A couple of weeks ago, I received my first jury summons.  Nothing says, “Okay, you’re old now” like a jury summons!  Anyway, it was my first one ever, and it was making me kind of nervous.  Part of me thought, “Wow, maybe this will be exciting and thought provoking, like that movie, [insert name of formulaic courtroom drama here].”  But the other part of me thought, “No, it will probably be disturbing and painful like that movie Jury Duty” (Yes, I pretty much stole that joke from “The Simpsons”).

       Long story short, I was selected as a member of the jury.  I’m not allowed to talk about the case, but I will anyway, because who ever looks at the internet anyway?  Nobody, that’s who. 

       Besides, with my involvement in such a landmark case, how could I possibly keep quiet about it?  This case has the potential to change the way we look at the institution of marriage in this country.  People v. Dorfberg and Twinkles will challenge everything I’ve ever thought about the right of two adults to be wed in a civil union in this state, and possibly the entire nation.  This is not just about gay marriage, although that’s part of it.  The actual details are much more strange.

       Arlen Dorfberg has lived an unconventional life, indeed.  As a young boy of 7, Mr. Dorfberg was “lost” in the wild while on a family trip to Uganda.  Dorfberg’s family would later admit that they purposefully left their son in the rain forest because, as Arlen’s father revealed in court today, “What, you want we should have kept him?  His face looks like a ruben sandwich!”

       On his own in the wild, Arlen Dorfberg would normally have perished within days, but he was found and raised by a family of common chimpanzees.  Dorfberg would thrive with the chimps, even reaching one of the highest positions in their social order up until he was discovered by a group of poachers ten years later.  Remarkably, Dorfberg still remembered the English language and was able to tell the poachers his name and his home state of New Jersey.  The poachers offered to take Dorfberg to the nearest U.S. embassy, but this is where the complications began.

       Because of his full immersion into ape culture, Dorfberg had selected a mate from his family of chimpanzees.  What’s more, Arlen’s mate was a male whom he had christened “Mr. Twinkles.”  It is well documented that chimpanzee society is much more tolerant of alternative lifestyles than human society, but now, with all of the other chimps slaughtered by the poachers, that point was moot.  Arlen Dorfberg had managed to save Mr. Twinkles through unorthodox methods.  For the next several weeks, Dorfberg would carry Mr. Twinkles around everywhere he went, the chimp safely nestled in Dorfberg’s ass.

      After smuggling Mr. Twinkles into the United States in his anal cavity, Dorfberg then moved to a remote area of west Texas to live in peace with the love of his life.  All seemed well, but, after time, Mr. Twinkles became despondent.  Dorfberg at first thought that Mr. Twinkles was just upset that the rest of his family’s skulls were now being used as ashtrays, but Mr. Twinkles would reveal that this was not the issue at all.

       “Look, Arlen,” Mr. Twinkles said.  “We’ve been together now for going on eleven years, but we have to keep our love a secret.  I hate having to live as if our love for each other is something to be ashamed of!  I want you to marry me, Arlen, so that we can screech our love from the treetops for all to hear!”

       After some deep thought, Dorfberg came to the realization that Mr. Twinkles was right.  If a man and a gay chimpanzee could not be openly and legally married in this nation, well, something is wrong with this nation!  Dorfberg then took Mr. Twinkles to the local District Clerk’s office to file for a marriage license.

       After Dorfberg was released from prison on bail a few days later, he realized that this would be a long and arduous legal battle, one that would test his resolve and his stamina.  Armed with nothing more than his gay chimp love and a high-powered attorney, Phineas J. Turtlebottom, Esq., Dorfberg and Mr. Twinkles have just begun their journey through the long, dark corridors of the legal system.  It should prove to be thought-provoking, exciting, and a little disgusting!  I’ll keep you updated as the case progresses!

       Actually, I did receive a jury summons, but the case had nothing to do with chimpanzees, to my knowledge.  Also, I wasn’t really selected for the panel.  That’s probably for the best.   I’ve got issues.

BROWNSVILLE, TX (AP) - As the residents of Brownsville, Texas brace for the arrival of Category 2 Hurricane Dolly today, a sect of adventure seekers has a different take.  While may residents are have packed up their most prized possessions and are fleeing for their lives, these self-styled “adrenaline junkies” have a different idea:  go to Brownsville, and find the perfect wave.

