Thursday, July 31, 2008

Street Fightin' Married Man

When you're a man and you get married, whether you're the biggest musclehead or the skinniest gaywad, it becomes your responsibility to defend your woman. You may be outmatched or you may be in for some serious pain or you may be risking your life, but if you don't stand up for your woman, you may never get laid again.

Last summer, my wife and I were in Hong Kong. We we sang karaoke, we ate bowls of MSG, we tried to make Buddhist monks break their vows of silence, and we experienced, for the first time, what it was like to be the tallest people around. One night, we went to Lan Kwai Fong, the area where tourists and expats go to get drunk and stupid.

It was about 900 degrees outside. So, when we came upon a Russian-themed bar with a walk-in Vodka freezer, we jumped at the chance to cool off and get our Perestroika on. In the freezer, two very large and very drunk Australian dudes took a liking to my wife.

The biggest one glanced over at me and said, "Oi! Where'd you get the whore?"

To be sure I heard him right, I smugly said, "What'd you say, Steve Irwin??"

Louder and more aggressively, he said, "That bird you're with, she's a prostitute, right?"

I was pretty sure this wouldn't end up well.

What would I do? If I cowered, I would be seen as the world's biggest pussy by the woman I love. If I fought, I would either get put in jail (in a fucking communist country) or I would be sent to the hospital (in a fucking communist country). Despite all rational thought, I went with the latter option. I had to.

Out of nowhere, something strange came over me. All my fear disappeared. I poured my vodka on to the floor and I clutched the empty glass as a weapon. I stood tall and said, "If you don't apologize, I'm gonna crack both your fucking heads open!"

It was even more dramatic than it sounds.

They weren't fazed in the least bit.

The smaller Aussie grabbed my glass with ease. He then said, "You're not gonna use a weapon. You're gonna fight like a man."

They proceeded to descend upon me and I was ready. With all the strength I could muster, I cocked my arm back and prepared to throw the hardest punch I'd ever thrown.

Miraculously, my fist was grabbed from behind. Three sumo-esque bouncers appeared. They broke up the fight, escorted the Aussies out, and stood over my wife and me until we were out of harm's way. I'd just dodged a major bullet. For some reason though, I wasn't happy. Something inside me actually wanted to throw that punch.

Growing up, I got my ass kicked more times than I'd like to remember. On the Hebrew school bus, a non-nebby Yid punched me in the gut so hard that I spit blood. At a Burger King on Biscayne, a mischievous young African wrapped me in duct tape and kicked me until I nearly died. In college at Wisconsin, four football players broke my nose so severely that I looked like Eric Stoltz in Mask. Each time, I'd deserved it, but that's not the point. I was finally ready to do some ass kicking myself.

I decided that the next person to fuck with my wife was gonna get a major faceful of Iron Mike. The rest of our Hong Kong trip, I was on the hunt. I almost wailed on a tiny Korean boy at a monastery. I almost destroyed a plump Norwegian girl at a museum. I almost rearranged the face of a 75 year-old Chinese dude selling egg rolls in the street. Unfortunately, they didn't deserve it and they ran when I snarled. Yeah, I was tough.

It wasn't until we were back in Denver when I would have my opportunity to punch somebody in defense of my bride. On July 4th, the wife and I were at a party. This heavy set redneck was talking about his cock on the porch where we were standing. A few minutes later, he pushed me aside and started to hit on my wife.

Like any good woman, she told the redneck that I was her husband and that she would appreciate it if he left her alone. In response, he said I was an asshole and made some obscene comments that even I don't want to repeat. Instantly, I was brought back to the Russian Bar in Hong Kong. It was time!

Without hesitation, I set down my drink, clenched my fist, and socked that motherfucker with all the might in my little Jewish body.

It was glorious...for a moment.

I turned to the onlookers and put my hand to my ear like Hulk Hogan. I let out a roar and savored the taste of my first blood. I then grabbed my drink and took a victory sip. Suddenly, a redneck fist hit the back of my head like a freight train.

And, I was down. Out like a light.

When I awoke, I was dazed and very bloody. The redneck was gone. He was on parole and left when someone called the cops. My face was cut, my brain hurt, my back was jacked up, and I could barely breathe. But, y'know what? I had a smile on my face.

Why? I got that punch out (on an ex-con, no less). I defended my wife's honor. Chivalry's not dead! At 36, I don't recommend getting into a fight (it really, really hurts), but at one point or another, stand up for your lady. It feels good.

