A change for the best

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Over the course of one month, I have begun going to film school, I have gone to the porn awards in Las Vegas, I have gotten laid, I have successfully jump started my own car, I have quit my shitty job, and I have come to fully realize exactly what I want to do with my life. Why I am so happy that I could just shit.

I feel this huge sense of relief now that I finally know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I am going to write and direct movies/shows, make lots of money, drive a GT Lamborghini LS-HoverCraft, and have casual sex with extremely attractive unemotional women that are obedient home servants to me because they are social retards. I fucking love this whole film school thing. It is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I haven’t officially made an actual movie so to speak, but I tend to take the part of director during the group film thingys because everyone likes the way I “visualize” scenarios, and that has showed me that I can be a leader as well as giving me a huge sense of satisfaction in being a director. The teachers even like the film thingys that I direct and even more so how I edit them. Directing is so fucking awesome and easy that I don’t understand why societies still have occupations like garbage truck drivers, janitors, cannon fodders, gloryhole sweepers, and surgeons. Everyone on the planet should either want to be an actor or a director.

One of my script teachers told me that she thinks I am a very natural writer because of the e-mail I sent her explaining my absence from class the other day. You see, I was absent because I had accidentally left my headlights on and my battery was dead. Being that I didn’t leave my apartment until noon, I didn’t have enough time to find somebody to help me jump start my car and still get to class on time. I only live about four or five blocks from the school, but it was cold and there was like three inches of snow on the ground, and I’m not going to walk through that shit. That wasn’t the e-mail that I sent her but that was the actual reason that I missed the class. She said that my explanation of the circumstances seemed naturally funny and entertaining, and that showed her that I had a natural talent for explaining simple situations in an entertaining way. Shitting-A man, I have found my talent and that feels great.

The only down side of this film school thing is the amount of time it requires. All of the teachers gave us a sort of warning during the first day of classes, saying that if we don’t have a lot of free time outside of class or at least very flexible work schedules, then we should strongly reconsider going to this school. Seeing the incredible amount of reading, homework assignments, weekend filming projects, and the fact that each class is 3-4 hours long, I’ve realized that the teachers weren’t just jerking me off when they said that. So it’s a damn good thing that I quit that job when school started, but now it’s fucking impossible to find a new job when I tell them my time schedule. Every fucking business on this planet is now owned by some monster corporation, and corporations are heartless empires that don’t have the slightest care in the world for their lower level employees. I just want to find some kind of mom and pop owned store or something to work at and I can’t find anything even remotely close to that. Small businesses are everywhere in my hometown of Bumfuck Nebraska, but they’re nowhere to be seen in the urban metropolis of Denver. I really need a fucking job right now and every place I apply to seems to consider working 39 hours a week as being part time, because that way they are getting full time workers but they don’t have to pay benefits because I wouldn’t be working a full 40 hours a week. At least that was the shit that Sports Authority tried to pull, even though I ended up working 70 plus hours a week sometimes. What a fuckhead greedy world we live in these days.

That’s why I’m deciding to be rich someday. So I can give something back to all of the large breasted blonde bimbos that can’t get a job because they’re illiterate or because they’ve been categorized into an unfair stereotype due to their frequent knob slobbering with strangers. As I said, I am good at visualizing things, and I want to make this unfair world realize my vision. I envision a world where working 8 hours a week is considered working overtime, where women instinctively know that shorter guys have bigger dicks, where health insurance isn’t only free but it includes unlimited nurse given handjobs to help keep social aggression at a minimum, a world where MTV still shows music videos, a planet that embraces global warming because I fucking hate cold weather, a world without toilets because adult diapers are much more logical and time saving, an America that treats mental depression with marijuana and glazed blueberry Krispie Kreme doughnuts rather than using harmful narcotic based drugs, and the list goes on but I can’t think right now because that last vision has made me really hungry. So now I’m going to turn off my computer and find something to eat.

My New Year’s resolution

Sunday, January 6, 2008

I quit my shit-sucking job of selling exercise equipment for a total douche whip excuse of a boss yesterday. It was actually caused by a big mix up on the schedule that eventually led to me saying, “Well what fuckin’ ever, I quit.” You see, I’m attending the Adult Video News awards in Las Vegas this upcoming weekend, and apparently because it is absolutely taboo and unheard of for people to ever ask for time off at this buttfucking job, they assumed that I was quitting. I realized then that I was working for lobotomized mongoloids that couldn’t comprehend the existence of life outside of a fucking sports store. So I decided to give them a good-bye and fuck you later.

Well I didn’t do shit for New Year’s this year because I happened to be working for the douche whip boss. So today I have decided to make my New Year’s resolution and Goddammit I’m going to stick to it, whatever that resolution may be. I’ve chosen to stay in bed all day today, just reading, watching TV, eating, masturbating to internet porn, playing Playstation, and only leaving my bed for the occasional piss and a poop. I will get out of bed to workout at some point today so I’ll be able to sleep tonight, as I’ve drank so much coffee that I got a nose bleed this morning and I can feel my heart beating in my temples. I’ll probably take a shower too, but there’s no way in hell that I will be leaving this apartment today.

Anyway, on to my ideas for a New Year’s resolution. I can only choose one resolution, but I’ll probably make the resolution sort of vague so it covers several things that I need to change. I’m just going to make a list of them along with an explanation, and then I’ll choose the best or easiest one to follow.

1. Get a job that I like. I’ve had several jobs in my lifetime and I can really only think of two of them that I actually enjoyed. The last enjoyable job that I had was four years ago and it’s time that I find another one. I refuse to dedicate my time to working for fuckheads that don’t even consider me a person, and most people consider that to be a “poor work ethic”. I don’t know, maybe I’ll just retire.

2. Have a steady relationship with a girlfriend. By steady relationship I mostly mean having an attractive girl that is willing to exchange humiliating sex acts for dinner and a movie. She must also have an uncanny control over her gag reflex as I’ve been told several times that my farts smell like sour kraut and garbage, and I’m pretty sure that my ass plays a silent but deadly orchestra every night while I sleep because my bed smells like a Mexican cemetery every morning of the week.

3. Climb a mountain. Climbing a mountain would be awesome. I’m getting back into my outdoorsy self now that I’ve given up on all the bodybuilding bullshit. I’ll be honest though, I’ll probably never do this. I fucking hate the cold and I don’t know of any considerable mountains that are warm weathered from top to bottom.

4. Go to Europe. This is actually a good possibility. I decided a few months ago that I was going to do more traveling, (so I can’t use that as my New Year’s resolution), and Europe would be a great place to start. I’d also like to see Australia and Africa though. But I’m paying for school and an over priced apartment right now, so who knows.

