Hey! Who said that?

Hello there, friends. Like a silent fart, I have permeated the room once again. I was moved to write again a few days ago when a long time friend posted on my Facebook wall, asking if I had anything to complain about anymore. Well fuck yes–fuck yes I do, sir.

With the midterm elections coming up, I’m appalled at the choices that lie before me. It’s like asking someone, “Would you rather be shot in the head, given pancreatic cancer, or be raped repeatedly by a horse?” (For the record, the horse would have to buy me dinner before anything happened, damnit. Call me a man of principle, if you will.)

I’m gonna say it, and I know I’m gonna get a lot of shit for it (from people I probably don’t give a fuck about, mind you), but I miss Dubya. Yea, he was a dumbass, but at least you knew he loved his country. Yea, he might mispronounce or even make up words (strategery, for example), but damn it to hell if he didn’t fall asleep in his race-car bed, sucking his thumb clutching an American flag. You know when he played cowboys and indians (on his 55th birthday), whose side he was on. Now we have a guy in the White House, who I’m not sure even has the biggest balls in his family (I think Michelle has two or three in her mouth at all times), let alone the rest of the government. He goes on Jon Stewart’s show to… do… what exactly? And he’s more wishy washy than a woman picking out an outfit.

But fine, he’s in, I have to support him as commander-in-chief. I’m actually much more concerned with my immediate area (because I’m selfish like that). We have a governor who literally can’t see the crumbling state around him. Now, I don’t care that he’s blind. I care that he’s stupid. I also care that he doesn’t wear sunglasses–one, because his eyes freak me out, and two because he’d look a lot cooler. But without further adieu, let’s get to the meat and potatoes of this post.

The New York Gubernatorial race.

The New York Gubernatorial race is like a special olympics chess match–which retard is going to slobber the least, and not bang their head on the table until they pass out? Not only are they stupid–but they are brazen and stupid. You know who else is brazen and stupid? Ryan Seacrest. Do you want Ryan Seacrest running New York? I sure as hell don’t. But the problem is, they let all these stupid fucking people run for office! You can create a party about anything. (Just as an aside, I will be running for governor under the “Fuck you all” party affiliation–I appreciate your support). I am a firm believer that if you want to govern me in some way, you better be smarter than I am. And I don’t give a shit about degrees. Any idiot who can pay attention for more than 15 minutes can get a law degree. I mean you better have more common sense than I do.

This is why I propose that we the people put together Saw-type tests for these incompetent people to pass before they’re allowed to run. For example, for the former Madame… we put her in a room with like 15 fake dicks filled with acid (but we don’t tell her they’re filled with acid). If she tries to suck them, she dies a horrible and gruesome death. Killed two birds with one stone. One, we don’t have to listen to her blabber about anything, and two she doesn’t reproduce anymore. Or for Paladino, we should give him a shotgun and put him in a room with Perez Hilton for 20 minutes. If he doesn’t shoot him, then we let him run. If he does shoot him, then we throw him a party, but we don’t let him run (Note: this is not gay bashing, this is Perez Hilton bashing–man, I hate that fucking guy).

So in conclusion, it looks like America is fucked, unfortunately. But hey, at least we still have booze.

Please tell me who you’re voting for, and why. Best comment will receive an autographed signed picture of my ass. You’re welcome.

OK, so I haven’t posted in a while. For that, I apologize. Wouldn’t you know it, I’ve managed to tie up my fiancée long enough for our wedding to actually be coming up in 2 weeks. As you might have guessed, this means that I’ve been a tad busy. I can’t tell you how many times in the last 5 weeks that I’ve laid out money for something to do with the wedding. Rose petals, favors, candy, solid gold babies. OK, I’m lying about the babies (they only had solid silver babies). There’s things to plan, things to make, things to buy, people to bribe… ahem… tip. Songs to pick, people to seat, family members to alienate.  It’s a big job!

When planning this event, there were certain things about this wedding that I was so sure of  I, in my wildest imagination couldn’t have fathomed a different outcome. I call these my “Incontrovertible Truths”. I will present them to you, heretofore.

1. I refuse to invite anyone that I don’t like.

2. My bachelor party will be a reunion of friends that I haven’t seen in years–and it will be awesome. Rivaling the movie “The Hangover”.

3. I will not get stressed about anything.

4. There will be no children at our wedding.

5. By the time the wedding rolls around, I will no longer be at this job that I detest. I will be doing something better with my life.

