Saturday, August 30, 2008

Fear and Loathing at The DNC '08

In 7th grade, my civics teacher made me do a report on the political book of my choice. Because I dug the cover, I selected Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72. That book changed the way I view the world. Essentially, it made me realize that it's OK to be an asshole even in the face of the most serious situations. Thus, Iron Mike was born.

20 years later, I was invited up to Hunter's house in Woody Creek to watch the Super Bowl and drink moonshine. Unfortunately, at one point or another, I upset the old man. Until he died a couple of years later, he carried on incessantly about how much he didn't like me. When he killed himself, some people speculated that his hatred of me was the cause.

Despite our differences, I still like Hunter S. Thompson. His wife Anita and son Juan assure me that there's at least a 30% chance I wasn't the cause of his death. So, when the Democratic National Convention came to Denver, I decided to honor Hunter's legacy by taking a Gonzo approach to the political lovefest.

My rules were simple: I wouldn't shower or shave for the entire week. I would go to any event I could get into. I would get as drunk as possible. And, I would try to wreak as much havoc as I could without getting arrested. I smell like shit and I have a horrible hangover, but I've finally gotten around to documenting my adventure.

Day 1

Saturday night, two days before the convention started, my journalist friend, the same one who introduced me to Hunter, got me a ticket to the media party at Elitch Gardens, our local amusement park. My journalist friend begged me to be on my best behavior. Of course, his requests were made in vain.

Everything was free - booze, rides, games, even cotton candy. The only thing better than sugar on a stick is free sugar on a stick. Reporters and photographers and cameramen and producers stood around acting important.

I made my way past them to The Mind Eraser, the most intense roller coaster at the park. I was seated next to Anderson Cooper. The ride zipped up and down at lighting speeds. Upon the second drop, Anderson clutched me (yes, in a gay way). I did everything I could to fend off his advances, but there was really nowhere to go. Eventually though, my weak Jewish stomach helped me out. Uncontrollably, I turned to "The Voice of America" and threw up a belly full of cotton candy all over his lily-white hair.

Now, I was ready to drink. Shots of tequila chased with Dipping Dots. Mojitos complemented by corn dogs. This is the way to do an amusement park. Soon, I was wasted. Everything got a little fuzzy from there. All I know is that something happened involving Wolf Blitzer, the ring toss, a small child, and a stuffed wizard. I was kicked out. Later in the week, I would get angry glances every time I passed the CNN booth.

Day 2

Even though the convention wouldn't officially begin for another day, the crazies were here protesting. I love me some civil disobedience. Therefore, I took my dog to the 16th Street mall, ground-zero for all things dissenting. Previously, I had trained Sadie to bark at policemen. Whenever we walked past a protest being broken up, she would bark like she was getting a finger up her ass. Soon, she was the hero of all - the anti-war hippies, the pro-life looneys, the Nader idiots, and everybody else who had nothing better to do with their time than yell about shit they don't understand.

That night, I somehow weasled my way into the Friends of New Orleans fundraiser at The Fillmore. Red beans and rice, seafood gumbo, shrimp etouffee, crawfish maria, bananas flambe - all free. I ate until I was stuffed and shit next to Harry Shearer. How, you may ask, did I know it was Harry Shearer? I confirmed it by making him do all his Simpson voices while we moved our bowels. Principal Skinner was the best.

After wiping, I ran into James Carville. He's one handsome devil. For the rest of the night, I kept thinking I saw him only to realize that it was just another skinny bald guy. Now, I refer to anybody who's completely bald as a Carville. For example, Michael Jordan is Black Carville, Billy Corgan is Goth Carville, and Michael Stipe and Moby are Gay Carvilles. It works. Try it!

Day 3

I rode my bike to the Pepsi Center to try to take in some of the first day of the convention. Apparently, you need credentials to be within a mile of the festivities. So, not only was I escorted out, but I was followed until I was well out of shooting distance.