Monday, July 28, 2008

The Alternative to Silence

Growing up, I was a horrible athlete. I was short, slow, and uncoordinated. I was always picked last for football and I was always the catcher in tee ball. It took me 18 seconds to do the 50 yard dash. It took me 26 tries to make a foul shot. I threw like a girl and I ran like a gimp.

As you can imagine, I hated sports. I couldn't rattle off stats and I didn't know who the players were. It was like I had a learning disability when it came to anything having to do with physical activity. So, I did what every other disenfranchised dork did and I became a music fan.

While the sports fans were dressing up like Dan Marino, I was dressing up like Gene Simmons. While the sports fans were collecting baseball cards, I was collecting Beatles memorabilia. While the sports fans were going to Heat games, I was going to Ramones shows. Music was my sport.

Subsequently, over the years, I became a pretty discerning listener. I embraced Styx and Cheap Trick before it became kitschy to do so. I abandoned Slash when he joined Velvet Revolver and Chris Cornell when he joined Audioslave. I determined that everything Radiohead did after Pablo Honey was a big joke on the listening public. And, I made the controversial (but true) proclamation that The Police and U2 suck. That's what's fun about being a music fan - having an opinion.

Well, I have another opinion -- 2008 is a horrible year to be a music fan. It's also a horrible year to be a mortgage broker, a hedge fund manager, or a soldier, but I won't get into that right now.

I know it's trite to put down "the music of today". However, I can't help myself. Just look at Billboard's Top 40. Who are these people? Taylor Swift? Plies? David Banner? Journey's there, but with a Filipino instead of Steve Perry. Coldplay's there, which seriously boggles my mind.

I've never heard a song by Lil Wayne, but I know he's sold more records than Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, and Neil Young combined. What happened to the days of MC Hammer and Tone Loc, when even the white people knew the popular rap songs? Oh yeah, they don't call it rap anymore. They call it hip-hop and it's all about being rich and spending money and getting life insurance. Our rappers talked about getting drunk and shooting people and fucking the police.

Punk rock has really gone down the shitter. Fall Out Boy, Good Charlotte, Sum 41. Huh? I loved The Sex Pistols, The Clash, and The Replacements -- bands I could see myself in. I can't see myself in these glorified boy bands, and I certainly can't see myself in their wives. Ashley Simpson? Nicole Richie? Avril Lavigne? I'd rather bang Nancy Spungen (Sid Vicious's disgusting, hep-infected wife).

Let's discuss all these female singers. We had powerful women like Joan Jett, Patti Smith, and Debbie Harry. Today, they have Rhianna, Amy Winehouse, and Brooke Hogan. The only estrogen entertainer I like is Christina Aguilera and that's because she married a nebby Jewish kid. That gives her props in my book.

How about the jam bands? Widespread Panic? Yonder Mountain? DMB?? I can't decide what's worse---the music or their trustafarian fans. Look, after 5 minutes, a scale is still just a scale. I don't care how stoned you are, Warren Haynes is just a fat studio musician. The Dead was cool because they had good drugs and good people. Today, the drugs suck and the crowd is filled with frat boys and JAPs.

What the fuck is up with techno? I can't believe guys who play records are famous. Most of them aren't even American OR black! The only people I want spinning records should be named Jam Master Jay or Grandmaster Flash or Spinderella! The only house music I want to listen to is by Madness (our house in the middle of the street...).

There's also emo. They have sensitive guys like Conor Oborst and Chris Carrabba. We had Iggy Pop and Alice Cooper. 'Nuff said.

There's kid rock (rock for kids, not the douche who married Pam Anderson). The Jonas Brothers got nothing on New Edition or Musical Youth and Miley Cyrus is definitely no Debbie Gibson or Tiffany.

And then there's country music. At least when I was young, the country was shit kicking. Now it's like disco. Who the fuck are Big and Rich and why are they so big and so rich?

These days, anyone will listen to anything shoved down their throat. Anybody who's young, good looking (up to interpretation), and famous can make a record, produced, written, and recorded, of course, by a nebby Jewish kid. You used to have to suffer for your art. Now, you just have to hire a Yid. Fuck, Scarlett Johansson and Lindsay Lohan are recording artists!

Even the indie rock sucks now. I never liked The Smiths or New Order or Joy Division. New Wave was for girls or closeted homos or future tattoo artists. The only reason we even listened to it was to get laid. Now, that's all that's on college radio. Do they even call it that anymore?

