I can’t really keep the fluids in my body long enough to sit down and write a post.

When I think I can write a post without crapping my pants, I’ll do it.

GOOD DAY.

So, in a fit of idiocy, I rammed all of my classes this semester into Tuesdays and Thursdays so I could live the glamorous lifestyle of a substitute teacher on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

For the first few days, it was awesome, because nobody was calling. Unfortunately, today, I got a job. It’s been three months since I’ve been around high school kids, and I forgot how much I love those little goofballs.

Here are the highlights of my day:

1. The woman I was working for wasn’t at school today…because she had fucking swine flu. Instead of sleeping in, relaxing and hanging out in a room with exactly zero 9th graders in it, I had to put on pants AND a tie, read The Most Dangerous Game three different times with a bunch of 9th graders and do everything short of hold them at knifepoint to get them to answer questions about it, and my reward for that work will be eighty dollars and a scorching case of swine flu. But hey, in a week, when I’m overcome with a fever, an unslakable hunger for bacon and an uncontrollable urge to have sex with pigs (That’s what happens when you get swine flu, right?) at least I can say  “Hey, it was all worth it! Sure, I have swine flu, but I got to teach 9th grade language arts for a day, so it all evens out!”

2. There was one kid in the last two blocks of the day. The other kids thought he was nerdy, but I think he’s awesome, and here’s why: He knows what he likes, he admits that he likes it and he doesn’t give a shit if the other kids don’t think it’s cool. That’s exceptionally rare at that age. Nobody is willing to admit that they like anything in 9th grade, because…well, actually, because they’re pussies. Most 9th graders will spend all day telling you how “gay” or “wack” everything is (Yes, 9th graders call things “wack”), but they’re terrified to admit that they actually like something for fear of being taunted by other 9th graders. They do this while simultaneously believing that they are completely unique human beings who no one can understand because no one has ever lived a life even remotely similar to theirs, what with being attracted to girls who don’t like them back or becoming disillusioned with the constant suffering of algebra II. Living the uncommon life is a lonely, solitary existence, and that’s why they have to watch Viva La Bam, wear girl’s skinny jeans and listen to The Used; it’s the only thing that numbs the pain.

Not this cool little motherfucker. He liked The Simpsons, Soulja Boy and Jim Carrey, and he didn’t give a shit if everyone else thought those things were gay or wack. I’m not sure I agree about two of those things, but it doesn’t really matter what I think. I’m pretty sure he’s going to have a tough couple of years ahead of him, but I think he’s got a headstart on being happy that a lot of his peers are going to be playing catchup to for quite a while.

3. Much to my chagrin, in the class after that I was walking around helping students, when suddenly that same kid that I love yelled “Mr. Castle, what’s a twat?”

98% of the time when something like that happens, it’s one of the dicks in class playing dumb so he can be funny. “Mr. Castle, what’s ‘dirty sanchez’ mean?” or “Do you like ‘Hot Carls”, Mr. Castle? Just say yes!”. This time, it didn’t appear to be the case.

First of all, when kids are pretending they don’t know what a word means, they go with something that’s either fairly tame or that they think is esoteric enough to confuse me.  You’re really rolling the dice with a word like “Twat”, because if the teacher doesn’t believe that you genuinely don’t know what it means, there’s a pretty good chance that they’ll murder you, and even if they do buy it, there’s still a good chance you’ll be in trouble, and I didn’t think this guy had the stones to go out on a limb like that.

Second of all, 9th graders have the shittiest poker faces ever. They’ll raise their hand and say “What’s ‘boner’ mean? I genuinely have no idea what boner means, Mr. Castle! Boner!” and their faces will get red, their lips will be quivering while they desperately try to keep from laughing – when you see that face, you know that they’re either trying to trick you or someone is giving them a blowjob under their desk.

This kid was doing neither of those things, so first I told him to stop saying it.

“I don’t know what it means, though!” he said.

“And you’re not going to find out from me,” I said, immediately followed by “Who’d you hear that from?”