Demoralized, I went to hang out with the other non-credentialed folks. A Christian holding a sign that said, "Homo Sex is a Sin" was pontificating about his fear of gays. Suddenly, a very large flaming gay started swinging. He beat that bible thumper until he was covered in blood. The gay was screaming, "Let's see if God's gonna help you out of this." Truly one of my favorite moments of the convention.

That night I stayed home and watched Michell Obama's speech. From here on in, I refer to her as Blackie O. It's not because she's black and her last name begins with an O. It's because she really is the new embodiment of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, and she's black. Trust me - I'm not being racist. I think Blackie O. is one hot piece of chocolate love.

Day 4

The convention was in full swing. The streets were packed. With their new haircuts, the bums looked great. Security was everywhere. Some were trying to stay undercover. As if I couldn't tell a clean shaven white guy dressed as a construction worker is actually a secret service agent. I almost got run over by John Kerry's motorcade. I got cut off by Joe Biden's motorcade. Where the fuck is my motorcade?

On the street, my wife and I were interviewed by somebody at "News Corp", which I assume is code for Fox News at the DNC. He asked us to identify photos of six politicians. I got 5 out of 6. I couldn't figure out the last one. I ID'd him as James Dobson. I was wrong. The reporter gave the initials H.R. as a hint. I guessed HR Pufnstuf. It was Harry Reid. I think Fox News was trying to clown me.

That night, at a congressional party (essentially a bar-mitzvah with worse food), I met a bunch of delegates. These people really are the dregs of the Earth. They're like Nielsen Families, but dumber. These are the people who decide our candidates. Sweet! Seeing them dance to "I Will Survive" made me want to move to Somalia.

Day 5

For some reason, Rage Against the Machine decided to play a protest show in Denver. I guess when your name is Rage Against the Machine, you gotta do shit like that. It's sort of like being a Jonas brother if your band's name is The Jonas Brothers. Either way, the place was filled with 14 year-olds drunk on Mad Dog and rednecks drunk on hatred. Nobody had any idea about politics. They were just there for a free concert by an irrelevant rap-rock band. The spirit of the '60's is alive and well, huh?

Later, I saw The Silversun Pickups, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and The Cold War Kids at a party in the street. Four bands in one day. What the fuck is political about that? Sounds to me like a music festival, not a convention.

We couldn't get into Shepherd Fairey's private party. Not too democratic. A bunch of hipsters were there anyway. I doubt they even know who's on the pictures Shepherd creates. Last time I checked, the convention was not about skinny pants and guyliner. This year it is. If Obama gets any more cool and elitist, I'll vote for McCain. Fuck the kids! No matter how many free shows and how much free liqour you give them, they still won't vote. I'm the guy you should court. I will vote and I can influence people, BUT I couldn't get into their stupid hipster party.

Day 6

Question: How come the Democrats refer to Obama as black and not African-American? Is it because he's actually mulatto and that's not politically correct enough, but African-American isn't exactly true? Last time I checked, black was bordering on politically incorrect. Obviously, not anymore.

Either way, we went to Mile High Stadium to see Obama accept the nomination to become the first black candidate to lead a major party ticket. We waited in line for 2 hours to get inside. Once there, the place was dry. NO BEER! Mile High without beer. It doesn't make sense. I've never spent 5 minutes in that place sober. I decided to get drunk on optimism. It didn't work. I did run into Jesse Jackson waiting on line for nachos. My how the mighty fall.

The actual event was like a cult rally. Everything everybody sad was GREAT. Obama is great. Michelle is great. Democrats are great. Not a single person said, "We like Barack, but....". We left half way into Obama's speech. He was fine enough, but we wanted to avoid the traffic, plus quite frankly, I was sick of Obamamania.

