Dear Facebook Diary 6/26/13

I have reason to believe that the facial expressions an individual makes while undergoing strenuous exercise are the same facial expressions that they would make during intense sexual intercourse. This is just one of the reasons that I try to avoid working out with family members and male friends, but I will gladly pump iron with another if I feel that a fit little lady is interested in being my spotter while I flex my nuts or if money is involved. On the rare occasions that I leave my miniaturized home gym for the bro infested UNK gym that’s filled with rimjobbers curling in the squat rack and questions of how much do I bench, I spend more time staring at the lady lifters’ faces rather than their asses. I find it more arousing and creepier to study their facial contortions while they exercise to get an idea of how a gasm-spasm would affect them instead of ogling their asses with simple thoughts of “I gonna put my baby in dat”. Yesterday I watched of Asians squint and squawk as they did their reg presses and then warking runges across the gym, managing to get in everyone’s way. The gym is not the only place where I am able to see people flaunting their O-faces in public; I also get to see unintentional sexual shivers at my favorite place on Earth, Wal-Mart.

So the other night I went to Wal-Mart at around 10:30PM to buy some eggs, tonic water, and frozen vegetables, but I came home with sweet potatoes and a lawn chair instead. There is a surprising array of characters that can be seen shopping at a Nebraska Wal-Mart during the store’s late restocking hours. Between the heavyweights that are pushing loaded dollies and zombies pushing floor sweepers about the store, the college students that put off grocery shopping until they’re about to go to bed and realize that they have nothing to eat the next day, and the unmoving mouth breathers that I see in the bread isle leaning on their cart and gasping for air due to their physical exhaustion from blinking, Wal-Mart is like an all night sexual orgy where nobody takes their clothes off.  Labored grunts and panting echo throughout the mother-store due to the emptiness of the great fortress at night. These people are interesting, but there is another group of late night shoppers that I find mysterious. These are the shoppers that bring their young children to the store. I have no fucking understanding of this whatsoever because more often than not it is a couple with their adolescent or pre-adolescent children hobbling through Wal-Mart with a cart full of Mountain Dew and Pop-Tarts way past the time that a child of that age should be in bed. Christ alive, I especially see no reason why both of the parents have to be at the store with the kids at that time of night. Couldn’t one of the parents run to the store to buy their diabetes ammunition while the other one acts responsible by staying home to put the kids to bed?

So I’m looking at the frozen vegetables and decide that sweet potatoes sound more appealing. While spending 5 hours trying to get one of those little clear plastic baggies to open so I could fill it with nutrient dense sweet potatoes I think about how the shit kicking redneck fag-enablers that live upstairs are gone for the summer, so I should buy a lawn chair to sit on their stoop and sip some la-la when the weather’s nice. I spent another 5 hours searching every goddamn isle of Wal-Mart’s vast womb for lawn chairs before realizing that they are located in the effing Garden Center. So I went into the Carrot Cottage and grabbed a glorious metal and green plastic lawn chair that I believe had been hanging on the wall since 1986. I chose green because that is my favorite color and it was the only color that was left.

As I left the Flower Tower and walked past the diet pills and protein powders situated in front of the pharmacy, which is placed there as an island of hope for the gravity challenged customers and as a way for lord Wal-Mart to suck more money out of their candy bar funds after they purchase their insulin and adult diapers for their Olestra leaking anuses at the pharmacy. Drooling and gazing at the bottles of dietary miracles was a female ambulocetus and a calicothere bull with their two young offspring, a Caucasian male Pac-Man and a cross-eyed little girl that made Somalians look like fat asses. Normally I wouldn’t have said anything but the mom was looking at the Hydroxycut bullshit so I said, “Don’t waste your money, all of that stuff is a hoax.” The family circus act rotated their heads towards me to see me wearing my sleeveless workout shirt and my fucking creatine breathing bicep veins pumping with anticipation of curling anyone that questions my nutrition factoids and the look on their round ET shaped heads was one of belief, and trust.

“What should we buy then?” Garbled the motherload.

“None of that stuff. You’re better off buying coffee or green tea and replacing a meal with one of them. That way you get an energy boost while taking in less calories.” I replied while making my pecs dance and my eyebrows bounce.

