what the hell was all that flirting about? Oh, you were just talking? Bullshit. We know the difference.

Then there's the other scenario… and it pretty much comes in only one abrasive, unsavory form:

Guy sees girl. He's interested so he smiles at her. She's obviously a fucking bitch so she yells out "I have a boyfriend" across the room. Talk about conceited. The guy was interested but when the true colors of her narcissism are revealed, he's quick to be very very uninterested. What an uppity snob.

So there they are, the two scenarios between which committed women find themselves. Too soon and your vulgar, unmannered defense brands you as such. Too long and you're a tease. Can't say which I hate more; then again can't say which I prefer more. And, yes, there's a difference.

So is there an answer to this conundrum or are involved women doomed to pick their lesser of two evils?

Hmmm....

Apathy

2008-10-14T14:01:00.002-06:00

I'd like to take a few moments to talk about apathy. I understand lazy. I mean, I once was a teenager. I remember actually watching The 700 Club because I couldn't find the remote; or worse yet, because the remote was just out of reach. I was lazy because it took no effort. I was just existing—a lump on a log; a languor on a lounger. It wasn't apathetic because I wasn't trying to gain anything. I was just complacent enough to stay where I was. No ground gained. No ground lost.

What I don't understand is when someone would take the initiative in attempts to gain ground but only put in the absolute minimum amount of work possible. Alright, so at least he's trying some might say. I, however, believe that some attempts are so bad that it would actually be more beneficial to do nothing. Then again, this world is full of morons and gullible jackasses.
I was combing through my inbox the other day and there, waiting between an email from my bank and an email form my mom, was a message from mister hdejwo@kpnplanet.nl. The urgent email reads as follows:

Attentionyou have a Draft of $700,000 that was deposited with the Swift
Courier by this organisation (N.G.O) to deliver to you, they paid all charges
but did not pay the delivery charges,so contact him and pay the $450, to get
this draft. Contact Mr. Bright
Taylor.Email:mrbrighttaylor@live.comTell:+2348058913385

Wow! $700,000! That's fantastic. This guy is good, $600,000 is actually not enough to motivate me to hit the reply button and $800,000 is so obviously a scam. Plus seven's a lucky number, right? Since it was addressed to me, there's no way that every "you" could be for anyone other than me. Jackpot.

There's just so much about this email that bothers me, but really only one thing that motivates me to break out into essay. It's not that someone's trying to pull $450 out of my pocket and put it into his; it's not that whoever wrote this and sent it to me actually thinks that I'm asinine enough to chase after $700,000 of "unclaimed" money; it's that whoever came up with this ridiculous ploy, didn't hit the spell check button. How hard is that? It's really a double bonus. Hitting one button, in reality, checks spelling AND grammar. Nice. Even given that most grammar checks are often wrong, I'm betting that it would have caught the first letter being lower case and draft being upper case. There are double spaces for no reason, making jealous the places that are lacking spaces. One push of a button starts to alleviate all of this. Not too bright Mr. Taylor.

Even if this guy's business is con games, where's the craftsmanship? Apathy. I was obviously raised with a different value set. Well, save for those idle teenage years, I take pride in what I do. Whether it's writing for my salary or whether it's coming up with a plausible lie as to why I'm late for work, I take the time to cover the details. Then again that's just me and obviously Mr. Taylor and I come from different camps.

I was swindled in Mexico once. After it all happened, I was torn by my feelings of helplessness and my feelings of cheer. I was amazed at the amount of work that went into orchestrating this ten-man hustle… for about $12.

I was the obvious tourist with the huge backpack. A young, 19-year-old traveler, I hadn't yet developed the "don't fuck with me" stare that makes passing through strange or foreign lands so much easier. So they had their patsy. Two guys who didn't know each other, wink wink, were betting on an intense game of cup and ball. It was obvious where the ball was and a man was betting that it was under a different cup. You're probably thinking how stupid of me to think I can win at a street game of cup and ball. The thing is, I didn't bet. I wasn't even interested in playing.

As the two men argued over the amount of the bet, "strangers" from the nearby market started approaching to see what was going on. Eight or nine boarder collies on one sheep, the crowd's excitement pushed me closer to the game. The argument intensified and I was just happy to be in the middle of it all. Nobody cared that I was an outsider; nobody even noticed that I was there. In a country where a tourist is usually pestered by vendors and merchants, it was nice to be left alone as part of the background.