"Indie" has become an adjective used to entice schmuck bloggers to pontificate about bands who aren't good enough to get on a real label. Today's tastemakers (bloggers) are like virtual versions of The Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons. At least our tastemakers worked at record stores or were DJs on college radio.

And, how about ticket prices. If you want to enjoy a rock and roll lifestyle, you gotta have some cash. Based on my experience at The Mile High Music Festival, even if you have the money, you won't have fun. It costs $350 to Madonna? She's so old that she's not even a cougar. She's a mountain lion!

Counting Crows are considered classic rock? Phish is considered legendary? Michael Jackson hasn't recorded a good album in 20 years? Who's cool these days? Anybody who has any cred at all is over 50. Perry Farrel's our youngest rock icon. Dave Navarro is a fucking embarrassment. Even the bands that were once cool (REM, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beck) suck now. It's a horrible state of affairs.

But, what can I do - start liking sports? Fuck it! I gotta dig deeper and deeper. I have to stop listening to the radio and watching The Hills. I must seek out music that doesn't suck. I must look for the next Pixies or Beastie Boys or Pavement. Or, I can just keep it quiet until 2009.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Sweet Canine o' Mine

With all of our friends reproducing, my wife and I wanted something we could talk about while those annoying new parents pontificated about their human bundles of joy. So, we got a dog. Our canine bundle of joy is a Boston Terrier named Sadie. She even looks like me.

Before Sadie, we had two cats. Laugh all you want. It's not because I'm one of those freaky cat people. It's because cats are so fucking easy. They don't harass you, they don't make noise, they don't bite, you don't have to walk them, you barely have to feed them, and you don't have to pick up their shit. Essentially, cats are like plants with fuzzy little paws.

Dogs, on the other hand, are a pain in the ass. They can't do anything without you. They're like the retarded cousin your parents made you take care of when you were a kid, despite your tantrums and tears. Of course, when we got our dog, my wife picked the craziest one we saw. This Boston Terror is like a huge rat after a speedball of cocaine and crystal meth. She jumps and bites and barks and humps. But, that's the price you pay to keep from having children.

My wife assigned me the job of dog walker (hey, it's better than dog bather). I actually don't mind walking Sadie. She pisses, I smoke; she attacks joggers, I smoke. It's relaxing. The only thing I don't like is picking up her shit. So, I don't. Sadie likes to dump in the same spot every time (she's obsessive compulsive just like her Pops). After about a month of walks, that spot looked like the bottom of the makeshift toilet in a porta-potty at an outdoor music festival. Did I mention that spot's right in front of my neighbor's house?

My neighbors are renters. They're also rednecks. In the hierarchy of people I like in my neighborhood, redneck renters rank below vagrants and sex offenders. So, I relished seeing my dog's feces all over their lawn. The other night though, we got busted.

Sadie was in mid-shit when this shirtless redneck renter came out. He was not happy with me. It seems that all the poop on his lawn had upset him a bit. From what he said, he'd stepped in Sadie's droppings several times and was unable to enjoy a warm summer's eve on his hammock because of the odor. I told him that this was the first time Sadie had shit on his lawn and that I always pick up her shit, except for this time because I forgot a bag.

He told me he had video of Sadie shitting on his lawn every day for the past 3 weeks and he also had video of me not picking it up. He made a good case. Once Sadie finished her dump, the redneck renter told me to pick up the shit with my hands. I said that there was no fucking way I would pick up shit with my hands in the neighborhood where I own a home, unlike some people! He put me in a headlock, held my face dangerously close to the shit, and punched me a few times in the gut. It was like high school all over again, except it hurt more. I then quietly picked up the shit with my hands. Sadie and I limped away and vowed not to speak of this incident ever again.

Needless to say, we haven't walked in front of the redneck renter's house since then. We started going far from home on varying routes so that when Sadie shits and I don't pick it up, we won't get in trouble. I know it might be easier to pick up the shit, but that's just not me.

On one of our new routes, we came upon a house with 12 dogs of all sizes locked up behind a fence on the front lawn. Sadie knew what she would have to do. She taunted those bitches and studs like she's never taunted in her life. She barked and yelped and ran and clawed. I assume she was saying something like, "Look at you assholes all locked up. I'm free and you're not. Suck it!" I was so proud.

Eventually though, the dogs on the lawn had enough. The biggest one, a Great Dane, figured out how to pick the lock and let all the others out. They pounced on Sadie like a pack of, well, wild dogs. I tried to control them. Imagine me standing in the middle of 12 rabid beasts trying to grab my little lap dog. It didn't work. After about 20 minutes of beating on her from all angles, they let up and scattered in every direction. Sadie and I once again limped away and vowed not to speak of this incident ever again.