I just wanted to go home, but I couldn't let the final night pass without getting drunk. Shit, I was parched from the lack of beer at Mile High. At The Rock Bar, I did shots with Russell Simmons and until I got kicked out for making fun of one of their larger posse members. Then, at Tamayo, we ran into the Latin contingency of young Hollywood - Jessica Alba, Wilmer Valderama, Rosario Dawson, and some guy from CSI: Miami. Because my wife's Mexican, they embraced us. Jessica fell in love with me, but I spurned her advances because I'm a happily married man. Eventually we decided to part as friends and toasted the end of the DNC.


Following the Democratic National Convention, I'm hungover in so many ways. If I never again hear the words Hope, Change, or Yes We Can, it won't be too soon. I liked the free booze and free food, but I was annoyed by the pompous politicos and ridiculous celebrities. I got some decent photos and some good stories to tell. All in all, not a bad week. I'm sure if Hunter S. Thompson were still around, he'd still hate me.

Now, I look forward to the Vice Presidential debates where Sarah "Dan Quayle" Palin will make an utter fool out of her evangelical self. Best pick ever!!!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

When The Wife's Away

I just dropped the wife off at the airport. She's headed to San Francisco to see Widespread Panic and Radiohead at an outdoor music festival. I was invited, but since that's just about my worst nightmare, I opted to stay home. Even if I actually wanted to go, I'd be hard pressed to give up a weekend in the house by myself.

The wife and I have lived together for 6 years. Before that, I was the ultimate bachelor. My house was like a cesspool. It smelled like a mix of smoke, bong water, sweat, fungus, ball cheese, and diarrhea. I never cleaned. I never threw anything away. I never cared about hygiene. It was disgusting, and wonderful.

Over the past 6 years, I've become domesticated. It all started when the wife brought over a plant. We named him Robert and he was my responsibility. While I was tending to Robert, she was decorating with doilies and curtains and a bunch of shit from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. She bought a vacuum and Lysol and non-paper plates and non-plastic silverware. She banned smoking in the house and made me throw out the trash. Soon, the smell dissipated and the clutter disappeared. All of a sudden, I was living like a human.

I gotta tell ya, there are some major advantages to having a woman in the house. For example, now I don't get staph infections or shingles nearly as much. And, I don't have random animals burrowing in my filth. Still, sometimes, a man's gotta be a man and he can't do that in the presence of a woman. So, I am going to embrace this weekend of solitude and revert back to my ways before cohabitation.

I won't shower. I won't shave. I won't brush my teeth. I'll wear the same underwear until it becomes like cardboard. When that happens, I'll be naked, like a Neanderthal. I'll touch my genitals constantly. I'll have beer for breakfast. I'll smoke cigars in the house (and I don't even like cigars). I'll jerk off to Olympic gymnastics. Shit, I'll turn the whole third floor into a masturbatorium.

I won't feed the cats, only providing them nourishment from the large amounts of fried chicken droppings I'll leave on the floor. I won't water the plants, not even Robert. I won't throw out the trash AND I won't recycle. I'll listen to Rush, Styx, Yes, and every other band she hates. I'll watch every movie ever made by the actors who play Harold and Kumar. I'll practice UFC moves on the dog. I'll embarrass myself in front of the neighbors.

If I decide to leave my oasis of squalor, I'll be as obnoxious as I was before I had a partner to get pissed off about it. I'll drive fast, then slow, then fast. I'll honk at the wrong times. I'll get kicked out of Red Lobster and Benihana (if that's possible). I'll eat with my hands. I'll throw ice at random people at the bar. I'll fight (using those aforementioned UFC moves). I'll say extremely inappropriate things to people who really don't deserve it.

Yes, it will be glorious. Eventually however, this freedom will start to wear on me. I'll be sick and dirty and wounded and nauseated. And, I'll be lonely. I'll miss the affection and cleanliness that only a woman can provide.