It boiled down to the betting man having just one large bill but was interested in betting only half. He refused to bet more and the cup and ball guy refused to let him walk away after starting the game. Easy solution: "Who has change?" I was just a wall flower until every man in the circle had been asked if he had change. Spotlight's on me. Since I wasn't betting, just making change, I pulled some money out of my secret pocket and waived it with my left hand over my open right hand that was anxiously waiting for the larger bill. The cup and ball guy stretched out his hand with the large bill, waived it past my open palm and quicker than I've ever seen a hand move, snatched the two bills from my hand without leaving the large bill in my palm. He put the all the money on the table while men from the crowd pushed in between me and the table. He smiled at me and turned over the cup the other man was betting on to reveal only the purple felt of the table beneath.

With a big smile, he took our money and put it in his back pocket. The crowd clapped and smiled at me… and as I pleaded that I was not betting, I was only making change, the original betting man looked at me and flashed a mischievous smile. Then I knew that it wasn't a misunderstanding. I got hustled by a crowd of people. Looking back, the things I should or shouldn't have done are so obvious but then again, they say hindsight is 20/20.

At the time, and even after many years, I really wasn't too affected by being cheated. I didn't feel as though I had been robbed; I kind of felt as if they had earned it. Now maybe I would feel a bit different if I lost $450 dollars instead of $12. Maybe not, if the con man had truly earned it. Then let me say this for good measure, if Mr. Bright Taylor's colossal apathy keeps him from hitting the spell checker, then he is not earning any of my money.

Once again I'm torn. Who should I despise more? The disgustingly apathetic Mr. Bright Taylor, or the unquestionable morons who disregard this blatant lack of pride in his work and willingly put money in his pocket? I choose Mr. Bright Taylor because not only do I find him pathetic, but I'm also incredibly jealous of his ability to be so carefree about his profession.

I Like My Underpants

2008-10-14T13:53:00.003-06:00

I was thinking two things as I stared down at my own underpants: 1. Does every man have his favorite pair of old, tattered and torn, ugly-ass underpants (I happen to have many)?; and 2. Do women?

With the exception of one pair, I never seem to take the time to really notice my underpants with any great detail. I know exactly why too. Out of sight, out of mind. There are two places I spend any real time sitting on a toilet—at home and at work. I try my best to never have to drop deuce anywhere other than that. Granted there are exceptions to every rule. Those being places like friends' houses and relatives' houses. I just try to stay away from places where syphilitic homeless men drop their bombs.

Anyway, when at home, I take pants and underpants in one unit all the way down to the floor. My bathroom is clean and comfortable. Nothing on the floor to wet or otherwise mark the back of my pants. My other significant bathroom is my work bathroom. Of course it's public and it is relatively clean but not like at home. Then there's the temperature. It's cold in there, which, by the way, makes taking naps balanced sitting up on the commode that much more difficult. It's just too cold to stay in there for anything longer than 45 minutes. I know, sucks, huh?

So being that it's so cold in there, and given that sometimes I need a nap because I was out drinking until the bars closed the night before, I need some protection from the frigged air. My only option is to pull my pants up as high as they will go without touching the front of the bowl. Then I lean forward to cover the upper part of my legs with my arms. It's a masterful balance not to be tried without practice, or at least a little stretching. Don't want to blow out a hammy. The result: I spend more time looking at my own underpants than I probably should.

I've realized a couple things. I don't have any "nice" underpants AND all of my underpants are great! I think in terms of women and their panties. Man, I love that word… and now that I write about it, it's not necessarily the word I love; it's the actual panties that I love so much. They are so beautiful. Sexy, soft, and seductive. They're as delicate as they are powerful. An aphrodisiac. Now is this because I have been so fortunate in my life to never have seen a woman in old, torn, tattered granny underpants? Who knows? But what I can say is that, over the years, all the panties I have had relationships with have been very nice panties. Well taken care of. Never faded or ripped. The question is: are these beautiful, untarnished panties comfortable? I now realize that I have never stopped to ask. Though not really my fault since panties, at least all the ones that I've met face to face, are very hypnotic. Very.