These days, Sadie and I have changed our ways. I've started carrying plastic bags and picking up shit. Sadie has stopped taunting packs of feral canines. We both learned our lesson, together. That's the thing about dogs. They can share in common experiences with you: they can act like assholes with you, they can piss off neighbors with you, they can get their asses kicked with you, and they can put their tails between their legs with you. Come to think of it, it's kind of like having children.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008


I would rather have a urinary catheterization than go to an outdoor music festival. If I can help it, you won't find me within 500 miles of Bonaroo or Coachella or Godstock or Namblabonanza. Unfortunately, I couldn't help it on Sunday when my wife dragged me to The Mile High Music Festival.

Now, despite my Hebraic background, I'm not that cheap. Still, the thought of paying $85 a person (plus service charges, parking, overpriced hamburgers, and way overpriced beers) to stand on a giant field with 50,000 assholes in hundred degree weather seriously made me cringe. Luckily, I have friend who's deaf.

For some reason, in Colorado, if you're deaf, you get free concert tickets. Yes, it seems like a sick joke. However, when my deaf friend decided he wouldn't have any fun if he couldn't hear the music, I was more than happy to take his tickets. Seriously, if I would have paid two hundred bucks for the hell that was the next 7 hours, I would have killed somebody.

Anyway, when we arrived at Dicks Park (I'm not kidding about the name), I was directed to park in the North Lot. I had no idea that the North Lot was very North, like Wyoming North. Of course, they had no trams or golf carts or even wheelchairs. By the time we got to the entrance, I had logged a good 4 miles on my Birkenstocks. My feet were covered in blisters, I was sweating profusely, and yes, my taint was chafed. I was in no mood for a "rockin' good time". Of course, my wife was raring to go.

So, we signed our way through the handicapped entrance (we were supposed to be deaf, remember?) and we entered a sea of white people. At the prices they were charging, it's no wonder the Blacks and Mexicans stayed home (once again proving that minorities are smarter than Caucasians). Everywhere I looked, I saw faux-hawks and butt floss and concert T-shirts (including some that were bought that day -- the ultimate faux pas of concert style). I wore a shirt that that said "You Have Bad Taste In Music". That's right, I was wearing an ironic T-shirt, which is another faux pas of concert style, but it felt oh so good.

The lineup consisted of John Mayer, Dave Matthews, some shitty band I've never heard of, another shitty band I've never heard of, The Black Crowes, and yet another shitty band I've never heard of. You can imagine how stoked I was.

My wife thinks John Mayer is a dreamboat. So, that was the first show we attended. We were so far back that, even on the giant screens, John looked like a spec of dust. It wasn't his size that upset me though, it was his music. Within the first moments of hearing his Oprah-fied dirges, I felt like I was growing a clitoris. The only singer-songwriter I like is Cat Stevens. He became a Muslim. That's fucking tough. John Mayer is no match for Yusef Islam.

After that show, my body was not a wonderland. I was hot and tired. Luckily, my buddy who's paralyzed from the waist down rolled up. He had VIP passes for us. Court ordered community service finally paid off. In the VIP Lounge, I cracked my first smile. There was air conditioning, free booze, a masseuse, and a bidet. And, we were far from the masses I deplore so much. There was even somebody I could send into the trenches to get me a turkey leg. The only problem with the VIP Lounge was that eventually, we would have to leave the VIP Lounge.

Next up was The Black Crowes. I actually never minded them until Chris Robinson married Kate Hudson. That whole rockstar-starlet thing irks me. If he wasn't in The Black Crowes, Goldie Hawn's daughter would have called the police if she saw him smoking a joint anywhere near her Aspen lawn. Regardless, the show was pleasant enough, especially with one woman feeding me grapes, while another one gave me a pedicure. I've said it once and I'll say it again, court ordered community service rocks!

Time passed slowly. We saw one shitty band after another, while waiting for Dave Matthews. I can't believe I just wrote that. I actually waited for Dave Matthews!!! He plays music for white people who don't have a single creative bone in their body. It's like all of Dave Matthews's fans decide, "Y'know what? I'm done listening to good music. I'm just going to settle for crap." Well, I was stuck listening that crap. By the end, I felt like poking a scalpel into each of my ear drums (allowing me to to legally get free tickets for these horrible events).