Just then, I'll call Irma, our delightful Mexican maid. She'll get busy and I'll head to the airport to pick up the wife. When she returns, she'll be so impressed by how clean I kept the house. I'll be back to being a married pussy. I will remember though, that it's still possible to be a gross male slob. That will hold me over until the next time some shitty bands pique my wife's interest.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Things to Do in Denver When You're Dem

Next week, I'll be surrounded by politicians, lobbyists, celebrities, athletes, CEOs, and other high-profile individuals. No, I won't be going to The Emperor's Club. I'll be home in Denver, where The Democratic National Convention promises to wreak havoc on my life. Traffic and lines and crowds and protests. It's going to be so much fun hosting our lefty politicos. Still, as The Mile High City's de facto ambassador of goodwill, I've decided to compile a list of things people can do while they're here. Who said I'm not a gracious host?

- Enjoy Denver's smog, corruption, and gang crime.
- Refer to Obama as Senator Big Ears.
- Blame your farts on the altitude.
- Pretend you're homeless and get free movie tickets.
- Defend John Edwards by saying, "Shit, she was on chemo. That ain't sexy!"
- Rage against something.
- Wait for Alec Baldwin, Susan Sarandon, and Sean Penn to say something self-righteous.
- Waste electricity, water, and gas at "the greenest convention yet".
- Deny you ever liked Joe Lieberman.
- Dress in black face.
- Tell overzealous delegates not to "get all Columbine on your ass!".
- Try to get Howard Dean to freak out again.
- Visit Focus on the Family in Colorado Springs and see why the convention isn't being held in Colorado Springs.
- Touch Arianna Huffington inappropriately.
- Watch rich people feel good about themselves.
- Be like Ted Haggard and go to The Brown Palace for gay sex and crystal meth.
- Taunt the Secret Service.
- Show up at The Pepsi Center and say you just have to pick up the bra you left at The Jonas Brothers Concert.
- Kiss Oprah's butt.
- Get knee surgery in Eagle.
- Ask what the fuck ever happened to Chandra Levy.
- Be as politically correct as humanly (sorry, homosapienly) possible.
- Liberal upskirts!!!
- Try to bed girls who were in the same class as Jonbenet Ramsey and are now 18.
- Remind everybody that Joe Biden is a habitual plagiarizer.
- Upset the real journalists by treating bloggers like they're real journalists.
- Look for Larry Craig in the men's bathroom at DIA.
- Eat the worst meal of your life at Casa Bonita.
- Make Al Franken shut up and tell some jokes.
- Slip a nipple.
- Go to late night parties and figure out who will become Senate Drunkard once Ted Kennedy dies.
- Pretend you think John Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Bill Maher are funny.
- Eat a Jackalope.
- Act like you actually give a shit.

Yes, the DNC will be a major pain in the ass. However, if you follow my suggestions, you might just have a little fun. At least McCain won't be here, right?

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Mystery Meat

It seems like everyday a new creature is discovered that was previously thought to be mythical or nonexistent. A few months ago, some Italians discovered a one-horned roe deer that may actually be a Unicorn. Then, a lady in Texas found roadkill which could possibly be a Chupacabra. Some cops recently filmed a bizarre animal running erratically and it too may be a Chupacabra.

There's also The Montauk Monster. It might be a decomposed dog or it might be a mutant turtle (that might be teenage and a ninja). Either way, it knows The Hamptons is the place to be in the summer. Just today, I saw a picture of what some guys claim to be the remains of a Bigfoot. And there's even a video circulating of an alien that's peeping in on homes right here in Colorado.

A whole science is based around animals that fall outside of contemporary zoological catalogs. It's called Cryptozoology. I used to smoke a potent strain of marijuana called Crypto when I was a kid. I assume most cryptozoologists smoke Crypto as well. I also assume most of these claims are probably hoaxes or viral marketing schemes.

Still, who's to say that some cryptids aren't out there? They have to be loosely based on fact, right? And, mutations do occur, especially with all the shit that's in the air and in the soil and in our food. I know for a fact that aliens exist. One time when I was smoking Crypto, I played Parcheesi with 4 aliens. Maybe I was just stoned. Either way, it's impossible to believe that in the billions of light years of space, our tiny little tract of miles is the only place with life.