Now back to my oxymoronic statement about my own underpants. They are ugly as sin BUT they are so damn comfortable. And that's what a man's really after—comfort. I had a pair since high school. They were so ugly, I couldn't even look at them while doing laundry. The crotch had been worn into nonexistence years ago. It hung as a loincloth around my waist—the elastic of the band completely exposed. If they could have been cloned and hung stapled to poles, they would serve as extremely effective "keep out" and "no trespassing" signs. Though I'm not sure who would be willing to hang them. Why keep such an abomination? They were really comfortable. I mean really really comfortable. Well that and they were lucky. Not lucky in getting me laid or making me perform better on the field or putting money in my pocket. A different kind of lucky. While wearing them, I was never struck by any flying objects. Nothing. No wayward Frisbees in the park. No drunken punches in a bar fight. No meteorites from outer space. Nothing. That's lucky! So broken down in statistical terms: 98.539% comfort; 1.381% lucky, flying-object protection; 0.08% undecided. Yeah, it adds up. Trust me.

One day I made a huge mistake. I told an ex girlfriend that they were my lucky underpants. Colossal mistake! Granted, said underpants were no prize winners in the looks department. On top of that uphill battle to keep them, she was an incredibly insecure woman. I say lucky underpants and she thinks: lucky for getting you into bed with another woman. The hill just got steeper. Little did I know at the time that even when I said things like: I love you, she thinks: lucky for getting into bed with another woman! Yeah, that relationship didn't end well. Better off without her definitely; however, sometime during that relationship, I "lost" my lucky underpants (hint: lost = my ex stole them from me and threw them away!). A sad turn of events because, beyond the actual loss, I had yet to pick and train the loincloth's successor. I pause for a moment of silence….

*

So left without a flagship pair of underpants for comfort, I had to let every pair fight for the privilege of being the leader—the next pair for a future girlfriend to battle. No front runners have yet to emerge. I wait patiently.

So in the end, I know they're hideous but, dammit, I like my underpants. I'd like to say that the entire world should embrace this ideal of comfort but then I would run the risk of finding out that those glorious panties of which I have spoken so highly are not comfortable. And I just can't risk losing them. You understand, right?

* Silence

I Could Care Less... I Just Don't Care To

2008-10-14T13:48:00.006-06:00

I was seconds away from being pushed to my breaking point. My job sucked ass and the asses I was working for sucked even more. They needed me more than I needed them and the thought of walking away from it all put a huge smile on my face. That was it, fuck these people. I quit. My boss made his last attempt to reconcile. It was a shot to my work ethic because he knew it to be my kryptonite. "Can't you stay until the project is finished?" he asked. Well played. Sometimes the project you're working on is larger than you. Then you know that quitting would punish the greater good. This was not one of those jobs. Already mentally detached, I turned my head over my shoulder and said "I could care less."

A few hours later, after downing a few well-deserved celebratory beers, I was replaying my walkout in my head. I'm glad I left the way I did. Fuck those people. Two weeks was way too long to wait. The look on his face was priceless. I should have gotten the number of that hottie from accounting before I stormed out... better yet while I was storming out. That would've been golden. Damn she's hot. Fuck that project. Oh shit, did I say "I could care less" or did I say "I couldn't care less"? Dammit! I think I said "could." Shit, I did. I said "I could care less." I felt like Richard Pryor in the 1988 film Moving. He gets fired and when he goes to flip off his boss, he flips up his index finger. "I gave him the wrong finger" he laments for the next couple days.

Now, I realize that most don't give a shit about which is correct: "I could care less" or "I couldn't care less." I do. I'm a wordsmith and, yes, it did bother me. Then I sat there thinking. Maybe "I could care less" is an even stronger insult. Maybe. Thinking. Wait... it is!

Alright, I know that the correct way to say it is "I couldn't care less," or more appropriately, the established way to say it. However, there is this new movement to grant "I could care less" acceptance as an idiomatic expression. I mean even the Oxford dictionary already recognizes "could care less" as an American colloquialism. American colloquialism?! No thanks. Fucking Brits.