“But I ain’t a be a done a drinkin’ no a coffay or a grain tay.” Said the 7-year-old boy that weighed more than a high schooler. Perhaps these children slept during school hours to receive the higher learning of Wal-Mart at night.

I looked at the family’s cart to see it overflowing with generic two liter bottles of Wal-Mart pop, TV dinners, and fucking chocolate chip Pop-Tarts. You have either hit the lowest point in your life or you need to get out of bed before noon if you fucking eat chocolate for breakfast. Besides, if you don’t like strawberry Pop-Tarts then you are what is wrong with this country.

Anyway, I looked at the little sugar filled moron and said, “Well if you switch out the regular pop for diet pop then you cut around 100 calories from each glass, and if you eat an apple or peanut butter on toast you’ll get a lot more out of breakfast and it’s just as easy to make.” I had reached a new lowly level of fitness nerd by touting this simple knowledge at a Wal-Mart late at night, but this information appeased the herd. They immediately turned away from the miracle bottles and began to walk with me towards the checkout lanes and the produce isle that is beyond them.

The female earthquake had a smile on her face and the lurching male stared off into space. Actually when I come to think of it, I believe the father had his eyes closed the entire time. And both the small moon and the gaunt little girl grabbed my lawn chair to help me carry it to the checkout lane. That is when I was forced to lay witness to the O-faces of two underage children.

This majestic green lawn chair weighed all of ten pounds, maybe less, and these two underage genetic mutations were struggling with all of their might to carry it. The fat kid’s stomach was jiggling beneath his Spiderman shirt and the cross-eyed girl’s eyes went straight as they both gritted their teeth and broke a sweat carrying this chair that weighed less than my paycheck, and then the momma manatee joined in to help. Her along with the two child sized boogers that fell out of her vagina were squinting and grimacing while fighting the gravitational field of this tiny fucking lawn chair. Due to my knowledge of the gasm-spasm face’s direct correlation to the excruciating labor face, I was forced to view an incestuous ménage a trois of orgasms as I walked to the checkout lane. Sexually speaking, neither the Mr. Cox that lives upstairs nor the Mr. Cox that lives downstairs was happy to see this, and all three of their eyes burned with displeasure. I grabbed the chair from them with one hand and said, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I am still uneasy about the orgy that I witnessed at Wal-Mart. I am trying to avoid thinking about it too much because it was disgusting and if my mind finds some sort of a resolve to it then I might end up with some sort of weird sexual fetish that would make my mating ambitions even more bizarre and upsetting to others. So I am trying to forget this incident entirely.

Well, I am now sitting in my comfy green lawn chair sipping on some healthy Propel vitamin powder mixed with water and a hearty splash of Platinum Vodka.  And as far as that girl from Okcupid that was pulling on my heart strings goes, I spent an entire 2 minutes typing out this whole, “Hey how ya doin’? Welp, OK. Ya like my dick pic? Alright then, see ya later!” type of message and the heartless whore hasn’t even given me a response yet. Trifling cunt, I hope she dies of ass cancer.

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Dear Facebook Diary 6/19/13

Dear Facebook Diary,

Talk about a shitty day. The stock market dropped 206 points, Tony Soprano died, obesity was officially labeled as being a disease, my back is hurting again and I’ve spent most of the day trapped in my crappy Wal-Mart wannabe Lazy Boy chair due to back spasms, I have been unable to exercise for over a week, and I am bored as all hell. I have spent the day raping random online contestants in Scrabble and playing other free online games, watching Internet movies on lobstertube, drinking three pots of coffee, consuming protein shakes and eating air-popped popcorn, reading the book “Think and Grow Rich”, and filling out a detailed profile of myself on Okcupid. Because nothing makes me think about love more than painful and sudden electric-like spasms coursing through my lower back which cause me to suddenly throw my laptop or cup of coffee across the room. I also told my landlord to do whatever he wanted with the air conditioning this summer as the conditioning command box is upstairs and I have no access to it and I figured that I would not be home for most of the summer; apparently his decision was to turn the air conditioner off.