So, these mysterious creatures just may be real. If they are, LET'S EAT THOSE FREAKY FUCKERS!

I am so sick of the food we have to eat. Every restaurant has the same menu - grilled salmon, ahi encrusted in something, some kind of really expensive steak, and a pasta with a frozen shellfish or cephalopod. Where is the variety? If I have to eat at another restaurant that has "fusion" or "small plates" in its description, I'm going to vomit in my mouth. If I have to taste another dish slathered in tamarind, rosemary, or cilantro to cover up the bad taste, I'm moving to Darfur. I'm over the slop I'm being served. If I could, I'd go to that place in The Freshman where Marlon Brando and Matthew Broderick eat Komodo Dragons and other enadangered animals. That's just the movies, but these cryptids could be real.

I'd gladly eat Chupacabra. After all that goat sucking, they gotta be filled with succulent goat blood flavor. A Unicorn? Shit, with all the Chinese food I eat, I'm sure I've had a horse or two in my time and I'm sure I liked it. A unicorn can't taste any worse than that. It's probably magically delicious. If there are aliens, I'd cut those little inter-stellar travelers up, season and sear 'em, and have a balls out BBQ. Cannibalism is illegal, but the law says nothing about extraterrestrials. I always thought ET looked tasty.

Even if the these creatures taste horrible, they gotta be better than our fast food. I can say with 100% confidence that The Montauk Monster tastes better than any of the meat at Taco Bell or KFC. At the very least, it's the same meat (that would explain my sharting problems). Carl's Junior? White Castle? I'm sure Bigfoot remains would be a major step up from their rancid burgers. I would rather have a pizza with cheese made from Martian milk than what they serve at Pizza Hut.

And what about the lower profile cryptids? The Kongamato is a reported giant bat-like creature from the border area of Zambia. I'm sure their wings taste better than the wings at Chili's. The Bunyip is a kangaroo-type animal that haunts Australian swamps and causes nocturnal terror by eating people or animals in their vicinity. Now that sounds delectable!

I'd eat mutants too. Look, who the fuck knows what science has been keeping from us all these years. They've been creating and mutating animals since at least the '40's. I assume they've gotten something right. I'm sure these mutant animals don't have Salmonella, can't get Mad Cow, and taste like a little bit of heaven.

So, when you see these crazy animals showing up on the Web. Don't get scared, get hungry. We're on the verge of a whole new movement in food - the freaky shit. The world is going to start chowing on stuff we've never chowed on before. Mystery Meat: It's What's for Dinner!

Monday, August 11, 2008

Gym Dandy

I've never really been fat. Well, there was that short period around my bar-mitzvah where I had to shop in the Husky section at Burdine's. Also, there was the time when I traded pot with a Nestle distributor and all I ate for 6 months was Butterfingers. Oh yeah, and then there was the year I boycotted healthy foods and only ate things with high concentrations of bad fat and bad sugar. But still, for most of my life, I've been lithe and svelte.

So, you can imagine my dismay when I turned 35 and my weight inexplicably jumped from 160 to 180. If I hit a bump in the road, my boobs would bounce and jiggle uncontrollably. My hips grew to proportions where one might refer to them as "child bearing". While shaving, I missed random hairs because they were stuck between one or more of my multiple chins. Yes, I was bordering on plump.

I hate doing anything that requires physical exertion. At the same time, I hate looking like the lovechild of Chef Paul Prudhomme and Shirley from What's Happenin'. So, I joined a gym.

To a lot of people, the gym is like a social club where they hang out and chill and talk about reps and laps and traps and lats. These people hit on the overly good looking and under intelligent staff who are only nice to them because they work there. These people stand around naked watching sports in the locker room as if male nakedness hadn't gone out of style during the Roman times. These people are usually stockbrokers or real estate agents or lawyers or their wives or husbands. Pretty much, I hate everybody who goes to gyms. That is why I get in and out as quickly as possible. My gym is not my social club.