This group of young men, their ages varying from 18 to 32, travel the world in search of the perfect crest.  They are extreme surfers, and their quest is to find the biggest, “gnarliest” wave imaginable so that they may ride it on their wooden or fiberglass boards, which they refer to as “surf boards.” 

The leader of this unusual group of men, 30 year old “Moonie” Gomez, has visited over 75 countries in his lifetime searching for the perfect wave, but his quest has brought him little more than pain and heartache.

“It’s been a rough ride, brah,” Gomez said, “but you just gotta keep on searching, and keep on f-ckin’ surfin’, ya know what I mean, dude?”

When asked where he took the inspiration for his dangerous lifestyle, Gomez revealed that his entire life has been modeled after the surfers featured in the 1991 film Point Break. 

“Before I saw that film, I was pretty lost, ya know?” Gomez said.  “My life was pretty much an endless stream of hookers and blow, and I was only 13 years old at the time!  But when I saw Patrick Swayze acting all harsh and sh-t in that flick, man, I knew I had found my calling.”

Gomez then made it his life’s quest to travel the world, following storms around the globe in order to ride the largest wave ever encountered by a surfer.  Joined by friends from his life before and others he has picked up along the way, Gomez has seen the size of his group grow and shrink with each new adventure.

“We’ve lost a bunch of guys throughout the years.  Fuzzy, Ramblin’ Joe, Nugget, Floppy, Dave, Sleepy Dave, Dirty Dave, Patchouli Dave, Smelly Dave, Argyle, Monkey Nutz, Dizzy, Fudgepacker, Boozehound, Potsmoker, Professor Cornbluth, Homeskillet, Homey, Homeboy, Bonkers, Foggy Bottom, Stoner, Old Smokey, and Dr. Fartypants.  Those were some solid dudes, ya know?  They died with a smile on their faces, though.

“When we rode the waves into New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, man, everyone called us f-ckin’ crazy, but those were some killer waves!  Oh, shit!  I guess they really were killer waves!  That’s kinda funny!  What, too soon?”

Gomez had similar insensitive jokes to tell about his experiences riding the tsunami into Thailand, as well as Hurricane Rita and many other natural disasters.  Gomez, however, does not consider “disaster” to be a fitting word for these events.

“Look, I know that some people died or whatever in all of these events, but I lost friends too.  Sloppy Balls McGee, Foolie, Tweeker, Twat, Bungaloe Joe, Dr. Fartypants Jr., Wacky Will, Turdbutt, Sonny, Cher, the Queefy Twins, Cholera Bob, Dickhead, Poon, Gay Wonder, Wembley, Gobo, Red, Boober.  But if any of those folks were alive today, they would tell you it was all worth it!”

As Gomez and his few remaining compadres (Fat Rob, Gaseous Jackson, and Wormhole) wandered out to the beach early this morning, surf boards in hand, they flashed the popular surfer hand gesture, thumb and pinky extended.  They then set their boards into the surf and waded out, seeking their dream of the perfect wave.

At last report, all four men drowned.

       I know I said in the last post of this series that I would be reviewing The Legend of Billie Jean, but I just don’t have the energy right now to accurately describe the highlight of that film: Yeardley Smith, the young actress who would later portray the voice of Lisa Simpson, getting her first period in the backseat of a station wagon.  Maybe later.  I feel that I’ve made it fairly clear on this blog that I’m lazy, so you’ll just have to wait.  Until then, imagine Lisa Simpson saying, “When can I get a diaphragm?” in an exaggerated southern accent.  That should tide you over, you disgusting perverts.

       No, for today’s review, I would like to revisit the year 1986.  This was another banner year for 80’s filmmaking, and yet another example of the kind of crap that people enjoyed in that worthless decade.  That year would actually see an Oliver Stone film, Platoon, winning Best Picture.  Granted, this was probably Stone’s best film, but still, he sucks, so it can be gleaned that 1986 was a sucky year for movies.  If that’s too much of a logical leap for you, may God have mercy on your soul.

       However, once again the Hollywood types ignored another masterfully made film that came out that year.  Apparently in 1986, if a film didn’t involve Vietnam, Woody Allen, deaf people, or the sexual tension between Tom Cruise and Paul Newman, it wasn’t good enough for Captain Oscar.  Well, screw you, Oscar!  How dare you overlook my pick for the greatest movie of 1986, a perfect blend of gymnastics and angst titled American Anthem.