5. Force Britney Spears to wear the school girl outfit from ‘Oops I Did it Again’, duct tape her to a running washing machine, pee on her, and then sell the video for millions of dollars. It’s been all over the news lately that Britney Spears was supposedly going to move to the Cherry Creek neighborhood of Denver. I’m only about a mile away from that area, so I figured I probably had a 95% chance of being Britney Spears’ new boyfriend. So I figured I would be able to cover the first two resolutions by having a new job as an amateur porn star as well as having a steady girlfriend. However, I also heard that the rumor wasn’t true. So I’ll just have to stick with duct taping completely unknown girls to dishwashers, barfing on them, and then posting it on You Tube for free.

6. Capture Big Foot. I don’t believe in the Lochness monster or unicorns, but Big Foot is fucking real. I saw him buying carrots at 2:00 AM in a Super Wal-Mart in Nebraska a few years ago, and I’ve spent those years regretting the fact that I didn’t take the opportunity to capture him and expose him to the world. I’ll tell you that he was wearing sweat pants and a purple tank top that said AT & T and had Carrot Top exclaiming “Dial down the middle!” on it, but those are the only details that I will openly give to the public. I don’t want to give the opportunity of catching Big Foot to anyone else, so I’ll just keep most of the details to myself.

7. Eat shit and die. I’m not down with the whole dying part of that resolution, but that would be a good way to go. People are always telling one another to “eat shit and die”, and I’m just wondering if that expression is based on an actual occurrence or a true event. I’m sure you could eat a butt log and then die from some disease or bacteria in the poop, but I wonder if there’s a way to just eat shit and instantly die. Maybe you could choke on shit and die. Nonetheless, rather than dying of cancer or old age, I think it would be a cool way to be remembered. Whenever someone asked one of my remaining relatives how I passed away, there only answer could be “Well he ate shit and died.”

8. Grow a pair. I will fully admit that I can be a bit of a pussy. I tend to just follow the rules most of the time. By moving back to Denver and going to film school I did sort of man-up a little I suppose. Some people tell me that I do have some balls, but I just don’t feel that way. I need to kick some fucking ass this year.

9. Get a tattoo. Oh fuck that resolution. That’s a fucking lame ass resolution if you ask me. Everyone and there gerbil has a fucking tattoo these days. If you want to be original then don’t get a tattoo. I don’t know why I even took a second to consider that a worthy New Year’s resolution.

10. Have a sex change operation. I’m not gay, but it would be really interesting to spend a year as a woman. I would definitely do it if I knew that I could switch back to being a guy when I got tired of it. I would use the opportunity to show women that they aren’t nearly as socially repressed as several women claim to be. Unfortunately, even though I am not gay, I would have to be a total slut. That has more to do with my beliefs involving gender roles than it does with sexual preference. It’s really fucking hard to approach attractive women, and knowing that I’m a spitting image of Carmen Electra when I put a wig on I know that I would be an extremely attractive woman and my belief system would force me to be an all out whore for nerds.

Okay, I’m tired of typing. My mind and fingers are venturing back towards internet porn right now so I better just pick one. I’m going to choose resolution number 8. It’s the most logical resolution and it would cover almost all of the resolutions on here. So that’s it. I’m going to have a lot of fucking balls in the year 2008. That was easy.

40 hours a day, 24 days a week

Friday, December 14, 2007

I haven’t typed anything on here in a while and this is why. I now have a very easy and decent paying job that requires me to work an absolutely absurd amount of hours. I just finished working another twelve hour shift on a fucking Saturday and I cannot give you a single fucking reason why. I was supposed to work from 1:00 PM to 10:30 PM but ended up leaving at one in the morning. So not only am I unable to have a social life, but I can’t even get off early enough to watch Saturday Night Live. The place closes at 9:30 PM and I will give you one guess as to why me and my fellow workers had to stay until 1:00 AM. Nope, you guessed wrong. There was no fucking reason.

We did our usual thing and then we sat like lumps on your ass for hours until the manager finally decided to unlock the doors and let us out. It’s snowing pretty bad outside and the motherfucker wouldn’t even let us out to warm up our cars. So after waiting and watching our weekend slip away, we all had to hobble through the snow and scrape our windshields before we could drive home. This isn’t the first or even the fifth time that these cock snots have done this to me either. This is business as usual. I always make sure that I keep my schedule completely empty on the days that I work, and I tend to work almost everyday.

Aside from the ridiculous hours, it really is a good job. So in my fear of possibly losing the job I will not reveal where I work. However, if you are someone close to me or were just some random person that asked, I’d probably reply by telling you that I sell exercise equipment at a Sports Authority. And if you were someone that seemed familiar with the city of Denver then I’d tell you that it’s the one on Colorado Boulevard and Alameda. You know, the one that’s right next to the Super Target near Shotgun Willy’s. I would also ask you to stop in sometime and say hi, or you could stop in and buy something from me, or we could just have a friendly conversation to help my workday go by faster, or maybe you could kick me in the dick while singing “Guantanamera” into your cell phone , or you and your friends could give me a saran wrapped Roman shower show in the tennis isle, or you could hop on the Bob Human Punching Bag and fuck start his face, or you could challenge me to a summer-sault power stand competition, or actually the best thing you could do is bring me something to eat. Then I might feel like there would be some sort of purpose to my being there all fucking day, every fucking day. Seriously, there is an enormous lack of common sense when it comes to the scheduling at this fucking place. They really know how to stretch people to the very brink of going nuts and driving a U-Haul full of gas and fertilizer into the building, and just when you reach that level of thinking they tell you that you can go home.

Fuck it anyway, dude. I’m going to Las Vegas to attend the AVN Awards next month and I’m deciding whether I will keep this job or quit. Because right when I get back from Vegas, I start school on the 22nd of January. It’s film school, so I’m hoping that I can somehow miraculously find some sort of film job here in Denver while I’m going to school. 

So if you’re ever in that Sports Authority on the corner of Colorado Blvd. and Alameda then just ask the front desk for Luke. It would be nice to talk to someone that doesn’t work at the store or isn’t some total fucktard that lacks the brain power to understand how a stationary bike works. I’d love to keep typing on here, but I’m really friggin’ tired. I’ve been working all God damn day and I just want to play a little Playstation, look at some internet porn and crank one out on my thigh, take a shit and a shower, and then finally go to bed. Besides, I have to work tomorrow.