Eventually, the day was over. I was ready for a bubble bath and a cup of warm milk. Before that though, I would have to trek four miles to the car with people who like Dave Matthews and John Mayer. Then, of course, I would have wait in traffic for four hours with those same purveyors of bad taste.

The saddest thing about the whole day was that I wasn't the only one who had a shitty time. It seemed that everybody expected it to be awesome, but their hopes were shattered by the crowds, exorbitant prices, scorching weather, and horrible music. Do yourself a favor - next time a big humungopalooza comes to your town, stay home and watch bowling on television. Believe me - you'll enjoy yourself a lot more.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Rainbows and Unicorns

As you may or may not have noticed, I've been really negative lately. I don't want to be known for just doom and gloom. I want to be a positive influence on the world, like Nelson Mandela or Bret Michaels. So, I'm going to lighten my ass up. Shit - the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, there are only 185 days left until George W. Bush is out office, and Kenji got voted off Greatest American Dog. Life is good!

Today, I'm going to take stock of all the wonderful things that make me happy. Similar to Oprah's Favorite Things without the screaming, overweight, middle-aged women, here's Iron Mike's Favorite Things:

- Cookies.
- Schadenfreude (enjoyment taken from the misfortune of others).
- Imagining Arianna Huffington naked.
- Making fun of people who have the old iPhone for not having the new iPhone.
- Giving wide-eyed children a false sense of optimism.
- Beating up Anti-Semites, then saying, "It's not because I'm Jewish, it's because you're an asshole."
- Masturbation.
- Watching brokers of all kinds squirm through the sub-prime mortgage crisis.
- Walking my dog and not picking up her shit.
- (the reason the Web exists).
- Saying the word "doppelganger".
- Slowing down when my fellow drivers are obviously in a hurry.
- Tales of mass genocide.
- Fucking up the environment so the summer will last longer.
- Adult acne.
- Replacing Christopher Cross lyrics with dirty words.
- Jenkem (that fermented feces drug)
- Indiscriminantly mussing up faux hawks.
- Every person who's ever been on a Real World/RoadRules Challenge.
- Putting senior citizens in their place.
- A&E's Intervention (only when the addicts are female, young, and good looking).
- Referring to someone as a pederast and pretending I misused the term.
- Seeing road bikers fall.
- This video.
- Using the word "schlong" during important meetings.
- Anything pantless.
- Stealing things from the grocery store by putting them on the bottom of the cart.
- Jim Varney.
- Giving panhandlers my leftovers after a particularly bad meal.
- Making lists for no particular reason.
- Imagining my funeral.

That felt great. I think I'm on to something. Positivity is the new black. Yay!

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The Shart Heard Round The World

***I apologize in advance for the disgusting nature of this post, but this is a tale that had to be told. -- IM

It happened on Saturday morning. I was driving to Glendale to pick up my mother-in-law's birds (don't ask). The night before, I went to see Lez Zeppelin at The Bluebird. When you're watching four lesbians cover Misty Mountain Hop, you gotta drink.

So, I drank and then I drank some more. At the end of the night, I got that urge that only a drunken Jew in Denver could have at three in the morning -- I wanted a beef, egg, and chicharon burrito from Chubby's. It's the perfect combination of pig fat, grizzle, cholesterol, and jalapeno peppers. And it tastes oh so good. After finishing my gastronomic nightmare, I went to bed.

The next day, in my car for the bird pick-up, I noticed a familiar grumbling in my belly. In the past, this grumbling had signaled that I had to release some gas. Subsequently, I did what I had always done in that situation - I tightened my stomach muscles, relaxed my sphincter, and flatulated. Unfortunately, this was no normal flatulence. It was one with a partner, a very determined, wet, smelly partner.

I sharted.

As defined by Urban Dictionary, a shart is "a small, unintended defecation that occurs when one passes gas (blend of "shit" and "fart")". It's also known as "Foop" or "Gambling and Losing" or "Gas Followed by Mass" or "Shitting Yourself".

Obviously, I wasn't prepared for this surprise. I knew I had to fix it before I picked up the birds. I couldn't face my mother-in-law literally smelling like shit. Plus, I didn't want to stain my car's interior. So, I pulled over at the first McDonald's I saw

Anonymously zipping past the masses waiting for their McGriddles and Egg McMuffins, I ran to the bathroom. Unfortunately, when I got there, the one stall with a door was occupied by a man teaching his son how to poop (which my father probably should have done). I banged on the door and the father told me to wait. When I frantically told him I couldn't, the son started crying. The father yelled at me. Soon, the manager appeared. At risk of spending more time soaking in my own feces, I jetted before the cops came.