The first gym I went to was one of those hip gyms. The clientèle consisted of women with fake tits, fake lips, fake calves, and of course, fake personalities. The men were either muscleheads, douchebags, gays, or all of the above. Needless to say, I didn't last long there. The gym where I go now is less hip, which in layman's terms means "older". The aforementioned groups are still there, but they're less aggressive, less buff, and less likely to kick my ass for not wiping my sweat off one of the machines.

By far, the worst part about the gym is the locker room. I already mentioned the nakedness, but I feel implored to return to it. There are certain things a guy should not see on another guy. For example, at least four men at my gym have tramp stamps. Male tramp stamps!?! Also, there's this one old dude who has a huge belly and and the smallest penis I've ever seen. He looks like a turkey that's ready to be served. The other day, I saw a more endowed dude walking around semi-erect. It was like an episode of Oz, but more disturbing. I should not see these things...EVER!

I can't do a thing in that locker room without coming into contact with a naked guy. I weigh myself, there's a naked guy waiting behind me. I get water, there's a naked guy sipping next to me. I get a towel, there's a naked guy holding a towel, but not wearing one. It's like Burning Man without the good drugs.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not lurking around, staring at these bare cocks. In fact, I don't even change at the gym. I change at home and shower at home. When it's cold out, I wear pants over my shorts allowing for a non-exposed change. I do everything in my power to avoid any extended time in the locker room. Although, I do have to go into the locker room to store my keys and to piss. If they had a bathroom and lockers in gym gen pop, I would never go into the locker room.

Aside from nude male ass, the other thing I don't like about the locker room is when people groom themselves in my presence. One dude cuts his toenails every time I'm there and undoubtedly "accidentally" shoots toe jam my way. One douchebag shaves his chest (only douchebags shave their chests) and gives no regard to where his hairs fall. The worst incident of gym grooming was when a guy was hair drying his balls over the sink and sweat flew off the balls and into my mouth. Mmm...salty testicle sweat!

Once I get out of the locker room, the rest of the gym's not much better.

The women, most of which are cougars, dress to the nines. They even wear makeup. You really understand where the term "cougar" came from when you see that mascara drip below their eyes from sweat. The majority of the women don't sweat though. They hit on these older guys who I had previously seen naked. They also talk A LOT about pilates and yoga. Women love pilates and yoga. They're so proud they have "sports" they're better at than men. Namaste indeed!

There's always some asshole who spends 45 minutes on each machine. He's not really doing anything. He's just breathing and waiting forever to do his next rep. I try to stare him down and let him know that I want to get on the machine, but he couldn't care less. Machine sitters are the bane of my existence.

Then, there are the Gym Nazis, the schmucks who are really into gym etiquette. They scrub down the machines after they work out and give me the evil eye for not doing the same. Fuck that! It's a gym. I can sweat wherever I want. If I gotta have ball sweat in my mouth, I will not wipe off my sweat from the incline bench press. The Gym Nazis also get mad when I fart while working out. Shit! I'm squeezing all sorts of muscles. Gas is bound to slip out. Deal with the odor. Embrace the burn!

And what about personal trainers? They might be the biggest tools on Earth. They have this attitude like their work is so important. Look, you work at a fucking gym, not The Vatican. Take your tribal tattoos and tight shorts and fuck off!

I could go on forever about what irks me at the gym, but I'm bordering on a Seinfeld routine and I will NOT border on a Seinfeld routine. To make a long story short, after a year or so of going to the gym, I've lost that 20 lbs. I'm back to my fighting weight. I'm so sexy that I want the world to see me. Where can I show off my body? Oh I know - I can take off my clothes and hang out in the locker room naked. Yeah!

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Uncle Fester's Visits

I remember when I first contracted the Herpes Simplex virus. No, not that herpes. My genitals are just fine, thank you. I'm talking about the shit that causes those ugly, blistery, disgusting mouth blemishes we know as cold sores.