The ‘N’ word

Thursday, October 11, 2007

The “N word” was laid to rest once again here in Colorado at Manuel High School the other day. There was also a previous funeral for the evil and dubious “N-word” held by the NAACP in Detroit this summer. My question to these bereaved onlookers of the racial slur is this: Are you such a fucking idiot that you think a mock burial for a word is going to do anything other than make the word even funnier to use in a sentence? Not only that, but the fact that everyone, even the media that reported the funeral, still had to refer to it as the “N-word” clearly shows that there is no sign of the word being dead.

There are few things that will actually go away if you ignore them, but words fall into that category. The word “humbug” was just as bad as the word “bullshit” at one time, but because people stopped saying it as often it’s power and meaning eventually died. So tell Fifty-Cent and all those other hardcore rappers that are boosting the image of black, I mean African-American, society to stop using the damn word in every other sentence and just maybe you’ll accomplish the task of killing the word. Or here’s an even better idea, stop giving so much power to the word. Maybe if whenever someone blurted out the word nigger (I can say nigger now because it really is a dead language) people didn’t instantly get hyper offended, then saying the word would eventually lose all of its purpose. It would be like calling someone a doo-doo face in order to offend them because the word wouldn’t have any power.

Another thing that I didn’t fully understand is why the black casket that was supposed to be containing the word nigger only had a mirror in it. I’m sure there was some super intelligent and well thought out symbolic meaning in it, but I took it as meaning that everyone who looked in the coffin was supposed to see a nigger staring back at them. That right there is really fucking weird and I’d actually be a little offended by it. I’ll just skip making fun of that part because I don’t get it.

You know, I have some shit to do right now so I’m just going to cut this blog short. If you’re offended by a word, then just stop fucking saying it you fucking moron. Don’t make the word even stronger by holding little bullshit funerals and ceremonies because you want it to die, because that just gives people even more reason to say it. You just stop saying it yourself because that’s the best you can do. The word “Troglodyte” used to be an offensive way of calling someone stupid, but because people stopped saying it, most people don’t even know what it means anymore. Stop saying the word “Nigger” and it will eventually lose it’s meaning too.

On a side note, if you should be sharing drinks with your friends in a bar this weekend, I think you should probably dedicate a drink to the memory of the word nigger. Even though it was a very dirty and offensive word, it was still the victim of a very sudden and unexpected death. You should also dedicate a drink to the word “sick” this weekend too. I’ve gotten extremely fucking tired of people using the word “sick” to describe something that’s cool, so I snuck up behind the word and beat it to death with a niggerstick (that’s an old racist word used to describe a nightstick, and they forgot to bury it).

Okay, I’m adding onto this because I just had an argument with my expensive female African-American hair stylist at Super Cuts about this topic. She believed that having a funeral for a word would truly convince people that using the “N-word” was wrong because the word didn’t exist anymore. My response to that was, huh? I’m going back to calling it the “N-word” because despite the fact that the word is dead and buried, I am still not allowed to say it. So that fact alone disproves the success of having a lame ass mock burial for the “N-word” because it still offends people.

I’m going to look past the whole word thing now. Even if you kill the “N-word”, you don’t kill the idea. Racist people will just keep on using the word or they’ll create a new one that’s just as offensive as dropping the N-bomb, because despite the fact that the “N-word” is dead, they’ll still be just as racist as before the word was executed and laid to rest.

Believe it or not, but the “N-word” was actually at one time considered the proper term for African-Americans. I don’t mean that black people were all *iggers at one time, I just mean that’s what everyone, including black people, called the darker complexioned races of people. Then that word was deemed offensive, so the word ‘negro’ was used instead. Then the word ‘negro’ was considered evil, so the term ‘black’ came about. Now the word ‘black’ is inappropriate, so the term African-American must be used or else you are considered to be racist. Despite all of these petty and meaningless changes to words and terms, there are still racist people in the country. How about everybody stops trying to change everything on the surface so it looks and sounds all friendly, and people actually start trying to change the way people think.

I go back to the whole idea of ignoring something until it goes away. Now if you’ve ever worked with little kids, which I have, then you will notice that they all play together and cooperate despite any racial differences, no matter how obvious they are. Then just as soon as an adult puts the idea into a kid’s head that a certain color of skin is bad, then the kid immediately starts acting racist towards that group of people. I’m not sure exactly how to do it, but if we just kept the whole racial thing away from the youngest generations, then it wouldn’t even become an issue with them. The whole idea of racial differences would just die away. However, the problem with that solution is that it would require personal responsibility among adults to not teach racism to kids. And we all know that in this day and age, personal responsibility is a long lost art among American adults.

From the bowels of Hell

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Anyone that is a close friend of mine has more than likely witnessed the phenomena of my farts. I am convinced that my butthole is a gateway to another dimension that is filled with death and torture, or hell in other words. I came to this conclusion because of the moans and squeals of tortured souls as well as the musty and potent scent of evil that emits from my ass. One of my old roommates was convinced that I would be successful in life because I had obviously sold my ass to the devil.

Anyway, my suspicions about the evil that lies within my ass were answered today. I had eaten garlic humus spread on pita bread, mussels over rice with general tso sauce, and a cup of natural yogurt just before I went downtown to workout this afternoon. Granted that what I had for brunch was a pretty fucking wierd combination of foods, I believe that it was the strenuous leg workout that angered my guts into building up so much rage and aggression towards the human ears and olfactory system today.

It all started after I had gone down to GNC at the pavilion to get some meathead food to feed my aching legs after my workout. I picked up an amino acid drink because I have recently stopped with the whole protien shake thing and then I decided I would go down to The Tattered Cover to maybe pick up a book or something. I got onto the RTD to shuttle me from one end of 16th street to the other. (You see here in Denver, 16th Street Mall is the main street in downtown Denver. You are not allowed to drive on it because it is a long business street where you just walk from store to store. The RTD is a free bus in between the sidewalks that just shuttles people up and down the street and it stops at every corner). I got onto the RTD and sat down in the back because I knew that I would be traveling from the South end to the North end of 16th, so I would be on it for a little while.