Back in the car, it was like a sewage treatment plant. I made my way to a Taco Bell. With the food they sell there, they were undoubtedly prepared for this kind of incident. I went into the handicapped stall so I would have enough space get the job done right. I first removed my shorts, set my underwear aside, and began wiping like the wind (front to back, of course). For fear of somebody seeing me bottomless at Taco Bell, I used the water in the toilet for a makeshift sponge bath. Then, I was somewhat clean. Unfortunately, my shorts and underwear were not.

I considered stretching my shirt into a very short dress. I considered making a toga-type sarong out of toilet paper. I considered bribing a Taco Bell staffer for her pants. Ultimately, though, I decided to wear my shorts sans underwear. I did love those boxers though, so I rolled them up, shit side in, and walked out. Nothing is worse than walking out of Taco Bell, facing those nice taco lovers with your shit covered underwear in your hands.

Eventually, I made it to my mother-in-law's. She had no idea of the hell that I had been through and I wasn't about to blow her image of me as a man who can control his bowels. So, I quietly got the birds and headed back to my house.

After showering vigorously with seven kinds of soap, all remnants of my fooping fiasco had been washed away. I put on new shorts and underwear, although I probably should have put on diapers or at least Depends. Quickly, I realized that whatever caused the initial shart wasn't quite finished with me yet. For the rest of the day, which seemed to be packed with wild and wonderful activities, I had anal leakage, also known as fecal incontinence.

I went to see my buddy's band, Rocky Mountain Jewgrass (yes, it's a Jewish Bluegrass band) play at an outdoor festival. In 100 degree weather, my balloon knot kept dripping. To the sounds of country versions of Shalom Aleichem and Dayenu, I ran to and from the porta-potty in order to wipe. All the wiping and the heat baking my wet anus had some horrible ramifications.

I got taint chafe.

As defined by Wikipedia, the term taint refers to "the perineum, the region of the human body between the testicles or vulva and the anus." Well, my perineum was swollen, burning, raw, and irritated. I wanted to go home, shower again, and put this day of soft stool sickness behind me.

Unfortunately, my wife had other plans for me. She had an engagement party AND a birthday party that we HAD to attend. As time passed, my taint was so chafed that it felt like I had gotten a battery acid enema. At the engagement party, I walked around like a duck, trying to keep my legs, ass cheeks, and balls from rubbing anywhere near my anal region. At the birthday party, I couldn't even stand. I just sat there trying to drink the pain away.

As I grew drunker, I began to tell everybody about my plight. It turned out that nearly every person I spoke to, both male and female, had been in my situation at one point or another in their life. They just never spoke about it. It was as if there were some heavily guarded "Secret of the Shart".

Throughout the night, I heard fantastic tales of wet sensations, soaked skirts, and sock drips. I heard from a fund raiser who once sharted on a hike. I heard from a crime reporter who once sharted during sex. I heard from a chiropractor who once sharted on a patient. I learned that married people are more likely to discuss sharting than single people. I learned that pregnant woman uncontrollably shart without even knowing it. I learned that the older you are, the more likely you are to shart.

It suddenly occurred to me - sharting is what unites us as humans.

We could be Republicans or Democrats or Muslims or Jews or Gays or Straights. We all have been in the horrible situation where our gastrointestinal functions got the most of us. Why do we allow ourselves to be divided by beliefs or backgrounds or orientations when we should be united by embarrassment? I say let's come together as one, let's come together as one and shit our pants!

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

We Are All on Drugs

If you take a poll of all the people you know, I guarantee you'll find that the majority of them are on drugs. I'm not talking about the fun stuff like pot, ecstasy, meth, crack, glue, ether, or jenkem (the fermented feces that high school kids are sniffing these days).

I'm talking about the pharmaceuticals prescribed by doctors to solve any number of unspecified psychological disorders. I'm talking about Lexapro, Lithium, Prozac, Paxil, Ritalin, Welbutrin, Xanax, Valium, or any of the 9 trillion other drugs out there designed to make us feel normal.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, most of us are very sick. We may be depressed or bi-polar or anorexic or schizophrenic or schizophrenic (repetition intended). Or, we may have ADHD or PTSD or OCD or IBS (irritable bowel syndrome).

If you think nothing's wrong with you, you're probably in denial and I'm sure that's some kind of illness. We're all fucked up and we want to be treated. So, we ingest chemicals. In my humble opinion, mental meds are natural - natural considering the world we live in.