       This glorious film was supposed to be the career launching pad and starmaking vehicle for 1984 men’s Olympic gold medalist and hearththrob Mitch Gaylord.  Yes, that’s his name.  I’m sure he’s heard all of the jokes before, so I won’t revisit any of them here.  The Lord of the Gays plays young Steve Tavere, a troubled ex-quarterback and former gymnast whose high school athletic career was cut short by an abusive father who broke Steve’s arm in a drunken rage.  He has since abandoned his gymnastic aspirations to work in his father’s motorcycle shop.  You can really tell that Steve is troubled because he wears a leather jacket, sunglasses, and rides a motorcycle. 

       One day, Steve breaks into his old gym to spy on the gymnastics team, where he discovers a new girl on the team, Julie (portrayed by Janet Jones).  Jones was 25 at the time this movie was made, but she already looked about ten years older, especially when compared to some of the tiny little gymnasts portrayed in the same film.  It probably doesn’t help that she’s a tall, leggy blond, something you don’t see much of in female Olympic gymnastics hopefuls.  Anyway, Steve makes Julie his girlfriend, and he is so inspired by her drive that he decides to get back in shape and try out for the national team.

       We now have the setup for some of the funniest scenes in movie history.  Steve trains for the olympic team on a homemade parallel bar that is suspended between two trees in the woods.  Oh yeah, and he likes to practice his routine at night in the middle of a huge rainstorm.  Wouldn’t it be fairly tough to keep a tight grip on a parallel bar in the middle of a monsoon?  Just asking.  At Steve’s first meet, he is so confident in his abilities that he decides to attempt the hardest dismount ever from the parallel bars.  Bad idea.  He instead smashes into his spotter’s head, leaving the spotter bloodied as Steve cringes sexily.

       The only other thing worth noting in this genius film is Julie’s floor routine.  Julie, a former dancer, argues repeatedly with her coach over the selected music, as her natural spunk and energy are stifled by the traditional and old fashioned music that her coach forces on her for her routine.  Well, not for this rebel!  Taking a page from Steve and his rebellious ways, Julie has her retarded cousin compose an awful bit of synthesized dance music and slips the tape to the judges just before her performance.  And, wouldn’t you know it, the shitty 80’s synthesizer music causes her to shine!  If you see this movie for nothing else, see it for her retarded cousin doing his goofy ass fist pumps in the audience while Julie performs.  That little monkey sure can act!  Act retarded, that is.

       Anyway, this whole movie is basically just an excuse to film Mitch Gaylord (snicker) looking hot and sweaty along with Janet Jones.  It’s pretty much like a 102 minute 80’s music video.  If that doesn’t convince you to run out and rent this film immediately, well…  okay, then you may have better taste than I thought.  But you do get to see Steve’s kid brother ride a 4-wheeler off of a cliff for no reason, so that’s always a bonus. 

         Enjoy the movie, suckers!

       I have a confession to make, and it’s something I’ve never shared with anyone.  For the last thirty years, I have lived with this dark secret, and it has been a constant struggle to hide it from everyone.  But I just feel so comfortable with you, blog.  It’s like I’ve known you forever, and I know you wouldn’t go telling anyone my deepest secrets.  It feels like I have this huge weight bearing down on me, getting heavier and heavier by the day, and the only way I can relieve this burden is to come clean and be honest with myself and with you, blog.  After months of soul searching, I think I’m finally ready to unchain this secret, let it out of the dark basement of my mind, and let it roam free in the sunlight of truth (by the way, that metaphor does not apply to the troop of Boy Scouts that are chained in my actual basement.  They will remain where they are).

       So what is this awful secret that I’ve been keeping for the last thirty years?  Okay, blog, I’ll tell you.  Although it has brought me incalculable heartache and struggle, I have been, and remain… illiterate.  There!  I said it!  Wow, I knew it would help to just get it out there, but I had no idea it would be this liberating!  Oh, truth, I welcome you into my life with open arms!  In fact, as we speak, I am listening to Journey’s classic tune “Open Arms” on my iTunes!  Thank you, Journey, for providing me with a proper soundtrack to today’s revelation.