He wouldn’t rat her out, but it was pretty clear (Shitty poker faces, remember?) that it was the

4. Pretty girl who was really bored with everything and unwilling to do any work. I had forgotten about people like that in the three months without them. Up through high school there are these kids (kind of like me, unfortunately), who just mope and do nothing. They think everything is boring, they’re unimpressed with everything, and they just sit in one spot until someone pushes them to another one, with them griping and bitching the entire time. Then they graduate, and suddenly no one is pushing them along anymore, and unless they managed to bag a rich spouse or score a trust fund, they just kind of fall off the face of the earth. I forget people like that exist, because even as stunted as my development is, I’m still doing better than the ones that are my age. I hope you find something you like between now and graduation, 9th grade girl, or you’re going to have a long, angry, prematurely aged life waiting tables at the local pancake house. Trust me on this one.

I’m starting to feel kind of sick. I think I’d better get my ass into bed, or maybe find some fine hog butt to get my hands on.

Have a good weekend.

(I’m scrambling to stay on top of classes one day in, so this post is going up early. Nobody use any funny search terms to find my site for the next four days, okay? Thanks.)

It’s been another month, and it’s time for another list of search terms that brought people to my blog. Some of them make sense to me. Others are a little confusing. Most of them are just some combination of the words “Horse”, “Penis”, “David”, “Roth” and “Corpsegrinder”.

1. doing ecstasy gay guy straight guy under - I was initially confused as to why a search term like this would lead to this site. Then I thought about it a little bit, and realized that I should be surprised that I’m not getting more hits from search terms like this.

2. old school gay porn - I wonder what the difference is? More mustaches or something? I don’t know.

3. Old Man Squinting - I’m genuinely baffled as to what I wrote that’s making Google direct traffic for this search term in my direction.

4. Game: Centaur - No confusion on this one. Just a great idea for a totally kickass game.

5. Figure of Butthole - I’m not surprised that this term lead the searcher straight to me, just that they were searching for a figure of a butthole. Then again, who can blame this person? The butthole is a mysterious, complicated device. It’s got that hole, and…well, that’s pretty much it.

6. Boxer Porn - What kind? Like, “Fisticuffs” boxers? “Breed of dog” boxers? Barbara Boxer? You need to be more specific or I can’t tell how funny it is.

8. male horse penis - Like I said, it’s good to be specific. Otherwise, you might end up getting a picture or two of a female horse penis mixed into your search results, and that would totally kill the mood.

9. penis horse - Switching the order of the words makes all the difference. All of a sudden, you go from searching for pictures of a horse penis to searching for…well, I’m not sure. Is it a tiny horse that a penis can ride on? A very rare, phallic looking breed of horse? A horse covered in penises? Who knows? I’ll have to look it up on google and find out!

10. کیر اسب – This one is my personal favorite. It’s been turning up more and more lately and I didn’t know what it meant, so I used google to look it up.

It turns out, and I swear to God that this is true, that search term is written in Farsi. It says “Horse Penis”.

11. “tucked his penis” between legs - I like this one because even though he was using quotes to get that exact phrase, it’s funnier to imagine that he wanted to find pictures of someone tucking their penis between their legs – figuratively speaking.

12. cobra kai no mercy - I really wish that searches like this were more common. That’s a kickass search phrase. Even though I’m not surprised that all of the traffic to my site comes from people looking for horse cock and naked pictures of the lead singer of Van Halen, it doesn’t make me feel like a man. It makes me feel like I come across to the casual observer as someone who wants a horse dick in my mouth while David Lee Roth is working me from behind.

So there you go. It’s been another humiliating month, and I can’t wait to see what sends people to my site for a few moments to swipe a few pictures off my blog. See you Friday!

I’m a worrier.

It’s just what I do. If there’s a way that a situation can be viewed in a negative light, I find a way to make it happen. It’s just how I am.

As I’m sure you know, I’m nearly 30, don’t have a real job, make about as much money as the average pan-handler and am single – I have no idea when the last time was that I had sex.

So, naturally, I spend a lot of time worrying about what my kids will be like.

I’m also kind of a moron. I like to fixate on the little things that don’t matter. If you give me a car with severed brake lines, I will worry like crazy until I have spent as much time and money as it takes to paint some badass flames on the side of the car and get some sweet rims for it. An hour after I finish up, I’ll take it out for a test drive with one of my friends and roll the car into a ditch to avoid getting into an accident because the brakes don’t work. We’ll crawl out of the car and have the following conversation:

Friend (Examining the upside-down-in-the-middle-of-a-ditch car): Holy fuck, dude! No wonder we crashed! The brake lines are cut.