Denver has a shitload of homeless people in it, and those stinky homeless people love to sit on the RTD and harass people with morals from dusk ’til dawn. Well at the corner of Tremont one of these booze stinking hobos got on and sat down next to me. It was also on the corner of Tremont when I began to feel a horrible bubble of putrid hate begin to stir in my stomach. After stopping and going at two more street corners, this bubble was becoming unbearable. It felt as if it was trying to force itself up into my lungs, which was making it hard for me to breath. I started sipping on my amino acid drink to see if it would quench the demon in my stomach. I was wrong. It only enraged the monster even more. Fear set in. I looked around to see if there was any area of the bus where I could let out a huge shit burst without getting busted but realized I was trapped. I then got the idea that I would try to quietly let it out at the next stop while the driver was announcing the street over the intercom. So he stopped at Curtis street and I began to release this merciless gut fucker. I kept my ass pressed to the seat while I slowly loosened my anal grip on the fart. It instantly made a high pitched and very loud squeaking noise that lowered its tone as it continued its exit from my ass, ultimately ending in a bubbling or sort of clapping sound. The fart couldn’t have lasted longer than two seconds but it felt like hours went by. I looked from side to side while this howling banshee tore out from between my ass cheeks. I looked to my left at the toothless tramp that smelled of Mad Dog 20/20. He stared at me like I had just called his mother a donkey-blowing bitch. I looked at the dozens of people in front of me and they stared back at me like I was a circus freak. I felt like the elephant man when he was being chased and chastised on the subway.

When my asshole finally stopped screaming I thought that I was in the clear and I felt very mentally and physically relieved. Everyone had started to look away and mind their own business again when the smell hit. It hit like a tidal wave of shit that had been personally pushed out by Satan himself. It smelled like the Salvation Army mixed with skunk and a hint of steamed broccoli. The hobo moved away from me and then he actually got off at the next stop. A guy who eats garbage, pisses his pants, collects his own scabs, huffs Bed Bath and Beyond potpourri, and lives under a cardboard lean-to next to a creek thought that this fart was too much for him to handle. The dozens of people in front of me attempted to cram themselves into a six foot space at the front of the bus; leaving me all alone in my own horrible ass gas at the back. It not only filled me with embarrassment, but it also caused my fight or flight survival instincts to kick in. I all but ran from the bus when it arrived at the next stop….

Lear Jet’s story #3

Monday, August 27, 2007

Clint: He’s walking towards the DJ booth with a blonde and scrawny super nerd walking next to him. “Luke, this is the new DJ. I want you to show him the ropes and then let him do his own thing for a little while.”

Me: “Hi I’m Luke. So you have any experience being a DJ or working in a bar?”

Super Nerd: “Hey, my name’s Nick.” He says as he puts his hand out and we shake. “Nope. I’ve never worked in a bar before. By the way, did you go to North East when you were little?”

Me: “Yeah I did. I think I remember you now. I don’t mean to be rude, but weren’t you the kid that was a few grades ahead of me that had epilepsy?” I actually did remember him from when I was a kid. I remembered seeing him wearing a helmet out on the playground, so I was just assuming that he had epilepsy.

Nick: “Yeah that was me. I’ve got the whole seizure thing under control now though.”

Me: “Well I hope so. With all these strobe lights and shit I’d imagine it would be an epileptic’s nightmare to work in these conditions.” I wasn’t really trying to sound like an asshole, I was just being honest. I mean, what person with epilepsy would decide that it would be smart to work in a dance club?

Nick: “Well I haven’t had any troubles for like ten years now. So I think I’ve got it pretty well under control.”

Me: “What about alcohol. Can you drink?” I considered it standard initiation to get a person drunk on their first night of working at Lear Jet’s Night Club.

Nick: “Yeah I can drink alcohol. It doesn’t give me any problems at all.”

Me: “Great, let me go get some drinks. Gin and tonics on the house.” I walk over to the bar. There’s a rather attractive girl ordering drinks at the bar. I recognize her from my art class and I recall hearing that she isn’t exactly the sharpest sorority girl cheerleader on campus. I go behind the bar to mix my gin and tonics and to talk to this girl a little.

Me: “So what can I get you?”

Girl: “I’ll have a Keystone Light.” That right there told me that she was at least half retarded. Keystone is a shit-ass beer that should only be used to fertilize lawns, but in Nebraska it’s considered a delicacy.

Me: “Sure thing. Hey, don’t we have a class together?” I said as I pulled her bottle of carbonated swamp water out of the cooler and handed it to her. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

Girl: “Yeah, I think we’re both in the same art class. You sit at the table right behind me. Your name’s Luke, right?” Score, she knows more about me than I know about her. Meaning that she’s either paid more attention to me than I have to her, or even better she has asked friends for more info about me.

Me: “You know I think you’re right. I do sit right behind you. What’s your name?” I was going into pig mode right now. It’s when I get into a frame of mind where my only focus is on getting some strange ass. On a side note, I no longer go into that pig mode anymore. I miss that way of thinking dearly.

Girl: “My name’s E (I won’t give her real name because I think she’s married with a kid now).”

Nick: “Luke, could you come up here for a second?” Nick says on the microphone from the DJ booth. The song had just ended and he probably didn’t know what to do next.

Me: “Just a second, I’ll be right back. You’re not going to go anywhere are ya?” I said to E as I walked over to the DJ booth.

Nick: “The song just ended and I don’t know what to do. What song should I play?” He seemed sort of panicked. So I decided that I would fuck with him a little bit.

Me: “Well it’s early and nobody’s even on the dance floor yet. So do you have any comedy CD’s or something like that? Just play that until more people get here and then you can play all that rap and hip-hop shit.” Nobody wants to hear comedy when they go to a nightclub. Most of all, nobody likes listening to a comedy CD unless they’re smoking weed or if they’re driving a semi. I was just messing with Nick. I showed him how to use the CD player and how the volume and buttons all worked. Then I walked back to my lady prey that was still waiting for me at the bar.

Just as soon as I got back behind the bar I heard Jeff fucking Foxworthy start talking on the speakers. Jesus H. Christ. Of all of the comedians in this world that are actually funny, why in the fuck would he choose to play Jeff Foxworthy.

E: “What the hell is this?” She said as she heard the first “you might be a redneck joke”.

Me: “Oh that’s just my Uncle Nick up there. He’s got some mental problems so I’ll just let him play whatever he wants for a while. I don’t want to cause him to have one of his tantrums again.”

E: “What’s wrong with him?”

Me: “Well it’s a long story really. You see he used to be one of the leading members of PETA. You know the organization against cruelty to animals? He was a hardcore vegetarian, wouldn’t wear leather, and all that other bullshit. Well being a member of PETA doesn’t exactly pay all that well, so he enlisted himself in the Army Reserves to help pay some of his bills.

Then when desert storm started in the early nineties, he was called to duty in Iraq. He had been trained as a sniper so he just assumed that he’d be snipering Iraqi soldiers, which he didn’t have any problem with. However the Iraqis used camels to deliver their weapons to other camps. Uncle Nick’s job was to sniper off these camels before they got to their destination. Now even though he said he wouldn’t have any trouble with shooting another man, shooting an innocent animal really fucked with his head.