       When I was in kindergarten, I remember when the teacher started grouping kids together in various color-coded groups based on intellectual ability and prior reading experience.  The smart kids or those freaks of nature who already knew how to read before kindergarten even began were placed in the gold group.  Next, there was the silver group, comprised of children of normal intelligence who were not disruptive and were willing to learn.  Third, we had the bronze group, those children who may have been a little dim and would probably need some extra guidance and attention to learn how to read.  My group was the brown group.  This is where they put the kids who wore helmets, threw blocks at the teacher, or repeatedly disrupted the class by constantly making fart noises with their armpits (me!).  Even the selected color choice for the group said, “You guys are the brown group.  What else is brown?  That’s right, shit!  Which is what you guys are!”  Even my young kindergarten mind was able to decipher that little implication.  So, while I was placed in a group with the feeble minded and disruptive kids, I was not in fact stupid.  No, the reason I didn’t learn to read?  I was lazy, and learning takes work.  And fuck that.  If no one is paying me, I ain’t working, and even then, I’ll only do a half assed job of it.  This lifelong commitment to laziness is what has led me to being illiterate for all of these years. 

       What’s that, blog?  You’re saying that this whole announcement is problematic?  How do I actually write a blog if in fact I am illiterate?  How do I read and then compose hilarious responses to the commenters on this blog if I can’t read at all?  Good questions, blog.  It’s good to know that you are really paying attention.

       You would be surprised, blog, how easy it is to get away with something like illiteracy in today’s modern world.  With all of the technological advances in computer software of the last few decades, I have had little trouble fooling everyone into believing that I can read and write.  Without giving away all of my secrets, let me just say that there are many available text-to-speech software programs on the market, as well as voice recognition dictating programs.  Who even needs to know how to read anymore when you can have a robotic voice lull you to sleep every night with the sweet cadence of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”  Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard iambic pentameter recited in the sweet voice of a piece of cold, unfeeling software!

       However, there are still areas where I have difficulty faking the ability to read.  Computers don’t really help you out much when you’re moving about in public, trying to decipher the evil witchcraft of words printed on a McDonald’s menu.  Luckily my fat ass has memorized that particular establishment’s listing of fine cuisine, but you can imagine how daunting it is to try new places.

       It can also be difficult when driving and trying to understand street signs.  I’ve gone through many a car due to my inability to distinguish a one way sign from a stop sign from a detour sign.  I’m surprised I’m still alive with the number of crashes I’ve been in.  And, let me tell you, blog, my insurance rates are through the fucking roof!  Why, just last week, I was driving down the highway, and I saw a weird orange rectangle on the side of the road inscribed with a bunch of black letters that formed nothing but gibberish in my willfully uneducated mind.  Well, it turns out that the sign said “DEAD END,” according to the traffic cop making the report later.  After smashing through some barricades, I ended up in a ditch with yet another totaled car, bringing my grand total to 17 vehicles crashed. 

       Anyway, I finally came up with a plan that might help me avoid more crashes in the future.  I know that there are some cars out there on the road that have signs on them that say “Student Driver.”  I wasn’t really sure what they looked like, but I knew they existed.  So I went down to the same used car lot where I purchase all of my vehicles, and I spoke to Ramón, my regular salesman.  Ramón may be the only person in the world besides you, blog, who knows my awful secret, but he’s always been really helpful.  I told him what I was looking for, and he offered to help.

       “I don’t have anything like that on the lot,” Ramón said, “but I’m sure we could help you out with something.  Maybe we could get a custom paint job for you and have that put on there.”

       My eyes welled up with tears.  “Thank you, Ramón.  You have always been so kind to me and so understanding of my illiteracy.  I’ve never felt like I could trust anyone as much as I trust you!”

       Ramón smiled, his capped gold tooth twinkling in the sunlight, and said, “Hey, man, it’s no problem!  I mean, if you can’t trust a used car salesman, who can you trust?”

       Truer words were never spoken.  Ramón hooked me up with a nice used pickup truck with the words “Student Driver” painted on the taligate.  As an added bonus, he even came up with the idea to paint the truck yellow so that it would stand out in traffic.  I have to tell you, blog, it works!  People definitely notice me!  Some keep away from me, while others point and stare, some laughing, some angry for some reason (I guess people don’t like student drivers!), and some honking their horns.  With Ramón’s help, I think I’ll be in good shape and not have to worry about buying another truck for a while.  I’m so proud of it, I’ll even post a picture below.  Thanks, Ramón!  And thank you, blog!