Me: What? Oh. Yeah.

Friend: …you knew already?

Me: Yeah, the guy who gave me the car told me that the brakes were fucked up… damn, those flames look really good!

Friend: You knew that the brake lines were severed, and you took the car out on a joyride anyway?

Me: Yeah.

Friend: Do you think that maybe you should have spent a little less time painting the car and fixed the fucking break lines before taking it out for a spin and almost killing us both?

Me: Probably. I mean, what you’re saying makes a lot of sense…

Friend: …and?

Me: And look at those fucking rims! The car’s upside down, and they’re still spinning like the car is moving, but it’s not! Holy shit those things are sweet!

I’ve never had that exact scenario play out, but it’s a much more accurate representation of my thought process than I would like to admit.

So, naturally, when I am sitting, old, balding and single, worrying about my unborn (and unconceived) children, I wonder what music they will listen to in order to piss me off.

There are plenty of things that could go wrong with my children (assuming that I ever actually have any); they could be born with some sort of physical handicap. They could be autistic. They could be bipolar. They could get addicted to drugs. They could be sociopaths. They could go to jail.

Nonetheless, my primary concern is what music they’ll listen to. Every kid has to pick music to listen to that their parents will hate in order to establish a unique identity. When I was in 8th and 9th grade, a lot of my friends started shitting their pants over these awesome old rock bands they’d found like Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix. I thought they were okay, but my Dad had loved them, so I was only half-heartedly into them, mostly because I wanted to fit in. Some of my other friends decided oldies were really cool. Both of my parents love oldies, and I clocked seven or eight trillion hours of listening to the oldies station growing up as a result. Needless to say, I hate oldies.

My parents didn’t like metal, though. It’s a good thing, too, because I love metal. The rest is history. Now, everyone that knows me wishes that I would maybe shut the fuck up about metal and talk about something else once and a while, or stop listening to little kid’s music. Sorry. Don’t blame me. Blame my parents.

So what will my kids listen to in order to fuck with me? I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I’ll find offensive enough for them to really rock out to. Certainly not metal. I don’t know if you know this about me, because you might not have talked to me in the last 20 years or read the last paragraph of this blog post, but I love metal (although I have toyed with the idea of pretending that I hate it so my kids will get into it and find all of the good stuff for me – “What is this racket, young man?! I come home from a long day of work, and what’s waiting for me? Double bass drums, guitars tuned so low that the strings are touching the floor and breakdowns so hard that they might damage the foundation of the house!!! Look at me! I dislike this music so much that I’m tenting in my pants in disappointment! Whatever this garbage is, make no mistake – I do not think that it’s fucking awesome! The only way you could piss me off more would be if you found something even harder, you rebellious little scamp! Turn this off before I start crying blood!”

It could work. That’s all I’m saying.)

Fast forward to last month.

Brokencyde released their first full-length album of their own special brand of music called “Screamo Crunk”. I’d listened to a few of their songs before their album came out, gotten a chuckle out of them and then forgotten about it. Every review I’ve read of their album pans the hell out of it, so naturally I had to hear the whole thing.

It’s fucking bad.

Like, “Insane Clown Posse sounds awesome after listening to it” bad.

That wasn’t a joke. I’m totally serious. Here, try it:

Brokencyde

Insane Clown Posse

SEE!? I’m totally right about this!

Brokencyde is THAT bad. It’s like having someone take a dump in your ears.

(Also, look at those sweet-ass tables! Atkins showed me how to do that. Thanks for helping me give the blog that touch of class that it’s been lacking, you magnificent bastard.)

The good news about this is that now I know what my kids can listen to so they can rebel! Put up a few posters of the band, blast their music while they write shitty teenage poetry in their notebook and call it a done deal. Granted, even if I got a girl pregnant today, it would be a good 14 years before I had a teenager, and nobody is going to be listening to Brokencyde in one year, much less fourteen, but at least I have some idea of what to expect.

That’s one less thing to worry about.

Now, I can finally focus on panicking about really important things. Next on my list: freaking out about where I would come up with the money to pay for fuel if I owned a private jet. Those things cost a fortune to maintain!