I agree that "I could care less" should be granted full acceptance; however, this acceptance should be granted on its own merit not just because so many retards say it wrong. I would like to make a case where "I could care less" is correct but for all the right reasons. Here is my argument:

What is a person doing when he tells another "I couldn't care less"? He is telling that other person "What you have to say is so invalid/arbitrarily idiotic/stupid/not worth my time that I would prefer if you stopped talking… immediately!" Possibly, but not always, followed by a punch to the brain. "I couldn't care less" is the same as "I could not care less." Dissected once again, it means that there is no possible way that one could care any less than he or she does. The math has been checked and it is verified that the level of care = zero. Not 0.5. Not 0.01. Not even 0.0000000000000000001. The level of care = zero, agreed? Now here's the ironic part: that's a lot of certainty invested in verifying that indeed there is no amount of care… that kind of investment of certainty affirmation is time consuming. To know for sure that you care not at all means that you cared enough to make sure; that's caring. Thus making "I couldn't care less" a fallacious implication.

My contention now is the legitimacy of "I could care less," not as a British consolation of American misunderstanding but rather as a credible insult. There is a lot less effort associated with this statement. The person making this claim obviously, by virtue of this statement, doesn't care very much—he might care less—he might even have a care level of zero; however, he cares so little that he doesn't even bother to quantify his level of care. He simply doesn't care enough to care how much he doesn't care. Now that's really not caring. He doesn't even care if some pretentious grammar Nazi is within earshot. "Um, excuse me, but that's not the proper construction of that phrase," says the tight-ass grammarian. The one who could care less doesn't mind; he's too busy not caring. Besides, how incredibly self-serving and pompous do you really have to be to correct someone else's misspeak, especially in front of others? Keep it to yourself and then those around you won't care less about you and your guised insults. We get it, you're great with syntax and usage, three cheers for just you!

So where does this leave us? "I couldn't care less," yeah right. You care. "I could care less," wow! This guy really doesn't give a shit. He quit caring before he could finish his sentence. Now that's not caring. As for me, I might just be the retard who messes up common phrases and then justifies those mistakes to myself as well as my audience… OR I'm the man who has aptly justified a new colloquial meaning into existence. Mastermind or moron? Eh, I could care less.

Flakes...

2008-10-07T13:04:00.004-06:00

When it comes to having an interest in another person, I find that most people seem to have a type. Some like blondes, some like curly Qs, some like tall, some like fit, some like curves, some like legs, some like ass, some like assholes, some like assertive, some like reserved, some like loud, some like witty. The unabridged list continues for days. However, these are the likes that people know they're attracted to. The flip side of the coin is what people are unknowingly attracted to. Although they have the same power of magnetism, our society labels what we are unknowingly attracted to as tendencies more than attractions.

Example: my friend is attracted to redheads but he has a tendency to fall for unbalanced women. The fact of the matter is that this particular friend has a redheaded girlfriend who is crazy as fuck. The magnetism of his attractions is just as strong as the magnetism of his tendencies.

It's nice to know what you're attracted to and what you want. I mean some people don't even have the slightest clue what they want. I feel sorry for these people. Whether their inabilities to know themselves stem from lack of interest or lack of experience, I see a lack of life. However, even if you know exactly what you're attracted to, sometimes it's harder to recognize your tendencies. Most often I bet they're pointed out by a third party. "You tend to fall for jealous women," a man hears from his friend. The man doesn't seek out jealous women but for whatever reason, he's drawn to them. His friend's comment is a bitter pill to swallow since after some reflection, he knows that his friend is right.

Anyway, what I'm eventually working toward are my own attractions and tendencies. As far as my attractions, I like what I like. I know that sounds vague and it is. But that's the way I am. Ask anyone who knows me well: I am all over the board when it comes to my physical attractions. I am even attracted to qualities from opposite ends of the spectrum. I know that it doesn't make sense to most how I can like a thin woman for being thin and a curvy woman for being curvy, or a tall woman for being tall and a short woman for being short. Mostly it's a personality mind set that compliments a woman's physical characteristics. I've heard it labeled as the way that a woman carries herself. That touches on it but for me it's more than that.
Beyond the tangible is character. It's easy to describe what I want here: intelligent, self-assured, humorous, adventurous, polite, open-minded, caring, respectful, and probably 20 more if I were to visit a thesaurus.

As far as tendencies go, I have recently come to an aggravating conclusion—a conclusion that sparked this little essay. I have a tendency to fall head over heals for Flakes. Let me tell you this, pursuing an interest in a woman who is physically and characteristically who you want is very difficult if she happens to be a fucking Flake. It's made all the more difficult because it's a trait that's somewhat difficult to identify early on. It's not like finding the loud, shit-faced, drunk chick at a cocktail party. Meeting and dating a woman takes its due time. I realize that everyone moves at different speeds but I know what my speed is and that's where I'm comfortable. Unfortunately, my comfort with this time frame allows me to get too close to Flakes long before the true nature of the beast is revealed. Knowing her beauty and understanding her character come a long time before she Flakes on me.