       I was supposed to post something very funny this afternoon.  I must apologize to all of you, but it’s not going to happen.  After consulting my legal team, I was informed that my disclaimer from yesterday was not legally binding, and I could still be held liable for any and all negative consequences that resulted from posting something too hilarious, so I will leave you instead with this joke:

       More thoughtful silence, this time from him. Eventually, in a puzzled tone he asks her….

       “You want Garlic Chicken Wif Snow Peas?”

       Tomorrow afternoon, this little insignificant post will be replaced with the most imaginative, magical, fantastical, hilarious story you have ever read in your lives.  There will be no mermaids, no unicorns, no magic beans, and no rainbows leading to a pot of gold, but still, it will be really fucking incredible.  You have been forewarned.  Your head may literally explode at the awesomeness of this one post, but it will be worth it. 

       Warning:  if you lose the ability to read after witnessing this incredible story, I cannot be held responsible.  Also, if you succumb to an unexplained case of incurable laughter, I absolve myself of any responsibility for your affliction.  You are an adult.  You are old enough to make your own choices, and if you think you can’t handle it, you should really think twice about reading what will be posted on this blog tomorrow.  I mean it.  You should consider the consequences of your own actions.  I’m not your mom or your dad, so I can’t tell you what to do. 

       Oh yeah, I guess I should also mention this: if your head does literally explode, that’s not my fault.  I’m tired of this litigious society that we live in today.  By not commenting on this post (the current one, not the fucking incredible one that you will see tomorrow, should you choose to partake in it under your own free will and through no coercion by yours truly), you have forfeited any liability on my part for any injury or psychological harm that may come to you by the reading of my post tomorrow.  Through your own silence, you agree to not sue me or seek any other form of compensation from me due to the results of your foolhardy decision to go through with reading tomorrow’s post.

       In addition, I absolutely cannot be held responsible for any cleaning bills associated with your reading of tomorrow’s post.  Should your uncontrollable laughter and perhaps permanent stupor cause you to lose control of any of your bodily functions, whether it be controlling your bladder, your bowels, or your gag reflexes, I will not be liable for any resulting laundry, dry cleaning, or upholstery treatment bills associated with your inability to keep from shitting yourself.  For real, people, you might want to reconsider reading tomorrow’s post.  It may be for your own good.

       I also will take no responsibilty for any medical bills that may result from your poor decision to read tomorrow’s post.  If you have to go to the “funny farm” or “loony bin” or “wacky hut” or “cracker box” or “place where they put people who are fucking wicked crazy out of their freaking gourds,” that’s your problem, not mine. 

       Along with the whole psychological aspect, I will also not be responsible for any bodily harm that may come to you should you decide to read the upcoming story.  If you decide to take your own life because you realize that you will never again witness anything as beautiful ever again and that the rest of your life will be but a futile struggle to once again regain the joy that you felt on that one magical day (tomorrow) that you read the best thing you’ve ever read in your life, that’s your own thing.  You did it, not me.  I’ve been more than fair in providing this little disclaimer.  The same thing goes for if you become a weird little retard because you are so happy after reading the post (coming tomorrow!) that you decide nothing would be more fun than going to play in traffic and you get hit by a car and end up losing multiple limbs and part of your jaw and half of your cerebral cortex and maybe a kidney and your appendix and the memory of how your mom’s hair smelled when you were a child and some or all of your sexual organs/functions.  Not my fault.

       Be practical here, people, that’s all I’m saying.  Do you have a heart condition?  Are you pregnant?  Is there a history of cancer, diabetes, high blood pressure, alcoholism, or sleep apnea in your family?  If the answer to any of these questions is “yes,” you might want to consider refraining from reading tomorrow’s post.  If the answer is “no,” you still might want to consider refraining.  My writing has been known to cause all of the above conditions in lab rats, lab monkeys, and cute little fuzzy bunnies. 

       If, after reading tomorrow’s post, you find yourself afflicted with herpes, HIV, chlamydia, pubic lice, gonorrhea, genital warts, syphillis, or any other various STDs or UTIs, I cannot assume responsibility for your filthiness.  Also, if you find yourself pergnant, don’t look at me.  I was wearing a condom, remember?

       I think that about covers it.  You have been fully briefed about all of the possible negative consequences of reading the story that I will post tomorrow afternoon.  Still, it’s gonna be really fucking good!  I think the risk is worth it, but that’s just me.  I also think you would be a giant pussy if you decided not to read tomorrow’s post, and you’d probably spend the rest of your life wondering how awesome it would have been if you had just decided to take a chance and read the greatest story ever told (not the Bible).  But no pressure from me!  Do what you want.

       So tune in tomorrow…  if you’ve got the balls!

       Hey, guys!  I’m so excited right now because I just read this article about an amazing new show on television, and I can’t wait to see it!  Thank god for the media, always keeping abreast of the latest and greatest TV shows for those of us too busy or too stupid (or too busy!) to keep up with today’s trends! 

       Okay, now that I’m through being scathingly sarcastic, what year is this again?  2008?  Because I could have sworn by the way this moron is gushing on and on and on about “Family Guy” that it was 1999.  You know, nine frigging years ago when this show was actually new.  Ooo, how subversive of this guy to actually admit that he likes “Family Guy!”  It’s not like it’s one of the most popular animated shows on television or anything.  Moron.

       The guy who wrote the article is named “Frazier,” too.  I bet he named himself after the title character from the awful TV show “Frasier.”  Okay, I’ll admit that that’s fairly unlikely, but this guy is really a jerk anyway!

       Hey, jerk!  Next time you feel like telling us all about what you like, think again, buster!  We are all way cooler than you anyway.  Where have you been for the last nine years, under a rock buried in a cave that was underground under a basement underneath a large skyscraper?  Because that’s how far under things you must be if you’re only just now thinking it is a was a good idea to write an article about a show that’s been around for nearly a decade.  Do you really think I need you to describe this show to me?  God, you are ridiculous!  Where’d you get your journalism degree from, Captain Retarded’s Monkey Petting Zoo, Massage Parlor, and Community College?

       I’m not even going to get into how you describe “Family Guy” as “brilliant” and “breathtakingly smart.”  Let’s just say that you must have trouble breathing when trying to do simple addition.  I’d hate to see how many times you pass out during an episode of this show.  Probably as many times as Peter Griffin says, “This reminds me of the time I…” and then the show cuts to a completely non-sequitur event that has nothing to do with the main plotline of the show.  So (hopefully I won’t pass out while doing this addition in my head!) that would add up to about 20 times per episode.  Your hospital bills must be through the roof!

       What’s next, pal?  Are you going to tell us about the brilliantly crafted satire of a little known Fox show titled “The Simpsons?”  The edgy and fresh take on crime and punishment presented in little-watched series “Law & Order?”  The heart-stopping under-the-radar drama of “E.R.?”

       God, you make me sick!  People like you give the media a bad name.  Why don’t you just quit right now?  Find something better to do with your life, because journalism is just not for you.  Loser!  Here’s a scoop for you:  you stink!

       Okay, I apologize.  I’ve been really stressed out at work lately.  I’ve been working on this massive project for Bob, and he’s breathing down my neck every five seconds.  He even told me the other day that he was going to fire me if I didn’t get my act together.  Things aren’t going that great at home either.  Ellen has been spending a lot of time with her new guitar instructor, Osmondo, and little Eddie got caught starting fires down at the Community Center.  Don’t even get me started on Amanda, my 16 year old.  Let’s just say she’s very popular with the boys.  She must get that from her slut mother.  On top of that, I’ve started drinking again, and I don’t know if I can stop.  It’s like my whole world is slowly crumbling around me, and all I can do is pour another glass of scotch.

       Hey, Frazier, you’re not so bad.  I’m sorry for coming off so angry there.  I guess I have a bit of a short fuse these days.  What do you say we go out and have a beer or two?  Or three?  Or twelve?

       Hey!  Is that a gun over there?  I’ll be right back…

       I don’t know if anyone cares, but I thought I’d mention this here.  A friend approached me a couple of weeks ago about starting up a new music blog to cover any and all things in the world of rock ‘n’ roll, with a slight focus on musical happenings here in Austin, TX.  As some know and some don’t, I’m a music geek and snob, and the original intention of this here blog that you are reading right now was to create a music blog, but somewhere along the line it took a turn towards the insane.

       Anyway, we went live last week.  If you have any interest at all, head over there and check it out by clicking the link below.  If not, fine.  I didn’t like you anyway.  Asshole.

On Deaf Ears

       I have this friend Barry, and we’ve been friends for going on two decades now.  Ever since junior high, we’ve been practically inseparable, and if there’s one person who I would say really understands me and would have my back no matter what kind of shit I got myself into, it would have to be Barry. Lately, however, things have not been great.  Our relationship has become strained, and I’m not sure what’s going to happen. You see, Barry has this one annoying habit that has threatened to tear our friendship apart.