See you Wednesday.

As I’m sure all of you that are males between the ages of 18-35 are aware, there’s this Internet celebrity called Tucker Max. My friend Dan introduced me to his website about five years ago. I find him incredibly interesting.

His site, which is only slightly flashier than mine, is a collection of what he claims are true stories about drinking too much, having lots of sex and getting into verbal sparring matches that sound kind of like they were taken out of an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond and then spiced up with some profanity. He’s managed to turn those stories into what I think is a pretty successful book and has a movie coming out on September 25th.

The first thing I find interesting about Tucker Max is the buzz around him. There are people that love Tucker Max, and there are people who hate Tucker Max, and both sides have spent a huge amount of energy making their case on the Internet.

The people that hate him hate him really hard. There are message boards flooded with comments badmouthing him, Gawker.com has a running feud with him, there are even entire blogs dedicated to attacking him. The people that hate him completely, utterly hate him.

And the people that support him completely and utterly support him. People don’t just think his stories are funny, they talk about reading his book like it’s a life changing event. That they have trouble controlling their bowels they’re laughing so hard. The same goes for his movie. If Max’s blog and audience reaction clips are to be believed, his movie is pretty much the funniest, most brilliant thing ever filmed. Every single screening completely knocks it out of the park and everyone that sees it talks about this movie like it’s going to revolutionize film.

The truth, I think, HAS to be somewhere in the middle.

To his supporter’s credit, he has published a book that’s spent quite a bit of time on the New York Times best seller list, and, good or bad, he has a movie coming out. The people that completely hate him have to acknowledge that even if they don’t like him, and even if they think his writing is pretty weak, he’s met with some success that can’t be ignored. Hell, the fact that there are people that feel strongly enough about him that they’re willing to dedicate entire blogs to how much they hate him implies that he’s doing something right. Look at me; here I am, writing an entire post about him.

On the other hand, I’ve looked at his website, and I’ve read his book, and even though I’ve found myself vaguely entertained, I’ve never had one of those “Oh my God I’m going to pull something I’m laughing so hard” moments that he and his fans keep claiming that his projects are full of, and it weirds me out that there don’t appear to be any middle ground reviews of anything he does. As near as I can tell, I’m the only person who’s read “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” and said “Eh – it held my interest, but I probably wouldn’t ever read it again and I’m glad I didn’t pay money for it”. Everyone either hates it or thinks that the great American novel has finally been written. The same goes for his movie. No one appears to have said “It’s not bad,” or even “It’s really funny”. Every comment is “This movie is this generation’s ‘Animal House’” or “I will never see anything this funny again as long as I live. This is the best movie ever made”.

I don’t get it. Everybody who’s even a little bit famous has some crazy-obsessed fans but if what I’ve seen is to be believed, that’s ALL that Max has, As near as I can tell, he’s one of those Internet quasi-celebrities like the “Stuff white people like” guy or Maddox, but everyone who knows he exists either worships him or wants to murder him.

And that’s the thing that really confuses me and makes me lose sleep: I don’t really feel very strongly either way about Tucker Max, and I’m not sure why, which really bothers me.

I feel like I should like his stuff. He writes stories where the main character is convinced he’s the most awesome person on the planet. There’s lots of profanity, inappropriate, outrageous situations and dick jokes – this is the kind of stuff I normally love. I should be one of his fans. I have his blog on my RSS feeds, and when he updates with one of his “We had another screening today, and a group of feminists who originally came to protest it ended up loving the movie so much that they pissed all over their seats they were laughing so hard” posts, I go back to his website, frantically trying to figure out what I’m missing, what part of his site I forgot to read that’s giving other people laughter-induced seizures when the best I can muster most of the time is a half-grin.

I don’t know. Somebody help me out here. Why is Tucker Max funny? Or, for that matter, the devil? I feel like I should care more about him, but I just don’t. Sell me on this guy. Please. It’s killing me.

See you on Monday.

Hey.

How’s everyone doing?

Me? Not so good.

Why, do you ask?