I have joined and been banned from numerous dating websites. I was Tyrell Bogginz on Blackplanet.com, Omega_Jew_9000 on Jdate.com, Havin Bin Shavin on Singlemuslim.com, Willow Ufgood on Shortpassions.com, I was Kellen Heller as well as Herp Derperson on a website for the mentally disabled called Nolongerlonely.com, and the list goes on. Apparently making fake profiles and leading people on is called “catfishing”, and I was unaware of this until fairly recent. I never used these phony profiles for financial gain or to do more than send stupid online messages. I just considered it a way to have fun while sitting on my ass and playing off of other peoples’ naïveté. However, I made a real profile on Okcupid as well as illustrating it with an actual picture of myself as opposed to finding a picture of a nerd or neckbeard on some random forum or bodybuilding.com. That was a very important decision as I rarely post actual pictures of myself online and I have very few pictures of myself to begin with. I suppose it was because I browsed through some local ladies that had profiles on the website and I… I… I fell in love. I dare not say her name, as I do not wish to jinx the imaginary love connection between us, but when the cosmos aligned my index finger to clicking on her profile I viewed a beautiful photo of an athletic young woman within my age range that had given funny and nonsensical answers to all of the personality questions. Out of boredom, I answered 152 personality questions while polishing off another pot of coffee and after I had finished I found that my new online damsel and I had an 87% match! I quote the great John Beckwith when he stated that, “True love is the soul’s recognition of its counterpoint in another”, and it is exhilarating to know that I have found my counterpoint. Now I must muster up the seemingly insurmountable amount of courage that it will take to send her an online message or give her a ‘wink’ or ‘like’ or whatever the hell Okcupid uses to let someone know you’re digging what they’re laying down. What do I do? Do I write her a poem? Should I send her a picture of my penis? Should I ask her if she wants to meet for coffee or food?

Due to my poor standing with the universe, it’s most likely a fake profile or she is using a picture taken before her body lost its battle with the debilitating disease known as obesity. Besides, I rarely date and there’s little reason to break my dateless streak while living in Nebraska. Some have wondered if I have shunned the love of women but my love life is more akin to that of a hermit rather than a homo. Whatever, I’m going to sip on a toddy while showering my stinky body and then I’m gonna sweep this bitch off her feet with some sexy typing techniques. By the way, it is 84.6 degrees in my apartment right now and this red-hot online love is only going to make those numbers climb.

Dear Facebook Diary 6/14/13

I have a goal of one day working in the entertainment industry and technically my summer job has opened the door into the technical side of entertainment. As previously stated I am working for Suitable Sounds and Light Signals in Magnifico Isla this summer and it is wreaking havoc on my body. I actually enjoy physical labor as I am an enthusiastic meathead gym-jock, and I know that nothing can soften the hands and heart of a man faster than an easy paycheck, but I am getting pretty goddamn tired of spending 24 hours a day feeling as if my lower spine will snap by picking up my TV remote or pushing hard against a dry shit. The job pays okay and it has led me to being able to rub elbows with some moderately famous people, but the means to achieving a victory are as important as the victory itself. In other words, I am not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze.

It’s only a summer job and I have no real commitment to these people but I have this issue with loyalty whenever I take on a job. I was originally told that I would only work a concert every weekend or every other weekend, as well as loading and unloading the semi trailers before and after shows if I wanted some more money. However, it is quickly devolving into my working 8-16 hour shifts everyday for over a week at a time. I prevented this from happening to me this week by vomiting from either heat or exhaustion while at work the other day and now I am spending some time in Denver at my brother’s house until I feel like going back. Speaking of back, that is the real issue here. I royally deadlifted my lower back into oblivion three years ago, causing the dislocation of my L2 vertebrae and further fucked-up-ed-ness to the surrounding spine stuff. My doctor recommends my looking into having two of my vertebrae fused together and my chiropractor enjoys laying me on a table and escorting me through snap city every few weeks. Since my accident while trying to deadlift the Earth, I have managed to bring my body back to an outstanding example of how weight lifting and a consistent diet of protein and alcohol can raise the human body into the zenith of human physical capability and fitness. My boss at this job told me that I should stop working out in my free time so I would have more energy at work. He also said that he could run further than me despite the fact that he’s ten years older and smokes a pack of cigarettes or more everyday. I smiled but he wasn’t joking. Pffft, nigger please. I am by no means a speedy runner but I have the endurance of a nuclear submarine and this guys looks like he couldn’t outrun a dead animal.