I was 20 and I was getting lucky with the older woman who worked at the restaurant down the street. By older, I mean 26 or so. But, to a 20 year old, that was a conquest. Yes, there was once a time when hooking up with a perceived cougar was something to be proud of.

We were in my shitty apartment, getting down and dirty. Like the gentleman that I am, I went in for some passionate kisses. She said, "You don't want to do that. I have a fever blister."

I had no idea what a fever blister was and I was about to get laid, so I really didn't care what it was. I replied, "You bet I do! Come here and kiss me, you older lady from the restaurant down the street."

She said, "Well, if you don't care, then I don't care." And, we proceeded to tenderly slobber all over each other for the rest of the night.

A week later, I noticed something resembling a zit on my lower lip. It wasn't a zit though. It was more gross and stubborn and painful and itchy. Then, I remembered my night of geriatric sex. I had gotten that senior citizen's fever blister.

All I could think about was the scene in Spinal Tap, where all the members of the band had unsightly scabs on their lips. Yeah, I was like a mock British mock rock star. From that perspective, it wasn't that bad. You play, you pay, right? What I didn't realize is that I would have this little reminder of that night for the rest of my life.

Now, twice a year or so, Uncle Fester comes to visit.

Most people get cold sores, whether from a whistle in pre-school, 7 minutes in heaven in elementary school, or sipping 40's in junior high. I guess I was lucky to go 20 years without one.

Still, these shankers are a pain in the ass (again, not that kind of herpes). I become a freak. I drool when I eat. I have to smoke out of the wrong side of my mouth. I have to sip drinks carefully, like a baby. Puss leaks randomly on to my shirt and my pillow. Eventually, a huge scab forms. I'm like a leper. Then, when I take a shower or sleep, the scab falls off, only to come back again later. Not fun.

In my single days, having a cold sore was the worst. I knew I'd have no chance of getting laid. Like the guy in Captain Jack, I'd just sit home and masturbate. As a married man, it's not too bad, especially if my wife has one at the same time. Usually, we're on the same cycle, like women with their periods. Still, we can't kiss. We can't really have oral sex either.

Whenever I have a flareup, I try to deny it's existence. It's a pimple. It's a blemish. It's a burn. It's chapped. Nobody really believes me. Then, I cover it up with mankup, which makes me look like a guy with a cold sore AND makeup.

There are some remedies on the market, like the aptly named Herpecin or Abreva There's nothing more attractive than popping out one of those salves in public and servicing your festering virus.

For my most recent outbreak, my doctor prescribed Valtrex. Yes, it's for the penis herpes, but it also works for the oral herpes. A couple of days later, it was gone and for a while, I wasn't that drooling fool with the repulsive growth on his lip. Joy!

Things could be worse. I don't even want to know what genital herpes feel like (although, those guys in the Valtrex commercials seem really, really happy). I have a friend who was once with a girl who informed him that she had anal herpes. That's gotta hurt. If there are other places you get herpes, I want to keep them as far from my mind (and body) as possible.

So, I'll take solace in the fact that Uncle Fester only visits my lip. When he does visit, I'll take my meds, I'll wear my cover-up, and I'll wait until that smile returns to my face.

I kiss you!

Monday, August 4, 2008

Apple is My Hot Hot Sex

Well, I finally gave in and got the iPhone. It didn't glow like the trunk in Repo Man. It didn't smell like Thanksgiving dinner. It didn't jump up and give me a blowjob. Still, it was made by Apple and that was enough to tweak my nipples.

My house looks like an Apple Store. All of our computers are Macs. Our sound system is an Apple Hi-Fi with a Nano, a Shuffle, and a Touch sitting atop of it. Our walls have classic Think Different posters. I wake up to an iHome clock radio. I wear vintage rainbow Apple shirts to the gym (yes, I go to the gym). I've read Steve Jobs's biography. I even have a Newton.