Four months ago, I wrote a post about how much I hated Brett Favre, because he retires at the end of every fucking football season, spends all off-season considering a return to football, and then comes back. It wouldn’t bother me, except it means that instead of getting coverage of sports teams that I care about, every media outlet that covers football spends every iota of it’s time and money covering Favre’s retirement and subsequent return to the sport. Maybe I’d like to hear about the Broncos loss of their quarterback, or the knee injury to their first round draft pick, or how their top receiver is demanding to be traded – tough shit. Instead, ESPN spends three months on a four hour loop of Mark Schlerith discussing the implications of either Favre considering retirement, Favre retiring or Favre coming back for another season, depending what time of year it is. I hate it. I HATE it.

So imagine my complete and utter fucking dismay when I checked ESPN.com today and read that that little motherfucker came out of fucking retirement again today. Fan-fucking-tastic. There goes any chance I had to getting any coverage of my team’s collapse, it’s superior division rivals, or any form of football that doesn’t have to do with Brett fucking Favre.

Is this really that fucking difficult? Play or don’t play! I don’t give a shit either way, but commit, you son of a bitch!

Seriously. Brett Favre has really had to work for it to get me to hate him like this. He seems like a pretty nice guy, he was the opposing quarterback when the Broncos won their first superbowl and he’s a great athlete. I should like Brett Favre, but somewhere after season four of considering retirement and hour 46 of Merril Hodge arguing with John Clayton about how productive Favre will be this season or if this will be his last year, he spent the last of my good will towards him. I’ve gone from thinking that he was a great player and a lot of fun to watch to crossing my fingers and hoping that a linebacker will decapitate him. Although, I suppose that I should be careful what I wish for, because then I’ll just be looking at even more media coverage.

This is it. There will be no more national media coverage of any type of football that doesn’t involve Brett Favre until the season starts. Even then, they will spend hours after every game analyzing his play. If he does well, they’ll talk about his child-like enthusiasm for the game and how great it is for football that he came back for another season. If he does poorly, they’ll talk about how sad it is that a once great quarterback just can’t let go of his glory days and know when it’s time to quit. Either way, you’d better believe that they’ll be talking about it. A lot.

Brett: Play until you’re 65. Get a career-ending injury that will prevent you from playing football ever again. Win a superbowl and go out on top. I don’t give a shit. But whatever you decide, quit fucking wavering back and forth and hogging all of the resources of all of the national sports media outlets. How the hell am I supposed to know just how badly the Broncos are going to lose to the Chargers or how bad Kyle Orton is if all anyone can talk about is your shoulder and how wild it is that you’re playing for the Vikings?

This is going to be a long football season.

Okay, I lied. I hope that AJ Hawk separates his legs from his body.

So, I’m starting this post at 11:47 PM on Monday. I have 13 minutes to finish it if I want to make my midnight deadline. Let’s be honest. That’s not going to happen. It takes me, on average, a couple of hours to write up the normal, around 700 word steaming piles that I normally post, so this one is gonna be late. I’m sorry.

Fortunately, I have an excuse. It’s not a truthful excuse, but it’s an excuse, and here it is:

From here on out, I want you assholes to consider me a recovering drug addict. As far as you know, I was fucked up out of my mind on fine Columbian cocaine as recently as last year. Not a day went by that I wasn’t sending one of my meager paychecks straight up my nose.

Or maybe it was heroin. Why not? I was completely addicted to heroin last year. I couldn’t make it two days without getting a little horse in my veins. I’m not proud of my time as an addict – the friends and family I betrayed, the loss of loved ones, the endless line of dicks I sucked to support my habit – but make no mistake, I was completely addicted to heroin.

Or cocaine. Whichever one you consider more devastating. Hell, maybe it was both! My memory’s not so good; I was fucked up on drugs, remember?

So why have I decided that I have to convince everyone that I love cocaine so much? Before I tell you, I want you to imagine two different people for me.

So, suppose that there’s this guy. He’s about 30 years old. He’s single, carless and living with his parents. He has a job that he’s held for about three years, but it’s nothing especially impressive. He spends most of his time sleeping, writing and wishing he could play some video games.

What do you think of this guy? Not especially impressive, right? I mean, there are worse situations to be in, but your first reaction isn’t really “Nice! Way to go, guy!”.

Okay. Now, imagine a different guy.

One year ago, he kicked a brutal cocaine/heroin/meth/clown porn habit.