As if shooting innocent animals wasn’t enough, when he was left out in the desert by himself for weeks at a time during missions, he actually had to survive by eating the camels that he had killed. He even had to slice one of them open and sleep inside of it during the cold nights. You know like Han Solo did with Luke Skywalker in the beginning of Empire Strikes Back?

Just imagine how much that must of fucked with his head. He’s a hardcore animal rights advocate and he had to slaughter hundreds of these innocent camels and then use their body’s for his own survival. Yeah, Uncle Nick’s been pretty fucking crazy ever since he got back from Desert Storm. He lives in my grandparents’ basement and he hasn’t had a job since 1993. So I figured I would hook him up with a job here.”

This entire story was being told while Jeff Foxworthy played in the background. I’m good at creating stories of total bullshit, but I consider this story to be one of my masterpieces. Especially considering the fact that I was just making it up as I went.

E: “Well that’s really sweet of you. Poor guy, he does sound like he’s kind of weird though.”

Me: “Well weird is an understatement. See PETA wouldn’t allow him to continue his membership because of what he did in Iraq. That basically took away his entire reason to live. He’s a strict vegetarian again, but he has this thing with killing animals now. You know that thing in the newspaper about all of those cows that were shot with a deer rifle from the road? Well don’t tell anybody, but my Uncle Nick admitted to me that he was the one that did it. He’s like an animal serial killer now but he still has this extreme love for animals. I think he might even have sex with the dead cows after he shoots them. Don’t say anything to him about any of this though. I don’t want him to get all pissed off and go back to being a total recluse in my grandparents’ basement again.” Holy shit this was a good yarn. There was no story of cows being shot from the road, but I knew this girl wasn’t the type that ever read the newspaper so I just took a chance and said it anyway.

E: “Wow, that is really fucked up. It does make him a little mysterious though. I think I’m going to go talk to him.”

Me: “Let him get situated first.” I said as I made her sit back down. “I mean I am training him to be a DJ and he needs to get used to being in the DJ booth on his own. Just wait ’til he starts playing the dance stuff and then go talk to him.” What the fuck was going on here? The way she said that last sentence made it seem as if she was a little interested in learning more about Nick, rather than being creeped out by him.

E: “I suppose you’re right. I don’t want to make him freak out or anything. Can I take his drink over to him?” I had forgotten all about the gin and tonic that I had promised Nick. Not only that, but if she talked to him right now then I would be busted and my entire bullshit story would have been all for nothing.

Me: “Actually I’ll take it over to him. I’ll tell him that you want to talk to him just so he’s prepared. I don’t think he’s talked to a girl since before the war.” I mixed up a gin and tonic and took it over to the DJ booth.

“Nick, here’s your drink. Look, that really hot girl with the tig ‘ol bitties at the bar wants to come over here and talk to you. She said she thinks you’re cute and that we sort of look alike. So I told her that you were my uncle and I told her that you were in the military and stuff. So please just go along with it and she might even go home with you.”

Nick: “I can’t take her home with me, I live with my grandparents. She is pretty hot though. What did you tell her about me?” Wow. This story was going to work after all.

Me: “I told her that you were a sniper during Desert Storm. She probably thinks that you’re in your early to mid thirties so you might have to lie about your age a little. Just go along with it though and she’ll more than likely fuck your brains out. How old are you anyway?” I was no longer concerned with trying to sleep with E. I was now on a good Samaritan mission of making her have sex with Nick.

Nick: “I just turned twenty-four. I don’t know if I want to sleep with her on the very first night that I meet her though.” Twenty-four years old and he lived with his grandparents. I was a few years younger and I even had my own place. I could also tell that he was pretty nervous about the idea of sleeping with a hot and seemingly labotimized sorority girl.

Me: I pretended that I didn’t hear a single word that he had just said. “Great. You know the plan of attack. I’m going to send her up here, okay?” I walked back over to where E was sitting and started talking to her.

“He said that he thinks you’re really hot and that he would love to talk to you. Just don’t mention any of that stuff I just told you about him. I’m pretty sure that he’d get kind of pissed if he knew that I told you all about his past.”

E: She quickly picks up her drink and walks over to the DJ booth to talk to my “Uncle Nick”.

Me: I just spent the rest of the night sitting at the bar and talking to Nate the bartender while watching E and Nick flirt with each other. I actually felt a little proud of myself for doing something so unselfish as to hook up a super nerd with a truly attractive moron. I’m not sure where the two of them went at the end of the night, but they did leave the bar together.

Actually now that I think about it, what kind of sick and demented fucked in the head kind of girl would be attracted to a guy after hearing a story like that? What a fucking idiot. I hope those two love birds fucked all night in Nick’s grandparents’ basement and had half a dozen mutated tard babies together. There are some sick motherfuckers in this world. It’s funny how many of them seem to end up in Nebraska.

Ever since that night, Nick would only be referred to as Uncle Nick in the Lear’s Jets Night Club. Even now people still call that guy Uncle Nick. I don’t think he’s ever heard the whole story behind how he got that nickname, but I’m sure it would only make him more proud of his title as my Uncle Nick.

Three hundred dollars and thirty cents

Thursday, August 9, 2007

I’ve recently moved out of Omaha and am now spending a little layover at my parents’ house in Kearney Nebraska before I move back to Denver. I’m planning on moving to Denver just as soon as I find a job there.

Yesterday I went to the bank to cash in a whole shitload of savings bonds that my now mentally unstable grandmother gave me over the years. I was parked in a diagonal fashion between two diagonal parking lines, so I was parked correctly. Some pig fucking shit kickin’ hill person from the sticks then parked their 1995 piece of shit Le Sabre next to my car at a 90 degree angle with the curb; or incorrectly parked to make it simple. So as I was backing out of my spot I slightly bumped his rear driver side fender. I looked over at the car and saw that this pig fucking shit kickin’ hill person’s buck-toothed four-eyed tractor operating girlfriend was sitting in the car and was staring right at me. So I just smiled and got out of my car to see if there was any damage. I looked at the side of the Le Sabre and saw that the entire side of it had been keyed to all of hell’s damnation and I couldn’t even see where I bumped it. So then the hill person came out of the bank and I admitted to bumping his car. He scanned the already completely fucked up side of his car that I gently tapped for any shred of damage that I may have caused. He then pointed to a four inch smudge that was most likely caused by his hyena-jawed mother bumping her head while she was eating road kill out of the fucking wheel wells. I looked at my car and saw that I also had a little smudge on my rear fender, so I agreed to exchange names and numbers with him and I told him that I would pay for any damages. His name was Tom, and his number is 402-705-7100.

I didn’t expect to hear from Tom again, but go fucking figure, you can just guess who called me to tell me the estimate from his mechanic while I was eating Pringles Select Szechuan Barbecue chips and watching Wheel of Fortune today. He said that the damage was estimated to be $300.30. Give me a fucking break Tom! I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night. I’m not Jewish, but three hundred fucking greenbacks for a four inch smudge on a 95′ piece of shit Le Sabre seems a little fucking steep Tom.

Tom told me to meet him at The Big Apple so we could sort things out. The Big Apple is a “fun center” in Kearney Nebraska. It’s really just a shitty bowling alley with an arcade that hasn’t been considered modern since 1984. I’m fairly buff for my height, so I decide to put on a slightly too tight t-shirt and turn up my intimidation knob when I go to meet this guy at a fucking bowling alley in bumfuck Nebraska. I get to the bowling alley and I see Tom working behind the counter. He’s wearing the exact same fucking clothes that he was wearing yesterday and he smells like Oprah’s car seat. So I ask him to show me the estimate, and he hands it to me. Sure enough, it says that it’s gonna cost $300.30 to fix the fucking smudge that washed off of my car with soap and water. I know that any moron could go to a mechanic and get an estimate that says whatever they want, and ninety-nine percent of hill peoples’ friends and family are comprised of auto mechanics. So I already know that Tom is fucking rotor rootering me right from the get go.

Tom was actually quite cordial, so I had trouble being an asshole to him. None the less, I kept my intimidation turned up at full blast while I hunched over and flexed my fucking guns while pretending to read the car estimate. He even said, “Geez, you’re a lot bigger than I thought.” I said, “Yeah, I’m legally bound to wearing short sleeved shirts in order to avoid the concealed weapon law.” He laughed and I just stared at him with a straight face. I could tell that shook him up inside a little and I had just taken the upper hand in this situation.

I said, “I’ve dealt with claims adjusters before, and I can honestly tell you that this is way too fucking high Tom.”

He replied in a shaky voice, “Yeah that’s what I thought.”

“Look Tom, I’m not paying to fix up your whole fucking car just because you pissed someone off and then they decided to key the living shit out of it, and now you’re taking advantage of me to get a little extra dough. You and I both know you’re not even going to fix the damn car anyway.” I said as I continued to stare him down. I was making sure to use his name as much as possible in order to create a sense of me over powering him. (I learned that in psychology)

“Well the estimate on the rest of the damage is around a thousand bucks and with the damage you caused it’s going to be around twelve or thirteen hundred. He said there were cracks in the panel.” Tom was breaking down now. He was sputtering out bullshit and we both knew it. His entire car wasn’t even worth a thousand bucks.

I came back with my rebuttal, “Well if you wanted to turn this into a legal matter Tom, then you would need at least two estimates from at least two different mechanics. And even if you did that, I don’t have a single scratch on my car and neither of us reported this to the police. So I could just walk out of here and say that I’ve never met you before in my life.”

Tom had a sincere look of ‘Oh Shit’ on his face now. “You can take it to another mechanic if you want to get a different estimate… if you really want to.”

“I’m not going to waste my time doing that Tom. I’ll give you a check for a hundred dollars and we’ll call it even.” I said with a shit-eating grin on my face.

“That’s nowhere near the price of the estimate.” Tom muddled out like a bitch.

“Well no shit it’s nowhere near the estimate because the estimate is fucking ridiculous Tom. As I said, I’ve dealt with claims before and I know that rear driver side panels are even cheaper than passenger side panels because you are statistically four times more likely to hit things with the passenger side of your car. It’s a whole bullshit agenda that the auto industry has against its customers. Three hundred dollars is more than enough to fix a three inch scuff on the driver’s side.” I was really talking some brilliant bullshit now. I’m not even all that sure as to what claims adjusters do because I’ve never actually met one, and that whole driver’s side panel thing was completely made up.

“I suppose I’d take a hundred dollars or so.” Tom was fucked and he knew it. He had been out smarted by a much more fantastic bullshit artist, me.

“I tell you what Tom, I’ll give you two hundred dollars just because you’re being so cool about this.” I was starting to feel a little sorry for Tom. He’s just another unlucky and probably uneducated accidental birth that’s been financially fucked into having to spend the rest of his life in Nebraska. As for myself, I’m fairly well off money wise and two hundred dollars isn’t exactly going to put me out on the street. So I wrote him a check for two Benjamins, I shook Tom’s hand, and I walked out the door. Chances are I’ll never see or hear from Tom again during my lifetime.

Lear Jet’s Story #2

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Scott: “Dude, take another fucking shot and a hit. Then you’re gettin’ our asses in for free, nigga.”

Me: I take the bottle of Jagermeister from Scott’s grasp and take a very generous chug from it. I immediately follow the shot with an extended inhale from a left-handed cigarette that I’d been wondering about all night as to where the hell I got it from. I opened the car door and stepped out. I was fucked up, but it was a good fucked up. I was nearing that mischievous stage of drunkenness. That stage of being drunk where you suddenly think that it would be funny to take a piss in your friend’s clothes hamper or haul off and punch some total stranger for your own amusement. We walk into the front door of The Lear Jet’s Night Club.

Clint: (Clint is a bouncer as well as my boss. I was working at Lear Jet’s at the time, but I had the night off) “Hey Cox, you’re looking like a sack of drunken shit tonight.”

B.J.: (B.J. is another bouncer) “Hey, go talk to Nate. He’ll hook you up with some free drinks, and bring me a Bud Light too.”

Me: I walk over to the bar. Nate comes up to me with a big smile on his face. He could obviously tell that I was sloshed.

Nate: “What’ll it be young man?”

Me: “Revelstoke and Coke, sir.” Revelstoke and Coke was my favorite drink at the time. I was only 21 then and hadn’t come to understand what constituted as a quality drink yet.

Nate: “Nope, you’re the man of the hour, and the man of the hour only drinks Long Island Ice Tea’s while sitting at my bar.” He turns his back to mix a Long Island Iced Tea that I knew would be three times stronger than the normal regulation Long Island Iced Tea. Nate turns back around and hands me a drink that is in a glass that’s bigger than my friggin’ head. “Enjoy! And try not to puke in here please.”

Me: I take a sip of the drink and it suddenly initiates my gag reflex due to the absurd amount of booze in this dirty dickwater drink. “Holy shit!” I announce just before I turn the glass upside down and chug it.

Nate: “Welp. Let me mix you up another one. Just remember not to pace yourself.”

Me: Nate hands me another drink in another enormous glass. I look around to find the people that I came to the bar with and fail to find anyone that I know. I’m sure that I probably knew about 80% of the people in the bar, but my brain was beginning to go into autopilot in order to save itself from becoming retarded from swimming in alcohol. Just like the idiot that I am, I chug the entire drink again. Nate almost immediately hands me another one.

There’s a huge scuffle just a few feet away from me near the pool tables. The bouncers around the dance floor and the doormen all run over to the scene to break it up. There are fists flying everywhere and then the crowd begins to back away, clearing in the middle to reveal some guy laying flat on the ground with blood pouring out of his face.

Nate: “Luke, go get the phone and call 911!”

Me: I stumble behind the bar and into the back room where the phone is. I pick it up and dial 911.

Operator: “Hello this is 911, what is your emergency?”

Me: “I’m not sure what happened, but I’m at Lear Jet’s and there’s some guy laying on the ground. I think he needs a bambalance ma’am.”

Operator: “I’m sorry sir, but did you say a ‘bambalance’?”

Me: “Straight representin’. You know I said send da bambalance.”

Operator: “Well sir, do you know why the man is lying on the floor? And is he showing any signs of consciousness?”

Me: I don’t know why, but I sort of panic because I can’t remember why this guy is laying on the floor. I look over at the guy and notice that girls are screaming because he has begun to twitch in an almost seizure like fashion. “Yeah he’s having a seizure. He said earlier that he didn’t take his medication because he knew that he’d be drinking tonight…and now…and now he’s having a seizure.”

Operator: “Alright sir, we have an ambulance on the way. Would you please stay on the phone with me until they arrive.”

Me: I hang up the phone and walk back to my place at the bar. Nate already has another drink waiting for me. I sit down and chug one drink after another. I fail to realize just how extremely drunk I actually am until I see the paramedics come in and take the knocked out guy off on a stretcher, and I have absolutely no idea why the paramedics were there or why they were taking that guy somewhere.

This is where the night gets kind of hazy. The last thing I remember from inside the bar is Nate and Clint arguing over the fact that Nate had given me seven of his “special” Long Island Iced Teas without cutting me off.

Me: I’m stumbling around outside next to the dumpster. I have nearly zero coordination at this point. The ground is moving from side to side so I decide to look up at the stars instead. I’m taken aback by the fact that the Earth is apparently spinning at about five times the speed of its normal rotation.

Me: I open my eyes and find a large crowd of people standing over me and staring down at me. I’m laying on my back in the parking lot, only about twenty feet from the front door.

Male Bystander: “Somebody call an ambulance. This guy’s O.D.’ed or something.”

Me: I’m not sure if people can understand me, but I try to speak anyway. “Dude, don’t call a fucking ambulance. I didn’t O.D. you dipshit.”

Male Bystander: This fuck head is angry from me calling him a dipshit. “Call the cops, they’ll take care of him.”

Me: “N-o-o-o-o!!! Do not call the fucking cops. The cops are the reason that I’m laying here in the first place for God’s sake.”

Female Bystander: “What do you mean?”

Me: “We were trying to get into my friend’s house with a crowbar because his roomate locked him out, and a cop drove by and saw us. He shined his spotlight on us and we panicked and ran. The cop got out of his car to chase us so I decided to tackle the cop so we could get away. I smeared that fucking cop across the lawn and then when I was running away he shot me in the back. That piece of shit fucking coward ass pig shot me in the back. I’ve got a God damn nine millimeter hollow point mushroomed in my fucking back! Do not call the cops, I’m fucking innocent!”

Female Bystander: “Don’t worry, I’ve already called 911. They said they’re right around the corner.”

Me: “Jesus fucking Christ! I’m shot and drunk and now I’ve got to deal with the fucking fuzz. You fucking assholes.”

Female Bystander: “Tell me what you were drinking so I can tell the paramedics when they get here.”

Me: “Updawg. I’ve been drinking Updawg since noon.”

Male Bystander: “What’s Updawg?”

Me: “Not much, what’s up with you?”

Male Bystander: “No seriously, what’s Updawg.”

Me: “Like I just said, not much.”

Male Bystander: “I’m being fucking serious, what the fuck is Updawg?”

Me: “Nothing is fucking up with me, what the fuck’s up with you?” This guy isn’t that drunk, he’s just too much of an inbred fuckface to realize that I’m screwing with him.

Male Bystander: “How did you end up in this parking lot?” He says as he suddenly changes the subject.

Me: “I time travelled here you big fucking maroon! This parking lot didn’t even exist when I left. I never should have touched the purple button!” I grab the guy by his shirt and pull him close to me. I whisper in his face, “Why did I have to go and push the purple button?”

Male Bystander: He hits me in the face and pulls my hands off of his shirt.

Me: My nose is bleeding now. “You motherfucker! I used to fuck guys like you in prison you fucking faggot! If we were back in Vietnam you’d be M-I-A motherfucker!” I can hear sirens in the distance and they sound like they’re coming closer. Then out of nowhere a car nearly runs over my head and then slams on the brakes.

Scott: “Cox! We gotta get you the fuck out of here dude! The fucking cops are after you, get in the car!” Scott picks me up by my shirt and throws me into the passenger side of his car.

Female Bystander: “What’s your name?!” She shouts to me in a sort of pissed off way as I close the car door.

Me: “They call me Purple Pantalones bitch!” I yell as Scott speeds us away in his car.

Scott: We drive down a few streets and I have no idea where I’m at. “Dude, you’ve gotta get the fuck out of my car dude.” He pulls up to my apartment and pushes me out onto the lawn.

Me: I awake to birds chirping and the sun shining on my face. I am once again lying on my back, except this time I’m lying on Second Avenue. Second Avenue is the busiest street in Kearney Nebraska, or at least as busy as a street can get in a town of thirty thousand people. I can hear cars driving all around me. I stand up and see cars swerving to avoid me on the street, and then I see a police car coming with its lights on. I run inside my apartment and lock the door. I couldn’t figure out what that horrible smell was until I looked to see that I had covered myself in vomit during my drunken slumber in the street.

Aftermath: I’ve done some stupid shit in my life, but this night was one of my worst. I know that I’m extremely lucky to have not been arrested, or more importantly that I wasn’t killed that night. I’ve grown up some now and I no longer do such retarded things. I think the moral of this story is that if you ever meet a bartender named Nate, do not order the Long Island Iced Tea.

Inhaling my excellence

Thursday, July 19, 2007

If you don’t think that farting is funny or somewhat cool, then you’re a fucking humorless douche bag. God realized that he fucked up when he created things like the plague, AIDS, cancer, Dick Cheney, non-alcoholic beer, and DMV’s. So he decided to make it up to us by giving us humans the ability to lighten up the mood of any situation just by using our ass.

The fart can change the mood of anyone in any situation. If you’re at a funeral and everyone is crying and weeping over the recently deceased and you hear the “Fwomp” of a big poopy fart from somewhere in the crowd of criers, it immediately causes an almost reflex like grin to spread across your face. Even if you think that farting during a funeral is horrible it’s still sort of funny once the smell hits your nose. If you are sitting in an interrogation room and are being questioned because you are the number one suspect in the gruesome murder of a disabled nun; I guarantee that if you were to lean to the side and slide out a greasy gut bomb that every cop in the room would start laughing. Farts are an amazing gift from God, and just like the gift of sex, people have made farting taboo.

I consider farting to be an art form. My ass is the brush, scent and sound are my media, and the nose and ears are my canvas. With these components I create masterpieces that only the truly well sense-of-humored can appreciate. I create whimsical songs of thunder that dance in the nostrils like a sack of shit. It’s fucking hilarious. I just farted right now.

I’m not sure how the whole farting thing rests with the minds of gay guys. I don’t know if farting is accepted among the homosexual male community because the bunghole is probably seen in a different light to them. I would imagine that farting is a way of flirting or blowing kisses to eachother among gay men. Farting is a renaissance language to them, it is the romantic language of love. I wonder if there was a farting ritual used for choosing mates before the bath houses of the 80’s closed down. Perhaps the tone or the squeak of the fart would determine if the guy was a pitcher or a catcher.

However, women always seem to be appalled whenever a man farts. Well fuck you lady! If I ever find myself dating some snooty bitch that can’t pat me on the back for my stinky anal achievements then she can just go sleep in the fucking car. I  used to believe that when a girl farted it sounded like the ringing of little bells and a pink poof of flower scented perfume came out. My friend’s girlfriend in high school ruined that whole theory. So now I know that women drop horrible bombs just like guys do, and I’m sure that they do it around their fellow girlfriends and laugh just the same way as us guys do. So why the fuck do women have to act like assholes just because a guy farted? I’ll tell you why, because women are born hypocrites in every sense of the word. In fact, I’m willing to bet that a girl’s panties would have twice as many skidmarks as my boxers do. That’s just another reason for me to stay single. There may come a time that I somehow lose my ability to break wind and I want to celebrate this wonderful gift as much as possible before the lord taketh away. I refuse to imagine just how sad and dismal my existence would be if I were to be robbed of my right to nearly shit my pants with ass clapping farts. So my advice to any woman that considers farting to be rude and inappropriate is this: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth because this world would be really fucking depressing if people were unable to fart, so stop being such a fucking bitch and let some of that gas out of your guts, you’ll feel better.”

Am I a bigot?

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

I’ve been in Denver for the past week looking for a job and a place to live. Today I spent my entire morning and afternoon looking at apartments. I’m actually slightly gifted at wheeling and dealing when it comes to me having to pay for something, so I turn on the charm and kiss a little ass when negotiating my lease.

Anyway, I’d like to talk about choosing an apartment based on the complex’s current tenants. I was sort of turned off by a very cheap and fairly decent apartment because of some of the fellow tenants that were standing outside or driving in the parking lot. These tenants fit so many racial stereotypes that it was hilarious but convincing in my choice to not live there. Outside there was a 300 pound black beast woman that was wearing a flower patterned bathrobe at two in the afternoon on a Monday, and she was slapping and screaming her ass off at some scrawny black dude wearing supersized Dickies, an enormous FUBU jersey, and a nicely snug black do-rag on his head. Then there was an Asian lady that was trying to park in a spot that was in the corner of the parking lot and she kept slamming into the squared curve before she could fully turn into the spot. (Some people don’t know about the stereotype of Asians being shitty drivers, but that stereotype does exist.) On the other side of the parking lot there was a Mexican, oops, I mean Hispanic young man that was blasting some Spanish circus music out of his 1985 White Monte Carlo with rims that cost more than the damn car itself. I could tell that this young Latino was obviously on his break from his job at a very sanitary restaurant, because he was in such a hurry that he forgot to take off his hairnet when he left for lunch. Near the mailboxes was an elderly man using a walker. He was wearing plaid pants, golf shoes, a pink polo shirt, and a bright white yarmulke on his head. He looked like one of the evil Jewish New Jerseyites that always talked shit and complained about everyone when I lived in Miami. This entire apartment complex was just one giant racist punch line that was looking for a very politically incorrect joke.

Looking at all of these stereotype practitioners not only made me decide that I wasn’t going to live there, but it also made me think about some stereotypes that my friends and I might fit into. I fucking hate country music but most of my friends love it. So that stereotype excludes me. I am a white guy that drives a nice car and has absolutely no debt. I don’t know if that’s a stereotype but it is usually assumed that white people have more money. I’m a weight lifting meathead that was eating a protein bar while I was looking at this melting pot of tenant dwellers. I can’t dance for shit, I’ve sued somebody, I listen to Neil Diamond sometimes, I like the Beastie Boys and Wu Tang Clan but I hate Lil’ Jon and all of that ATL bullshit, I lived in a trailer home when I was a baby, and I know how to ride a horse. There really isn’t that many racial stereotypes towards middle class white American men. I should feel lucky but I don’t. I kind of wish that there was some sort of stereotype for me to fall into, just so I could go against it and maybe surprise some off-white racists of Caucasians. Stereotypes are natural and I sort of feel left out by the fact that I don’t really have one, aside from the poor dancing skills.

I don’t believe that I am a bigot simply because I recognize stereotypes when they are being played out directly in front of me. Besides, a young Hispanic man should take some responsibility for the stereotype just as soon as he decides that it would be cool to put his last name on his rear windshield in white Old English letters. I didn’t create these stereotypes, the victims of these stereotypes created them all by themselves. So fuck anyone that thinks somebody is racist just because they notice a common theme amongst any race, gender, religion, or age group. Finding patterns is a very natural thing for people to do. I don’t consider a person to be unbiased or “color blind” because they can’t recognize stereotypes when they are looking at a group of people. I consider those people to either be blind or just plain stupid.

By the way, I forgot to mention that the sales woman in the leasing office was an overweight African-American woman with an empty KFC bag on the corner of her desk.