       At this point, I don’t know what to do anymore.  It’s almost like some sort of disability or malfunction of his brain.  I’ve even gone as far as to contact several doctors and scientists about the problem, but they have all blown me off one by one.  A couple even laughed at me.  Fuck you, scientists.  You know who you are.

       So I’m sure you’re all wondering what could be such a big deal as to nearly destroy a twenty year friendship.  Well, it’s difficult to explain, but I’ll keep it as simple as possible.  About six years ago, for Barry’s 24th birthday, I bought him a book of quotations.  It contained all kinds of famous quotes from history, literature, the movies, song lyrics, whatever.  This thing had it all.  If anyone was ever quoted anytime ever, let me assure you that it was notated in this fucking book.  Anyway, I don’t know what made me buy the damn thing.  In all honesty, I was pretty broke, and it was in the discount bin for $4.99, so I bought it.  Yes, I’m cheap, but whatever.  I figured he would probably say thanks and throw the thing away.  How wrong I was.

       As it would turn out, Barry loved the book.  I mean, he fucking loved it.  He read the whole thing from cover to cover in a couple of days, and then he read it again.  And again.  I don’t think I saw the guy for about three weeks after that, so busy was he with memorizing this whole book.  When I finally saw him again, I was first exposed to the monster I had created.

       We were out getting some coffee, and I was telling him about a situation I was going through at work at the time.  I was heading up this massive project that I had volunteered for, and I was really thinking that I had gotten in way over my head.  I had been describing to him just how much pressure I was feeling and the intense scutiny I was getting on every decision I made. 

      After explaining my situation to Barry, I looked to him for advice, guidance, or just some comforting words to reassure me that I hadn’t made a huge mistake in taking on such a responsibility.  “What do you think, Barry?”  I asked.

       “Well, as former President Harry S. Truman said, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the frying pan.’”

       I looked at him blankly for a moment.  “You mean, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,’ right?”

       “No,” Barry replied.  “I said it correctly.”

       Again, I stared at him for probably about fifteen seconds.  “Dude, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong.  Pretty much everybody in the whole world knows that quote, and you fucked it up.  Good job.”

       “Excuse me,” Barry said, “but I think I’m the one who’s spent almost every waking moment for the last three weeks studying a rather large book of quotations.  I think I know what I’m talking about here, but thanks for trying to be a dick about it.”

      I thought long and hard about how to respond, but I decided to just let it go.  That book has, like, what, a million quotes in it or something?  I guess I could forgive the guy for screwing one up, even one as common as that.  I had no idea yet what I was in store for.

        A little while later, as we were preparing to leave, Barry said to me, “Listen, I know you’re stressed over the whole work situation right now.  Just gut it out, man.  You’ll do great, and you’ll come through it on top.  Just don’t let alll the bullshit stress and office politics get you down.  As King Solomon’s wise men told him, ‘This too shall stop one day.’”

       “Dude,” I said.  “Are you fucking kidding me with that?  It’s ‘this too shall pass.’  Everyone knows that.  Third graders know that.”

       “No,” Barry responded again, “I’m saying it correctly.  It’s in the book.  Look it up.”  Barry then turned and walked to his car.

       I would come to learn over the next few years what a huge mistake I had made in giving Barry that book of quotes.  Each time I hung out with him, the new self-described quotation guru would spout incorrect versions of even the most simple quotes from history or the movies or wherever, steadfastly refusing to be corrected on any of his misquotations.  At first I thought maybe the book was the problem.  It had come from the bargain bin, after all, so maybe it was just some shitty book filled with inaccurate quotations.  On a visit to Barry’s house one evening, that theory was quickly disproven.  I found the book on his coffee table and decided to check it out, and I was surprised to find that all of the quotes he kept fucking up were there printed correctly, plain as day.

       As I thumbed through the book, Barry walked into the living room and saw me holding it.  “What are you doing?” he asked.

       “I was just checking to see if your book is misprinted or something to explain why you’re always fucking up quotations, but it’s not the book, apparently.”

       Barry shook his head.  “Whatever, dude.  ‘Curiosity killed the monkey.’”

       “God damn it!”  I shouted.  “It’s ‘cat!’  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’  Look, right here on page 249!”