He’s about 30 years old. He’s single, careless and living with his parents. He has a job that he’s held for about three years, but it’s nothing especially impressive. He spends most of his time sleeping, writing and wishing he could play some video games.

Now, what do you think? Pretty impressive, all things considered, isn’t he? He was at rock bottom a year ago, but now he’s really got his life together, right?!

EXACTLY.

You see what I mean? The exact same person doing the exact same things, only if you throw in a year old imaginary drug addiction, your evaluation of him goes from “Well, I guess he’s finding his way through life at his own pace, or something,” to “Holy shit! He’s holding a job AND going to school? That courageous motherfucker! How does he do it!?”

Genius, right? It get’s better!

You don’t have to be me for this idea to kick ass! Think about how impressive your life is. Now, throw in a recently broken cocaine addiction. See what I mean? It increases the impressiveness of your accomplishments by a factor of ten! It works for almost everything and everyone.

Take Terrel Owens: He’s a talented athlete, but his me-first attitude and poisonous locker room presence have ended up hurting his career and sending him bouncing from team to team. Maybe the media wouldn’t judge him so harshly, though, if they knew that only last year, he was regularly smoking crystal meth out of a human skull!

Or what about Stephanie Meyer and her Twilight series about sparkling vampires? Some might consider the books trash, but before you judge her work, know that she wrote the entire series in one PCP-fueled weekend and STILL had time left over to get into a naked, bloody physical confrontation that required ten Utah police officers to restrain her in a Burger King bathroom at three in the morning. All things considered, those books seem pretty good now, don’t they?

Or take former President Bush. Our economy tanked on his watch, he took a huge, steaming dump on the Constitution, got us into a bloody, poorly planned war using fabricated intelligence, crashed every company that he owned previous to the presidency into the ground, could barely speak English and completely alienated the rest of the world. But can you really blame him when you realize that he’s an alcoholic who spent his formative years getting DUI’s and snorting cocaine? Oh, wait. Good job making sure he got eight years in office, America. You fucking retards.

Anyway, when you look at the evidence, the implications are pretty clear: Claiming that you are a recovering drug addict is a great way to give your life a little bit of extra “oomph” without having to actually do anything. There is no possible way that one could ever regret trying to impress the people around him by claiming that a year ago he was taking illegal drugs. In two years when I’m certified to teach and have fucked up and revealed my identity on this blog, I can’t WAIT to explain this post to potential employers.

Well, there you go. Again, to the three of you that visit this blog for the content and not the pictures of horse dongs, I apologize. I’ll be sure Wednesday’s post is up on time.

Or maybe I won’t. Who can say? I’m 12 months sober, but I still struggle with those demons every day. I just have to keep taking it one day at a time.

Holy shit this idea is sweet.

When I was three or four, my family went on a road trip to the northwest. We piled into a VW van, my parents in the front and me in a car seat in the back, and hit the road.

I don’t have a lot of memories about that trip, but there are a few things that I can still recall.

• We had The Blues Brothers soundtrack on cassette, and I would’ve listened to “Green Onions” by Booker T. and the M.G.’s for the duration of the trip if my selfish asshole parents hadn’t insisted on listening to more than one song during our two day drive.
• At one picnic stop, my Mom gave me some little plastic dinosaurs to play with. I was so pumped up that I almost forgave her and my Dad for subjecting me to music that wasn’t Green Onions during the trip. Almost.
• I figured out how to unbuckle my car seat. When my parents saw what I’d done, they told me that I should leave it buckled, so I did.

There was one especially influential moment on that trip that I’ll never forget, however. It was the kind of life-changing epiphany that altered the way I viewed life.

We were at the beach in Washington, checking out the ocean. I had to pee. There were no bathrooms nearby, so my father and I peed in the sand.

And that, as they say, was that. My father’s lesson about public urination combined with a fear of deadly toilet sharks sealed the deal – barring extraordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t be peeing in any toilets again (at least on purpose) for a very long time.

And where would I be doing my business instead, you ask? The real question, my friend, is where WOULDN’T I be? Bushes, trees, sand, the open mouths of sleeping hobos – if it was closer to the ground than my penis, you’d better believe that I was willing to pee on it.