That is the other thing about this fucking “part time” summer job. Other than about three people and the guys that run the place, I am working with people that have accepted their places at the absolute bottom of America’s social class system and they have no plans of ever leaving it. To me, a $500 check is not a pant-shitting amount of money. It’s enough to make me interested but in terms of spending it’s more like a weekend that got a little out of hand rather than a life changing amount of greenbacks. These other guys think that it’s enough to permanently sacrifice one’s body for and the only advice they have about me and my aching back is that I should “be a man and work through the pain”. There is a world of difference between living in the moment and living like there is no future, and these people tend to live the latter, which ultimately ends with them never creating any kind of a future for themselves. I have much more grit when it comes to getting what I want.

Okay, I’m done bitching for now. I am currently sitting in my brother’s guesthouse-turned-office in his backyard. My sister in law is working at the hospital and my nephew is inside with his nanny. My nephew, Liam, is two and a half years old and although I have not seen him since Easter he still remembers my name and worships the ground that I walk on. As soon as I arrived and exited the car yesterday he shouted “Luke!” and ran to me with his favorite book of cars and trucks. He then knelt before me with his head down, holding the book above his head in front of me as an offering of peace and his recognition of my powers. Then he grabbed my hand and showed me the lawnmower and I couldn’t really understand what he was saying. We’ve been playing cars and putting stickers on his little work desk as well as playing in the dirt and shit in the backyard. I tend to connect with kids because I made a conscious choice to never grow up while I was still immature enough to make those kinds of decisions. Everyone in my family is encouraging me to use my writing skills to make a living and I’m beginning to take it to heart. Writing and being a muscle bound fucking badass covered with cock veins and chock full of creatine are the only things that have ever stood out as natural talents to me. Oh, and being good with kids I suppose. Well anyway, my goal is to now exploit those talents to get me into the entertainment business or to just be my own boss. I will still graduate with a theatre degree from UNK, but not with the intentions of permanently working for someone else’s dream. My goal is to not be someone else’s bitch for a meager paycheck, but to become the man that my nephew thinks I am.

Dear Facebook Diary 6/6/13

This will be a very short entry as I am about to leave for Counsel Bluffs in 20 minutes to set up a Trace Adkins concert for tomorrow. I have permanently shoved off from my duty as Almirante of the Lucia y’ Javier Barbeque Armada and am currently spending my summer being employed at Confident Audibility and Illumination in Grand Island as a low-born minion, also known as a stagehand. This job pays fairly well but requires a ridiculous amount of physical labor and travelling. Although I am free from working the traditional Monday through Friday, nine to five schedule; I do work quite a bit and the work that I do is straight up prison level manual labor. I am also at the very bottom of the food chain in terms of status but the job has its perks.

 

 

            I spent this past weekend doing backstage grunt work for the Kings of the Mic tour in Council Bluffs and then the Black Crowes the next night. The first concert was a quartet of quadragenarians from the 90’s comprised of the African American rappers De La Soul, Ice Cube, Public Enemy, and LL Cool J while the crowd was comprised of every black stereotype known to America. A turbo-ghetto hoochie wearing a skintight full body $100 bill suit was pulled backstage and danced for me during the entire first show. I have never been to a rap concert before as I always believed that they would be a somewhat boring orgy of speaking ebonics and pick pocketing. However, I was wrong. Ice Cube and Public Enemy rocked the stage harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. I even fist bumped Ice Cube backstage and shook hands and said “hello” to Flavor Flav and Chuck D. Despite their Caucasian hating lyrics, Public Enemy were the nicest guys in the world.

 

 

            The Black Crowes rocked even harder. The crowd was larger despite the freezing ass rain and 30 mile per hour winds. I labeled most of their drum cases and shit for them because they were leaving for Europe the next day and wouldn’t have time to do it themselves, but the guys were still douche bags. I could care less how dickish any of the bands are because I still get to stay at the Marriot and eat catered meals all day. It’s nice.

 

 

What really sucks is that I lift weights often and it shows. So whenever it comes to lifting something heavy, everyone looks at me. I fucking hate that because I became a muscle wizard to get all the maidens and hat tips, not to break my back for chain smokers and a paycheck. My lower back is hurting again and if I blow it out then I’ll have to find a new job for the rest of the summer and I won’t be able to workout for another month or however long. So please pray for my lower back this weekend.

And don’t pay attention to the picture above this. It’s racist as all hell but I thought it was hilarious.