And now I present you with my “REALLY REALLY Incontrovertible Truths”. Basically, these are my originals as they actually happened.

1. Half the people coming to my wedding, I don’t like. Most of the people that I really wanted there, backed out on me. We’ve received several declinations, stating “We’re sorry, but we’ll be washing our hair that night”… I find it a little hard to believe that 32 people are washing their hair on the same night. Matter of fact, three of the aforementioned declinations are bald guys.

2. Instead of a reunion of friends, my bachelor party was held last Friday night, alone. It consisted of me singing Gloria Estefan songs in my underwear, while downing a bottle of Sake. I then went streaking down my street singing “I’m So Excited” by the Pointer Sisters. The police were very nice.

3. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

4. Not only are there going to be children at our wedding, they are mostly the children of people I don’t want at the wedding. I normally wouldn’t mind this; however, my 8 year old cousin gets pretty belligerent when he’s drunk.

5. I’m actually writing this post, at the aforementioned job. I’m currently working on some things to get me out of here, but unfortunately so far, no dice.

One thing that I do know, have known, and always will know (please excuse the upcoming corniness)… corny </ In two weeks, I’m going to marry the woman that I was destined to marry. I love her with my soul, and I couldn’t be happier to spend the rest of my life with her. /> corny

Thanks for reading, you crazy kids. Now, get off my lawn!

Oooohhh! I try to do nice things, but I'm a douche, and I mess them up! Oooohhhh!

Let me pose a question to you, folks. What. The. Fuck? I mentioned in another post that I’m paid to work 9 – 5. I’ve worked the past 10 days straight, including an average of 12 hours a day the past 5 days. You see, we’re implementing a new ERP integration system at my job, and blah blah blah (I want to stab myself just thinking about it). Needless to say, I’ve been really fucking busy. Not just busy, but REALLY FUCKING BUSY. Anybody that has an office job knows that you don’t work full-time, you spend some time on the Internet, jacking off, writing an Internet blog, whatever. But not these past two weeks. I’ve been sweatin’ like a dog in a Chinese Food restaurant. But it’s OK because I kind of like what I’m doing. All of this, however, has nothing to do with my post.

Today, I’m bitching about being a nice guy. Yep, I’m bitching about being a fucking saint. It seems that every time that I try to do something nice, I get punched in the fucking head for it. It doesn’t help that I’m a forgetful little man. I’ll sometimes forget the nice thing that I was going to do by the time the afternoon rolls around. Other than that, something always ends up fucking up my nice gesture. For example, I said to myself this morning, “I’m gonna do something nice for my fiancee today.” I’ve been working a lot, and I haven’t been coming home till pretty late. I wasn’t home all day on Saturday, all day Sunday, and was home at like 7 the past two nights. So I figured, “I’ll really burn through my work today, come home at 5 with some flowers, and cook dinner for when she gets home.”  Great plan right? Sure! I’m a fucking Casanova.

At the end of the day, I get an E-mail from her saying, “Honey, some people from work are going to happy hour at a bar, is it OK if I go?” Now I don’t blame her at all, obviously, but what a fucking buzz kill. And what the hell am I supposed to say? The way I see it, I have 4 options.  Option 1–I say no, and that I want her to come home. But then, when she gets home, I have flowers, and I’m cooking–it looks as if I feel bad. Option 2–I say no, and tell her why–but then that ruins the surprise. Option 3–I tell her to go, and manage to pull off being happy about it. This would be the smartest of the four. And then we have good ol’ option 4. There’s always an option 4. I call it, the Obama option. It’s the option that fucks everything up for everyone involved. I tell her to go, but sound upset about it (subconsciously), and when she inquires, I tell her about what I was going to do. Thereby making her feel guilty about going, plus simultaneously making me look like a douche and still having me stay home alone tonight.

Which option do you think I chose? If you chose option 3, you’re an idiot. Of course it’s option 4. It had to be. The only one that would simultaneously end up with me feeling like shit, and her feeling guilty. Damn, I’m a fucking genius. Look in the dictionary… under douchebag-face-cock… that picture there. Yea, that’s me.

So, if you haven’t figured out what I’m doing tonight (besides blogging), please ask a friend of yours to take a TV (preferably 32″ or larger), and drop it on your head from a height of at least 10 feet.

As for me–I think I’m just gonna get drunk, and play XBox.