As I grew older and not only spent less time outdoors but got enough of a grip on my phobia that I was able to go into a room with a gallon of water sitting in a porcelain bowl without worrying that there was a great white shark hiding somewhere in it, the unconventional places that I peed narrowed down to two main locations.

The first was empty cans and bottles in my room. When people hear this, they’re consistently disgusted and want to know why. The answer, of course, is that at that specific moment, it’s slightly less work to pee in a can than it is to walk all the way to the bathroom, which is fifteen, maybe even twenty feet away from my room. Sure, there are some complications – it means more work in the long run, since I have to empty the cans out later, and there are a lot of different bad things that can happen when you have a bunch of cans of urine sitting around in your room – spill one, and it’s more or less like you peed on the floor.

Another complication is when someone foolishly thinks that the Dr. Pepper can on my bedstand is full of Dr. Pepper and decides to take a sip. This situation is a little bit more nuanced than spilling it on the floor; if the person making this mix-up isn’t me, I consider it hilarious and hopefully a powerful lesson about the perils of coming into my room and fucking with my stuff. When the person who foolishly tries to drink the warm, yellow bottle of Snapple is me, however, I’m far less amused. And yes, I’ve done that – I have peed in a can and then had a sip of it in my mouth before I realized the terrible, terrible mistake that I had made. It’s a pretty memorable experience. Have you ever had a sip of what you think is milk and been surprised when it’s actually water or juice or something? It’s kind of like that, only way more intense.

I’m getting off track. The point is that at the time that I’m peeing in that can, it is just a little bit more convenient than walking all the way to the bathroom. Maybe it’s more work in the long term and I risk accidentally drinking my own pee, but I’m not fucking Nostradamus. I don’t have a crystal ball that I can use to look four or five hours into the future, so how the hell could I, or anyone else, for that matter, possibly anticipate how inconvenient a Coke can full of pee might potentially be?

The other location that I know and love bothers people just as much, if not more: The sink.

I have a long, rich history of peeing in the sink. I think that everyone that has known me from the ages of 17-24 has at least one story that ends with me peeing in their sink. Friends, family, my high school debate coach, the American Cancer Society – if there was a sink in the building, I probably peed in it.

The immediate question most people ask is “Why?”

I’m glad you asked.

1. It’s the perfect height. A toilet or a urinal is fairly close to the ground. What this means is that if you pee into it, there’s a pretty good chance that you’re going to have urine splashing everywhere. This isn’t a problem with a sink. Most sinks are a couple of inches below my wang, making them the perfect location to pee without splashing toilet water everywhere.

2. It’s the green way to pee. How much water does it require to flush a toilet or a urinal? I don’t have any idea. What I do know is that it takes far more than it does to splash some water around the sides of the sink.

3. It makes it easier to multitask. How many toilets have a mirror in front of them that you can use to brush your teeth, shave, or put in your contacts? Not that many. How many sinks do? Almost all of them. Sinks are, as I said earlier, also the perfect height for hands-free peeing, so not only are you in front of a mirror, making grooming easier, you have the use of both hands.

4. I find it vaguely entertaining. It doesn’t take much to entertain me, and thinking to myself “Look at me! Johnny Castle! Peeing in the sink!” is one of those little pleasures that gets me out of bed in the morning.

5. Pee is sterile. Urine doesn’t taste very good (trust me on this one), but it’s clean. Hell, Vikings washed their clothes with urine, and if there’s one thing that the Vikings are known for, it’s their near obsessive-compulsive fixation on cleanliness.

Much like peeing in cans, the bunch of prudes that I hang out with think that peeing in the sink is a terrible practice. They think it’s an unhygienic, filthy way to empty your bladder. It might seem a little bit weird, but I’m not sure that it’s as bad as everyone thinks it is.

First of all, how much contact do you actually make with the bowl of your sink? Other than when you’re cleaning it, when is the last time that you touched anything but the faucets? Do you spend a lot of time licking the bowl of your sink, or rubbing your hands all over the inside? If you do, you’re the first person that I’ve met.

Second of all, everyone that I argue about this with talks about their sink like it’s this sacred, sterile part of their house. Really? You don’t spit in your sink a couple of times every day after brushing your teeth? You don’t rinse all of your beard trimmings and shaving cream down that thing? You don’t wash your face in it? You’re dumping little chunks of the food stuck in your teeth, your saliva, your beard stubble and all of the grease on your face into your sink every day. Would you really be comfortable performing surgery in that thing or eating pork chops out of it as it is?