So what's a Flake? Slang: a whimsically eccentric person. How delightful, whimsically eccentric. Whimsical. That's not bad. It's cheery. Eccentric. That's not bad either. Einstein was eccentric. Howard Hughes was eccentric. Let me just say this then for good measure, if a lady I'm interested in can ingeniously formulate a plausible theory of mass – energy equivalence or aptly teach herself aeronautical engineering, I would be more prone to excuse a missed meeting or unreturned phone call. She's got world-changing ideas on her mind so missing my party would probably be for humanity's greater good. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that the Flakes of my past are unintelligent or incapable—on the contrary since intelligence lives securely as one of my top three attractions. I'm saying that one does not equal the other and furthermore we shouldn't allow it to. I have come up with a simple sentence to illustrate this point.

Whimsical eccentricity does NOT equal social deficiency.

Saying you'll call and not calling isn't eccentric, it's annoying. Saying you'll be there and not showing isn't whimsical, is fucking disrespectful. Showing up half an hour late shows me that you either think very little of me or that you are too stupid to tell time. I know they're not fashionable but they make digital watches for women like that.

Why have we as a society allowed this type of behavior? Because she's cute? That's why she doesn't have to know how to tell time. Because some would put up with anything just to sleep with her? That's why she can be a Flake? No thanks. I say that people act the way they do because you and I let them act that way. Our society's everybody-gets-a-trophy-for-participating, I-don't-want-to-hurt-anyone's-feelings, be-nice-to-everyone attitude is defective. Some people are dipshits and should be labeled as such. I guess it boils down to my inability to see her whimsical eccentricity as anything other than an ambivalent lack of interest in me. And that's fine. Don't like me… but if that's the case, then don't ask for my number; don't give me your number and tell me to give you a call sometime; don't say we should get together for a drink; don't feign interest in me.

So these words are my stand. I know she's cute; I know she's smart, and witty and fun; I know she's elegant; I know she has the nose I like; I know her lips and her eyes and her voice drive me wild. I also know that she's a Flake and I am uninterested in her. I don't have the time or commitment for someone who can't reciprocate.

Lastly, if you're a Flake, I have two things to say to you:

1) Congratulations for making it through to the end. I'm surprised that something shiny didn't catch your eye and lure you away from my words.

2) Tell people up front that you're a fucking Flake so that nobody expects much from you; then everyone will be happier in the end.

That is all….

Censorship

2008-09-11T13:01:00.006-06:00

I always have something to talk about and sometimes those ideas are pushed to pen marks or key strokes. Some of it's good, some of it's bad, some of it makes me question my own value set. I get inspiration from the most interesting, often unlikely, places. Although I don't align myself with the rhetoric of the far right, I really am very fortunate and blessed to live in a country and society where I'm free to write about what ever I want. I can praise and criticize whomever I'd like from the interesting bum on the street to the assholes in government. Outside controls never prohibit me from writing what I really want to write. How wonderful. However, there is one filter that remains a major obstacle from me achieving true freedom. I call it the mother filter.

How the hell am I supposed to truly commit to a graphic description of a dirty Sanchez if I think there's a chance of my mom reading it? When I was young, I bound myself by never wanting to write anything that might offend anyone. I mean anyone: friends, family, people I didn't like, people who didn't like me, even strangers. What a Pussy. Yeah, that's right, with a capital "P."

Over time that cowardice faded to a milder version; if I had a girlfriend, I didn't want to offend her. If I was single, I didn't want to offend women I wanted to sleep with. How Pathetic. Again capital "P." I had this fear that if a girlfriend or woman I was interested in read one of my stories about, oh say, midget orgies, she would run the other way. [Note to self: finish story about midget orgies]

Even if the story lived only in my head, I felt as though I ran the risk of offending. Really it was one part my failure to commit to my words + one part history of jealous, insecure ex-girlfriends + a dash of my own spinelessness and insecurities. Shake with ice and strain the lame bullshit that's left over into a mug.

Why a mug? Two reasons: one, it's a big container to hold all the meek, submissive crap I was writing about, and two, mugs are great. They keep your hand warm and your drink cold. Amazing. Think about it.