We eat food with preservatives. Crops are sprayed with insecticides. Cattle is fed hormones. Cows are mad. The skies are filled with smog. The walls are covered in lead paint. Who knows what this shit has done to us?

We use cell phones and hold them directly up to our brains. We sit three inches away from radiating computer screens for 8 hours a day. We cook our dinners in microwaves and stare through the radioactive window as our mac and cheese literally gets nuked. We go outside and expose ourselves to sunlight without an ozone layer. Gotta affect us somehow!

For fun, we take chemicals that are, by design, supposed to make us crazy. MDMA, LSD, psylocybin, cannibis - they've all been proven to cause "unknown psychosis". I'm very much pro-recreational drug. However, I can't deny that they've done us some damage.

Then, we got the media, which endlessly spews this idealized vision of how we should be, how we should look, and how much happiness we should have. If you watch MTV for an hour, you think you should be a roided-up douchebag. If you watch Bravo, you think you should be an effeminate fashion junkie. If you watch Fox News, you think you should be a masochistic religious zealot. It's all so confusing.

And, we have a tremendous amount of crap to deal with on a daily basis - the economy, the gas crisis, the declining quality of indie rock, the lack of good delis in Denver, the staggering proliferation of those Tyler Perry movies, and the inexplicable return of fluourescent Ray-Ban Wayfarers. It's enough to drive even a sane person nuts!

I gotta say it though, we're all a bunch of pussies! Because our parents coddled us, we have an inability to cope. We cry about everything. We were never taught that suffering is good. If something doesn't feel right, we want to fix it. We were raised to believe that if we're sad or ugly or unhappy or unsuccessful, we're sick. When we're sick, we want pills.

The pills do work.

Believe it or not, I was going to be a psychologist, but I quit grad school when I found out that I wouldn't be able to prescribe drugs. Fixing mental illness without drugs is like eating an apple without teeth. It's fruitless. Now hand me my happy pills!

Monday, July 7, 2008

Don't Be a Facehole

If you're not on Facebook, you're not going to understand this post. If you are on Facebook, like many students, housewives, programmers, stalkers, pedophiles, and bored losers throughout the world, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

Facebook has become infested. Not by a virus. Not by phishers. Not by spam. Something far worse. Facebook has become infested by Faceholes - the people who commit unforgivable faux pas of online etiquette and render the social networking site completely annoying and unbearable.

Faceholes use wacky screen names instead of their real names -- usually something obscure or immature and almost always ironic, showing just how witty and clever they are. They also have wacky profile pictures -- usually a shot with them and somebody famous or a midget or something else that nobody really finds that funny.

Faceholes with children often use pictures of their kids as their profile pictures. This is Facebook not Faceofyourkidbook. We understand you're proud that you're fertile, but save the kid pictures for your wallet or those vanity mousepads you can get made at CafePress.

Faceholes love poking. Poking is sort of like throwing ice at somebody at the bar. It's irritating, it serves no purpose, and it can get your ass kicked (by the way, there's nothing I like better than throwing ice at the bar, but I don't poke). Faceholes also love those poke add-ons that make their pokes extra special - SuperPoke, MagicPoke, SuperIntenseAnalPoke, etc. Faceholes also make scatalogical jokes about poking.

Faceholes invite people to use stupid Facebook apps - FunWall, MobWars, Suckulous, etc. There are thousands of these things and I don't know what any of them do. I do know they're a pain in the ass and they clutter profiles, making them look like MySpace pages.

Faceholes compulsively give status updates 20-30 times a day. When the site asks "What are you doing right now?", you don't have to always provide an answer. Honestly, nobody gives a shit what you're doing right now! And, if you're trying to be funny in your status update, don't. Leave the comedy to professionals like Dave Coulier and Nipsey Russel.

Polite Faceholes follow the mini-feed like it's the Dow Jones stock ticker. If it's your birthday or you got a dog or you have your period, they'll post on your wall or send you a gift or poke you. Leave it alone. We know you care.

Faceholes set up Fan Pages. Nobody cares that you like Ron Paul or Camp Rock or Ann B. Davis or Babar (although, an Iron Mike Fan Page would be sweet - somebody set it up).

Faceholes forward on spam. Faceholes make comments on pictures about how awesome you look. Faceholes post grainy mobile photos and tag you in them. Faceholes invite you to events you have absolutely no intention of intending. Faceholes ask you to support causes you couldn't possibly care about.