So, last year, when the first iPhone came out, a lot of people thought it was strange that I didn't get one. Hell, I thought it was strange that I didn't get one. Still, I'd been through this with Apple before. They release flawed alpha versions of their products and let the early adopters be their guinea pigs. It happened with AppleTV. It happened with the Airport. It happened with The Mac! I wasn't going to be a guinea pig!

Plus, everybody who got the first iPhone was a total asshole.

You can imagine how much I gloated when there were reports of major phone and e-mail problems with the first iPhone. You can imagine how happy I was when they lowered the price a month after it came out. Then, after all that negative hooplah dissipated, I became a little jealous. Then I became a lot jealous. When I finally decided I'd get one, Apple announced that the iPhone 3G would be coming soon. I decided to wait.

I had the date on my calendar - July 11th. The night before, I had dreams of walking into the Apple Store a mere mortal and walking out a superhuman. Well, when I got to the store, it looked like opening night of a Harry Potter movie. I wasn't going to be a Harry Potter fan! I decided to wait.

Finally, last week, I got a tip on a new shipment at the mall and I scurried over. They had a black 16 gigger with my name on it. I paid my 300 bucks and left with a huge grin. Unfortunately, that grin was short-lived. I touched and I slid and I pushed and I shook. And soon, I missed my Blackberry.

My iPhone doesn't work at my house or in my office or in my car. When it does work, it randomly drops calls. I never know if I'm connected. I say hello all the time, sounding like a deaf old man. Also, my iPhone can barely keep a charge. The e-mail sucks. 3G is slower than a 2400 bps modem. The vibration is a really weak. I get phantom vibrations in my pants, like my body misses the Blackberry.

Am I going to go back to the Blackberry? That would seem logical, but no. I'm going to keep my iPhone. Why? Because I have to. I'm an Apple guy.

There's certain technology I don't like. I never got the the whole HD TV thing. I want my MTV blurred and my bikini models untethered by reality. Bluetooth headsets are like useless pieces of jewelery that say, "I'm a fucking douchebag!" By the way, the less important somebody is, the nicer their headset and the more they wear it. I think Twitter is one of the dumbest uses of the Web since that Subservient Chicken site. And, the only video game I play is Guitar Hero and I think that's actually pretty stupid.

At the same time, I like ALL Apple products, good or bad. If Steve Jobs took a rusty piece of metal and stuck an Apple symbol on it, I'd buy it. If Steve jobs made a commercial with wounded Muslims wailing, I'd listen to their album. If Steve Jobs told me to eat live squirrels, I'd swallow those rodents down and savor the taste. Why? Steve Jobs is the messiah. To us geeks, he's like Michael Jordan in the '90's, Al Pacino in Scarface, or Star Jones on The View.

Everything Steve Jobs touches becomes cool. Shit, he made that kid from Dodgeball cool. Drew Barrymore banged him because Steve Jobs told her to. Steve Jobs made me watch Finding Nemo. Steve Jobs made me listen to The Caesars and The Fratellis AND Coldplay!! Steve Jobs made me get the iPhone.

Eventually, I figured out my iPhone and now I'm into it. I can surf real porn with Safari. I can always find myself with GPS. I have applications that turn the phone into a light saber or a turntable for scratching or a flashlight (seriously, there's an application with just a white screen so you can see in the dark). I can play Sodoku, although I don't know what Sodoku is. And, yes, I can use it as an iPod.

It's actually cool that the phone sucks. When it cuts in and out, I'm always like, "Yeah, I'm on my new iPhone, sorry!" Flaunting my iPhone is fun. All the losers with old iPhones look so sad. They were the early adopters. Now they can't get out of their plan and get the new one. I love that! I enjoy asking people with the old iPhone if they in fact have the old iPhone. They're always so dejected and embarrassed.

Adam and Eve committed The Original Sin by eating an Apple. Then, they were kicked out of Eden. Will we be kicked out of paradise for using Apple products? Probably. But, if Steve Jobs is the devil, then I'll even go to hell.