As for possibly offending potential dates, I've come to the conclusion (not exclusively, though more often than most women would like to admit) that a woman makes up her mind, in about 20 seconds of knowing a man, whether or not she'll fuck him. Argue if you must but recognize that there's truth to that statement on some level. Granted there are exceptions to the rule. One example being the guy who wins over the girl after chasing her for years thus changing the original 20-second decision she made to not fuck him five years ago. Kudos to that guy, way to hold out man. Another example being the idiot, most likely a frat boy, who, after being awarded the coveted free pass based on his looks, has it instantly revoked because of the amount of stupid shit that came out of his mouth after meeting the woman.

Now I highly doubt that a well-written, poignant story about man's affinity for woman will tip the scales against me as a writer. And so what if it does? The woman who's terribly offended by my stories probably wasn't going to let me de-panty her with my teeth anyway. Besides, most of my stuff is just for a laugh. Lighten up.

One day I read a short story by Mr. Chuck Palahniuk called "Guts." Holy shit! If he can write a story like that and not worry about what his mother thinks, then what in the world is stopping me from writing anything that I want to write?

Me.

The day I can feel free enough to write a story about perverted self gratification or abhorrent mutilation or in Chuck's case, both, without worrying about what my mom would think, I will truly be free. Until then I will have to slowly push that envelope. Slowly. Aside from my own mother, if you don't like what I write, don't read it… I'm not writing for you anyway.

By: Robert Staudhammer

The Mustache

2008-09-11T12:48:00.004-06:00

I was standing against the wall in the back of the bar. I saw her approaching, dressed to enjoy her night out on the town. Beautiful. The floor held her gaze until she was a couple steps from me. She looked up just in time to see my interest in her. Then she smiled at me. It was too confident to be a shy smile. And while I could see a spark of interest, there was a perceptible lack of flirtatiousness. I talked to her for a few fleeting moments. Our conversation was as short as it was genuine. She kept up her end. She laughed. Her lips curled into that same complacent smile again. I'd seen it before, it was a mustache smile.

Rewind three months to the day I decided to take a stand against shaving. Waking up and dragging a razor across my face every morning was getting old. Plus, new razor heads are expensive. Beards are free. I guess it has something to do with the addition of all those extra blades. Remember when it was just one blade? Then two bladed razor heads came out and it blew people's minds. Then three and four followed and it was a bit of an overkill. Enough already. Where will it end? A $50 razor head with 12 blades? Not for me. AND on top on my cheap and lazy justifications, there should be fair mention of shaving's cruelest of after-effects—razor rash. What a thing to have to look forward to. Razor rash, two words that should never be combined, much less combined on my neck and face.

I was fortunate enough to sail through my adolescence with a scarcity of acne—only appearing for infrequent dates and year book photos. Why would I continue to knowingly afflict myself with daily in-growns? You know what in grown hairs look like? They look like pimples. I had to make a seemingly obvious conviction: kick ass beard or razor rash? Beard. So I simply quit shaving for all the tangible reasons… in addition to the well-known fact that beards are wooly trophies of manhood. Zeus, Hemingway, Darwin, Paul Bunyan, and (the cool) two-thirds of ZZ Top all rocked beards. Each one of these guys is a man's man—a real bad ass. So I foresaw a couple weeks of scruff until my brand new trophy beard arrived. Patience.

So day in and day out, my beard grew. However, I did start to notice how some parts of my beard were quite ambitious while other parts seemed to be pretty damn lazy. Soon enough I had a disgusting checkerboard of facial hair... on my face. Really there was nothing full except for a killer mustache. So I kept it, my mustache that is. Once in a while I would take the clippers to my face and trim back all that wasn't glorious mustache. Not unlike Michelangelo taking a disgustingly, ugly slab of marble and carving away to reveal David. This is how my mustache was born. As for the rest of my face, the 5 o'clock shadow, reminiscent of George Michael (circa the Faith album) and Don Johnson (circa Miami Vice), was much easier on the eyes than my sickly-animal, patch-work beard. When my shadow turned into a telltale sign of homelessness, I trimmed.

So there I was, a guy with a mustache. A mustache. I had a mustache. It even sounded funny. It sounded so funny that I never even said the word. When describing myself, I could maintain control over terminology. "Facial hair," I would say. Well, that is until I named him Pedro. Why name my mustache? Because saying "Pedro and I will come to the party" sounds much better than "I'll be there at nine… with my mustache." See what I mean? Now of course it occurred to me that others describing me probably wouldn't be so kind as to steer clear of my all-mighty stache. Or is it spelled "stash"? Who knows for sure but I'm positive that it's spelled "MUŠTÆÇHê" if you happen to be a 19th century side-show, strong-man with one of those magnificent handlebar mustaches or "Händlebar MUŠTÆÇHês" I should have written. I tell you, tangential stories are always great… especially when they include 19th century side-show, strong-men. Anyway, back to the tale. I envisioned a conversation with my best friend and one of her friends—a possible date. A possible hot date.

Best Friend: "hey hot friend, I know a guy that would be perfect for you."

Her Super hot, single friend: "oh really?"

Best Friend: "Yeah, he's funny and smart and good looking and charming. He's a good man."

Her Super hot, single friend: "What's he look like? And is he aware of how incredibly hot and limber I am?"

Best Friend: "Yeah I told him about you. He's tall, dark, and handsome. Kind of exotic looking. Brown hair, Brown eyes. Dresses well. And um… he has a mustache."

Her Super hot, single friend: "A mustache!?!... Wait. Is it a mustache or a MUŠTÆÇHê?"

Best Friend: "a mustache."

Immediately, images of hairy lipped characters roll through her head. John Waters. Wilford Brimley. Charlie Chaplin. Freddie Mercury. That guy who still wears sleeveless Megadeath t-shirts while he works on his bondo-crusted Trans-AM in the front yard down the street (yeah, sick stash AND mutton chops on that guy).

"No thanks!" She yells in protest as she turns her super hot, incredibly limber body and sexily walks away from my friend never to speak to her again.

Ouch! Future ex-girlfriend? Not anymore. So why keep Pedro around, you know, other than my disdain for shaving? Commitment, that's why. Pride in commitment. Oh, and have you ever heard of a mustache ride? I know that it was only ever initially mentioned as a joke but then again jokes are grounded in reality, right? Right? Plus I didn't think it was fair for Pedro to hear of such bliss and then not get to experience it. That's cruel. Ironic but it was actually Pedro who kept himself from the experience. Talk about a sexual paradox. So try as he did, any amorous advancement on my part had little if absolutely nothing to do with Pedro. In fact it was advancement in spite of Pedro. Talk about your uphill battles. So all in all, Pedro really didn't carry his weight by giving me the hookup, he was just along for the ride.

So I was living a regular mustached life. Me 'n Pedro, Pedro 'n me. I was content with the way things were. Though it wasn't until the mustache smile became commonplace that I entertained the idea of change. The mustache smile wasn't a complete disinterest in me; it was actually the opposite. It was an interest in me derailed only by Pedro. The smiles and awkward looks from women told me what they were thinking: that guy would have a much easier time getting close to me if he didn't have a mustache. Whether that's what the ladies were actually thinking or possibly a more naked version of the same thought, I don't know. What I do know is that every time I got a mustache smile from a guy, he was definitely thinking one thing: Time for a mustache ride. Yikes. Now the image is in your head, huh? Walk it off. Walk it off.

The push from the mustache smile was truly coming from two directions. One was from the incredibly beautiful woman in the bar. Her eyes said yes, but her mouth said "but you have a mustache." The other was from men whose eyes and mouths were both in agreement about wanting a few minutes of my time in the nearest public restroom. Yikes. Walk it off.

Pedro was a good friend of mine by this point so to just cut him loose would have been mean. He served his time so I figured that a proper send off was appropriate. A party was in order… a theme party. After careful thought, I decided to go with a cocktail party. Classy and elegant, what better way to have a few too many and dance with like-livered people in fancy clothes? The guests arrived, every one a bit more fashionably late than the previous. Everyone had a great time—my male friends in suits and ties—my female friends in fancy dresses. Myself in a blazer, new hair cut, and a completely shaved face. Pedro and all. I know the party was supposed to be in Pedro's honor but fuck pride in commitment. I figured the best way to honor him would be to shave him off and give myself the best possible chance of hooking up with the beautiful girl from the bar. I mean what if she came to the party just to see if her wish of me shaving had come true. If you know me, I try no to disappoint. And if you knew Pedro, he would have wanted it that way.