EXACTLY.

I quit peeing in cans a few years ago – As one of my baby steps in my glacial crawl to maturity, I finally decided that I needed to spend some time finding ways to lower my daily risk of drinking my own urine, and that seemed like a good place to start ( Followed shortly by throwing away all of my Franzia boxed wine-shaped novelty colostomy bags).

Despite what I consider overwhelming evidence in support of the practice, the sink followed shortly thereafter. Despite the fact that I think it’s an ideal place to pee, everyone else considers it an awful location, and if keeping tension with my friends and family to a minimum means peeing in some water-wasting, low to the ground, shark infested toilet, well, that’s a sacrifice that I’m willing to make for you guys. What can I say? I give until it hurts.

I’ll always fondly remember my sink peeing days, but much like having dignity or hair on my head, all good things must eventually end.

See you on Monday.

I’ve done my best to keep this blog anonymous.

I try not to use my real name, or address, or contact information. I’ve slipped a couple of times, and my friends have been nice enough to let me know right away that I’ve screwed up again and accidentally posted a scan of my birth certificate or put up a naked picture of myself showing off the birthmark on my inner thigh that also happens to be my checking account number.

Unfortunately, I had another slip up.

Sort of.

When I was in Jr. High, there was this girl that I knew. She sat near me in one of my classes, I think, which was really our only connection.

At first, I just thought that she was fun to talk to in class. Then, one day, her ex-boyfriend was talking to me about her and said that I should try and date her. The thought had never occurred to me before, but once it did, my tiny, partially-developed brain started fixating on that idea.

At the end of the school year, we signed each other’s yearbooks, and she put her phone number and told me to call her sometime.

As a 29 year old, I think I would have proceeded from that point something like this: Burn the yearbook, never call her and run like hell, because 14 year olds are minors and I’m no fan of statutory rape. Just for the hell of it, I’ll also tell you what I would do if we were BOTH 29 and I got her phone number: Call her and then wait for her to call back.

Unfortunately, a move like that requires the kind of nuance and savvy that I wasn’t capable of mustering at that age.

Instead, I did what I do best: I went retard.

…FULL retard.

I would call, and then call again, and then, for good measure, call some more. I don’t even remember how many times I would dial that number in a day – 10? 20? One million times? Hard to say. I don’t have a photographic memory of that summer, but I would guess that I called at least ten times a day, every day.

At first, she tried to be polite about it, and even talked to me once or twice. Unfortunately, I’m guessing that by day three of summer vacation, she was creeped out enough that she was probably tempted to take out a restraining order. After, I don’t know, three months of harassment, a switch in my head flipped, and the part of my brain that tells me “You’re being incredibly creepy. Cut it out.” finally turned on.

It’s a pretty uncomfortable memory. Just typing it out is making me cringe. Whenever I have free time, my brain usually defaults to categorizing all of the stupid things that I’ve ever done. I’ll be spacing out in the shower, or trying to fall asleep, and I’ll suddenly remember the time that I was trying out for a school play and completely blanked out every line of my audition piece, or when I backed my car into a fire hydrant and tried to tell my dad that I was in a parking lot and apparently a neon orange car that was two feet tall and roughly fire hydrant-shaped had done a hit-and-run on me.

I can come up with seven or eight or fifty more pages of stories like that. I can’t remember to take out my contacts, how to get to 80% of the locations in the town I live or how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, but I can easily recall every even vaguely humiliating moment of my life, no matter how minor it was or how long ago it happened, so I have a pretty big supply of things to be embarrassed about. Despite that, I would say that being a creeper that summer is somewhere in the top five of those random memories that makes me slap my forehead and yell “fuck!”.

As I’m sure you know, my normal reaction when I do something embarrassing is to put it on my blog as fast as I possibly can so it will be on the Internet forever. In this case, however, I’d rather not remember that it ever happened.

So imagine my surprise when the girl in question’s name showed up as a search term directing people to my blog.

I was digging through all of my search terms to see how many ways someone could search for the word “butthole” and end up on my blog when there it was, staring back at me. