Month: July 2012

Dear Facebook Diary (7/20/12)

Tomorrow night is Cruise Night here in Kearney Nebraska. It is the one night of the year when 90% of the members of my community temporarily gain an extra chromosome, remove the sleeves on their shirts, and roam the streets like remorseless cyborgs that are fueled by alcohol and drawn to the flame decals poorly pasted on the sides of crappy restored cars. Seriously, the main streets and sidewalks become overloaded with howling hambeasts that find the utmost enjoyment in their lives by watching outdated cars drive by at very slow speeds. I partake in this night of retardation celebration with great zest. I peel off my shirt, strut my hot shit with cheap booze in my hand, body check bros that so much as blink in my direction, and dance my pecs before the eyes of on looking jailbait. It is truly a night of rejoice.

 

I worked at Jerald’s Pork Engine Parts across from campus tonight and I have to work there again at 8:00AM tomorrow morning. I was planning on buying a big bottle of cheap vodka after work tonight and when I arrived home I could not find my debit card. I tore apart my already torn apart poopy apartment searching for my only access to money and survival. I wrangled up some quarters from my silver colored coin jar and not my copper colored coin cup and managed to find $14. I drove back to Jerald’s Pork Engine Parts, I call him Jerry, and I exchanged the $14 and another $6 that I had in my pocket for a twenty-dollar bill. Jerry gets raging pissed when employees exchange assloads of change for cash, so he demands that we put them into a plastic baggy and label how much money is in it. Well, I’m not a drug dealer so I don’t have any plastic bags, so Jerry will find a nice little Tupperware container full of change and a couple of bills when he does the books tomorrow. That is unless I end up doing the books in the morning.

 

So I took my twenty-dollar bill over to Bill’s Liquor and exchanged half of it for the finest bottle of vodka that can be found in a plastic bottle, Skol vodka. I would have bought Country Club vodka but I find the coloring on the label to be a little off putting. I then drove to IGA or Sun Mart or Apple Market or whatever the fuck they’re calling it these days to buy myself something to mix it with. I bought a six-pack of Diet Mountain Dew and a six-pack of Coca-Cola Zero. Even when I drink to the point of losing my memory, I never lose my concern for how many calories I’m consuming, as both of those fine soda drinks have zero calories but are still bursting with flavor. After all of my purchases I still had $2.78 in my pocket. God bless America.

 

I drove out of the grocery store parking lot and pulled up to the streetlight, which was red. I looked to my right and made eye contact with a young man that was sitting in the passenger seat of his friends white S-10 Blazer. I’m not an expert on antique cars but I’d say it was manufactured in the early to mid 2000’s. The driver of the SUV beast leaned over and looked at me… and then he revved his engine.  This was a big mistake on his part.

 

My 2005 Chevy Malibu LS may look like a four door mother mobile that was built for excursions to Chucky Cheese and Farmer’s Markets because that’s exactly what it is, but what this little pansy assed high school kid didn’t know is that my Malibu has got 200 horses under its hood that tend to get spooked and run whenever they see a green light. I smiled at him and looked forward, waiting for the light to change. My dad had always told me that my lead foot would either get me to the finish line at the Indy 500 or land me in jail. He said that it was up to me to control my talent for racing cars. I am able to make any automobile of any size bend and move to my will, and I can turn any vehicle into a finger of God by using it for either good or evil. So there is a huge amount of responsibility that weighs down on me every time my foot touches a gas pedal. I think most people would fall to their knees trying to carry a burden of that gravity, but somehow I manage to hold it while keeping my chin up.

 

The light turned green! Unbeknownst to the courageous driver of the S10 Blazer, I had shifted the intent of my Malibu monster into neutral. I revved my engine as loud as it could whilst going nowhere, and the Blazer zipped through the four-way crossing at speeds reaching twenty-five miles per hour. A police car turned the corner and followed him but I’m not sure if the kid was pulled over or not. I wasn’t in the mood for racing tonight. For fuck’s sake I have to go to work at 8:00AM tomorrow and my heart would have been pounding well into the midnight hour if I had gotten myself wrapped up in a heated battle between V6 engines before going to bed. Also, I’m not twelve and racing mediocre cars is the only thing that’s gayer than receiving anal sex. And when I got home, I found my debit card in the pocket of my gym shorts.

 

Speaking of anal sex, a man shot up a movie theater during the midnight showing of Batman last night. I’m calling it “The Dark Knight Crisis”. It happened at the Century 16 Theater that was just up the road from where I used to live. It’s really fucked up because three of the known victims were a six-year-old girl, a nine-year-old girl, and a three-month-old baby. What’s even more fucked up is that it was a midnight showing of a three-hour movie and parents were taking their adolescent and nearly newborn children to see it. I blame the psycho for the shooting but I blame the shooting of the children on the economy, because children wouldn’t have been at the theater if the parents would have had enough money to pay for babysitters. But really, that fucking nutcase should be sentenced to having his eyeball removed with a soupspoon and then skull fucked by Shaquille O’ Neil four times per week until Shaq can’t get it up anymore, and then Chris Brown would take Shaq’s place. That’s a weird punishment, but I really would like to grab that guy by the neck, look him in the eye, and tell him, “I really-really-really wanted to see The Dark Knight Rises in the theater, and now you’ve made me want to wait until it comes out on DVD!”

 

That isn’t funny, because what that guy did was extremely fucked up.

Dear Facebook Diary (7/15/12)

Dear Facebook Diary,

If masturbation kills brains cells then I will be a single celled living organism by the middle of August. That is my final comment about this monotonous summer. What I would really like to talk about is public restrooms and more specifically the topic of relieving oneself in public restrooms. You see, I work at Jack Hannah’s Smoked Animal Planet across from the UNK campus and there is no faculty only restroom that patrons are restricted from using. There is only the men’s and women’s restrooms and no other logical choice of where a fellow employee or I can choose to relinquish our body wastes. We are relegated to pissing and pooping in the same commodes as the overweight flesh-eating peons that visit the barbeque boat on a regular basis.

Today was one of the Saturdays in which I worked from dawn till dusk. These long workdays are usually easy to handle and despite my being a devout health fanatic in both my physical and nutritional habits, I tend to eat like a pre-diabetic six year old on these longer working days. I never drink pop but I will eat anything that isn’t considered to be poison by the FDA. I starved myself for most of the day, consuming only a protein shake and my super secret high-powered branch chain amino acid drink that tastes like apple juice. This lasted me until around 7:00pm. Then the boss man showed up with two containers of Qdoba nachos. This was an extremely odd coincidence because I had been describing my strange hunger for nachos to my fellow crewmates earlier and then the finest nachos not found in Mexico had appeared in our workspace only a few short hours later.  I thought that I had sampled every nacho recipe under the sol, but apparently I had never eaten Qdoba nachos before tonight. These nachos were amazing in both their flavor and texture. There was warm cheese and meat hidden in crevices that could only be known by these nacho’s most intimate loved ones, and yet there I was discovering these hidden gems with my tongue and taste buds. I told myself that I would only eat a small portion of these nachos but instead I ate roughly one and a half of the only two containers that were offered to us. So good… these nachos were so fucking good.

I’m guessing that these nachos had not been thoroughly inspected by the U.S. Customs and Border Protection when they entered America because the nachos impregnated me with an entire litter of brown-back boa constrictors less than an hour after consuming them. Luckily the restaurant was empty so I had no reservations about using the public shitbox to birth the anxious plumber snakes. I entered the toilet office and sat down on the thrown.

I will tell you right away that nothing special happened while I was in the men’s room spending half an hour pouring Mexican cement into the toilet. I just wanted to build up some tension in this story and I also find lowbrow dick and fart jokes to be hilarious when delivered correctly, so I am in constant pursuit of perfecting them. Anyway, I was trapped in the single toilet stall with nothing more than stench and my thoughts. I became fully aware of the constant anxiety that takes place while defecating in a public restroom. Peeing in a public restroom is tough enough; even I get stage fright when there is a line of people behind me waiting to use the restroom. But producing dung in a public restroom creates a whole new world of paranoia while the action of pooping is taking place. The slightest sound or inclination that the door might open or someone is in the room will cause even the most hardened poopers to freeze and force the prairie dog back into hiding, causing discomfort and possibly the complete inability to resume pooping after the sound has been dismissed as something meaningless and non-human. In fact, the combination of Qdoba nachos and a restroom could be used as a humane torture device to obtain important information from terrorist. The interrogator could offer Qdoba nachos to their target as a means of relaxing the terrorist. Members of al-Qaeda and people racked with insanity are known for having the ability to withhold all information during all means of torture but nobody on Earth can resist Qdoba nachos. Coffee could also be given to hasten the interrogation process. After the terrorist is relaxed and some friendly conversation has taken place, the terrorist would soon feel the intestinal wrath of the tasty dish, as it is my personal experience that Qdoba nachos hold allegiance to no one because they will turn on their consumer without notice. Then the interrogator would allow their target to use the restroom but the bathroom must have a door that is unable to be locked. The terrorist would rock back and forth with horrendous anxiety as they nervously held back the huge release and lowered their thunder to tiny pops and squeaks due to their concern of someone possibly entering the bathroom. Then after five minutes the interrogator would storm into the bathroom and immediately barrage the terrorist with questions about future plans of terrorism and any other naughty stuff that terrorists think about. The terrorist would tell the interrogator everything just to make the interrogator leave them in peace so that they may finish their poop in private. I know that if someone had entered the bathroom and asked me the most personal questions hidden within me, I would have bared my soul just to make them leave the fucking bathroom so I could finish pooping.

This is a stupid post. I was just thinking out loud. I suppose I’ll look at porn and have a vodka tonic now.

Dear Facebook Diary 7/13/12

Dear Facebook Diary,

I am finally on the descending side of the hump of this incredibly boring summer. Aside from a somewhat random and semi blind date two weeks ago, in which my underwear and a form fitting t-shirt that was very flattering to my pectoral development was lost in the Platte River and I spent the next day pulling splinters out of various parts of my body, nothing newsworthy has happened to me this summer. I suppose English died. That was sad.

English was a cactus that I had owned for the past two years. I gave him the name of English because he was shaped like a penis and any normal mongoloid would have named him Dick or Fuckstick, but I named him English because he had a little curve on his helmet. So if he had been a penis then he would have been a shwanger with a little English on him. He contracted Pichia Heedii, or cactus rot, while I was spending a weekend at Ron and Connie’s house taking care of their dogs, and the disease gradually ate at him for about five or six weeks before he finally split from his root and a greenish slime oozed from his waistline where the disease had eaten through the equator of his polar hemispheres. On Sunday, I decided that it was time for me to dispose of his carcass. I dumped him along with his soil into the alley behind my apartment. When English was saying adiós to his familia in Mexico, I doubt he would have ever predicted that his lifeless body would be lying in a pile of dirt and gravel in an unkempt alley in nowhere Nebraska only two and a half years later. It’s funny that his name was English because I’m sure that all cacti only speak Spanish or maybe Portuguese if they’re from further south. I already miss the spiny bastard because now I have no one to talk to or silently stare at while I stand in my kitchen drinking coffee and wearing nothing but a pair of socks every morning. Now I stare at his empty pot and faintly smile while a single tear roles down my cheek as I remember the many one-way conversations that we had over the past two years. Vaya con dios Inglés, vaya con dios.

I am fully engaged in meathead mode again. I still only lift weights three days per week but now I’m pushing some serious fucking iron and neither me nor my bulging quadriceps are giving a flying fuck about the consequences. Whenever I step out of the shower I check my progress in the full-length mirror in my bathroom. My body is looking mighty swole and my head is looking smaller by the day, so I know that I’m making progress in my physique enhancing efforts. My boulder shoulders appear to be swallowing my ever-thickening neck in an attempt to completely absorb my head into my torso, creating that meathead toad look that all women find irresistible.

Aside from the iron pumping and my daily walk in which I bathe my muscles in sunshine, and working nearly everyday, I have been a total hermit this summer. I workout, I work, I sip some totties, and I sleep. That is an overly detailed summery of my summer. I have fully formed the habit of having a drink or five to calm my nerves before bed each night, and perhaps that habitual seed could one day fully blossom into a sensual blue orchid of alcoholism. I consider working out to be my form of meditation and drinking to be my way of stepping back and contemplating my next move. Before you can stand up you have to be knocked down, and when life is going too easy and not knocking me down, I knock myself down with vodka tonics that have a squirt of lime juice in them, it is the best way to knock myself down. I only see drinking as a problem when an individual is unable to wait until sunset before they partake in the process of getting shitfaced. I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up in the Midwest or because I have encountered so many human pieces of shit in my life, but people that are drunk during the middle of the day are scum. I live a block away from the college campus and every damn day when I am either walking to work or getting my cardio on, I see groups of college douche bags sitting around baby pools and being completely sloshed at like one in the afternoon, on a fucking Wednesday. I know that for the year or two after I drank my first beer I was mesmerized by the act of being drunk but these fucktards are either twenty-one or damn near being twenty-one and they are still acting like they drank their first beer yesterday. Also, why don’t they have jobs? I’ve been working steady ever since the age of fourteen and now these fucking adolescent acting shit heels are lounging around at all hours of the day getting drunk and making my already shitty neighborhood look more like the projects.

This Facebook Diary has been completely meaningless, just like my summer. But I am becoming a meathead and an alcoholic at the same time. I see nothing wrong with either of these and hope to maintain my progress. Drinking is a great way to pass the time and it can be a wonderful technique in finding some purpose in life. As I told my friend Sam, “The best view of life is seen from below and alcohol can give you that point of view. Besides, even when you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward.” That saying rings true in both the physical and metaphorical sense.