Facebook is the de facto place for gaining the acceptance or validation you never received when you were younger. It's there to show your old girlfriends or boyfriends that your life is better than theirs. It's there to show everybody just how loved you are. It's there to help you get laid. It's there to allow you to stalk in a non-confrontational setting. Facebook is wonderful, except for the Faceholes.

Yes, I've committed many a Facehole move in my time, but that doesn't make it right. Like Myspace and Friendster before it, Facebook will eventually have it's comeuppance and we'll all move on to some other site. Until then, stop being a Facehole.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Thank You George W. Bush

For July 4th Weekend, I'm headed to Austin, the last place George W. Bush lived before he moved into the White House. A lot of people wish he would have stayed in Texas. Not me. I think he's been extremely successful throughout his tenure in DC. Subsequently, I would personally like to thank George W. Bush for all the great things he's done over the past 7 1/2 years:

- Thank you for making a gallon of gas cost more than a gallon of Cristal.
- Thank you for making me ashamed to say I'm American anywhere outside of America.
- Thank you for making Dan Quayle look intelligent.
- Thank you for making the US dollar worth 1/15 of a Euro.
- Thank you for killing more Americans in Iraq than Iraqis in Iraq.
- Thank you for chlamydia, herpes, and anal warts.
- Thank you for hiring Ben Bernanke.
- Thank you for destroying our international diplomatic credibility.
- Thank you for infringing upon just about every civil liberty that Americans have.
- Thank you for the discontinuation of Burger King's Italian Chicken Sandwich.
- Thank you for turning a budget surplus into an inconceivable deficit.
- Thank you for appointing assholes like John Roberts and Sam Alito to the Supreme Court.
- Thank you for allowing your daughter to marry and potentially procreate.
- Thank you for the sub-prime mortgage crisis.
- Thank you for subcontracting a large portion of our war efforts to maniacs.
- Thank you for making The Love Guru suck.
- Thank you for ignoring Darfur, Somalia, and every other African country in turmoil because black people live there and they don't have as much oil as the Middle East.
- Thank you for establishing and operating the Guantanamo Bay Detention Camp.
- Thank you for fucking up the whole Katrina situation.
- Thank you for not getting Gabrielle Carteris a cameo on the remake of Beverly Hills 90210.
- Thank you for not ratifying the Kyoto Protocol and not giving a shit about greenhouse gases or anything else that will fuck up our environment for eternity.
- Thank you for not finding Osama Bin Laden.

Thank you, George W. Bush, for all you are and for all you've done!

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Hope I Die Before Now

After my last post, a lot of readers accused me of being grumpy. People want to know what happened to that footloose and fancy free Iron Mike of the '90's. I'll tell you -- HE GOT OLD!

My head, face, chest, and groin are covered in gray. The only hair on my body that's not gray is in my nose and my ears and those hairs are growing longer than Rapunzel's. My face has wrinkles and folds and mystery blemishes (possibly liver spots). My balls are starting to hang below my thighs.

Due to what my wife refers to as "Travolta Big Head Syndrome", I have more chins than MIT's Freshman class. No matter how much I work out, I have man boobs (moobs) and a belly (man gunt).

Everything makes me tired. I need to sleep 9 hours a day, which doesn't include the hour naps I take after lunch and after work. Jogging and lifting and biking and walking tire me out within seconds. I'm about as strong as Mr. Burns.

My lungs are shot. My back is jacked. My knees are weak. My feet are sore. I'm a mess.

I can't go out drinking without requiring a week long recovery time. When I do go out, I'm the oldest one at the bar. 21 year-olds were born the year I lost my virginity. That means that I really am old enough to be their father.

Going to concerts is no longer fun. Snowboarding is no longer fun. Eating gives me diarrhea. Being out in the sun gives me heat stroke. Essentially, leaving the house is an arduous chore.

And what about my peers, the people I have to hang out with if I don't want to be that creepy old guy? They're really old. All the men my age are bald or flabby or lame and they all think they can bang those aforementioned 21 year-olds. All the women my age are either cougars or MILFS or both or neither. If I was single, I'd never date a girl my age.

Yes, I am old and it sucks.

Those of you who are older than me may say that at 36, I'm not that old. That's the worst part. I still have another 30 or so years to get older and older. I can cut that number down if I keep smoking and binging on malt liquor and fried chicken. Still, I've begun the decline.

This is all going to get worse. I'm going to get grayer and hairier and fatter and weaker and my balls are going to hang lower. If that's not a reason to be grumpy, I don't know what is.