       Barry grabbed the book and looked up the quote.  “No,” he said, “it says right here, ‘Curiosity killed the monkey.’”

       “What?!”  I snatched the book out of his hand.  I looked again at page 249, and it clearly read “Curiosity killed the cat.”  What the fuck?  At that point, I had gotten a little freaked out, so I threw the book at Barry and got the hell out of there.

       I spent the next few days studying up to see if there was some sort of learning disability that could  cause this kind of thing, but the local library and the internet offered no help.  That’s when I started calling the doctors and scientists I mentioned before.  I’ve already told you how they reacted.  Pricks.

       Anyway, it’s gotten pretty out of control.  Any time I see Barry, I am faced with him misquoting something, and it’s gotten to the point that I can’t even restrain myself from getting violent.  I’ve thrown a few punches, and the other night, I threw a beer bottle at his head, causing him to need 32 stitches above his left eye.  I’ve gotten to the point where I need to do something, and I feel like I’ve run out of options.  So I bought a gun.  The next time Barry sees me and says something like “Give me liberty or give me tuna casserole,” I’m going to kill him.  It may not be the greatest plan I’ve ever had, but do you have a better idea?  That’s what I thought.  So murder it is.

       Look, I know that this blog is usually devoted to funny stories and “humor,” as it were, but I would like take a moment to show you all another side of myself.  While I enjoy spending five minutes every ten days writing ridiculous stories for this blog, I am also a very socially conscious member of society who does what he can to improve the plight of those in this world who are less fortunate.  Laughs are one thing, but sometimes it’s good to remember why we are all really here: to help one another achieve our dreams.

       Those who know me personally are aware of my passion for helping the Latino community (I know, I just can’t shut up about it! LOL!).  While I myself am not of Latino heritage, I have long identified with the Latin culture and the struggles of its people.  I think all of this probably began on a trip to the Texas/Mexico border in 1994.  I was a young teenager at the time, but I still remember vividly the pain and sorrow I felt when observing the poverty of many who live in that area of our country.  Further research would show that these meager conditions stretch further across each border, upward into the United States and down into the heart of Mexico.  After witnessing these horrible conditions first hand, I knew I could no longer remain idle while the suffering of a great people went ignored.

       I joined several different charitable organizations throughout the years, from Habitat For Humanity to AmeriCorps to the US-Mexico Border Philanthropy Partnership, but I was repeatedly disillusioned with all of the red tape and bureaucracy of each organization.  Under their rules, I was only allowed to help specifically who they told me to.  But I wanted to help everyone!  How?  I prayed to Jesus, and he finally gave me an answer: “Follow your heart.  Find a way to spread your message of pride to as many people as possible.”

       I’ll admit, this wasn’t much of an answer.  I kind of wanted to say, “Duh, Jesus!  Think you could give me a little help with how I can do that?”  Well, Jesus must have been listening, because the very next day, an idea came to me that could only have been placed there by the shining light of Our Lord in Heaven.  I now knew what I had to do.

       It’s no secret that I consider my greatest talent to be writing.  But how could I best use that talent to spread the word about the culture, struggles, and proud tradition of the Latino community?  Well, the answer was obvious to me, and I set out on a long, difficult quest of tireless research.

       Friends, I have kept all of this quiet for years.  I wanted no one to know of my plans until they had fully come to fruition.  Well, I am happy to announce that my great struggle has ended, and soon you will all be able to see the end result.  After a lot of soul searching, I came to the conclusion that the best way to spread my message through writing was to draft a screenplay and then sell it to a major movie studio.  My intention was to craft an honest, heartwrenching story that would outline in detail the history of these noble people and their ongoing battle for equality and justice in North America.  This would be a film that every person with even a smidgen of Latino blood flowing through their veins would see as a validation of their everyday lives, something that they could all stand up behind together and have pride in the accomplishments, endurance, and power of their people, past and present. 

       I am happy to reveal that this screenplay was purchased by a major movie studio (Disney) a few years ago, and they have finally turned my vision into reality.  They have just sent me the trailer to review, but I am unable to make myself watch it, for fear that I may burst into tears of joy and never recover from the beauty of this heartfelt and powerful message.  My only hope is that they left my screenplay untouched, and the message of pride and passion in the Latino community was effectively conveyed.  So, readers, I leave it to you to judge.  Let me know if the message comes through as I intended it.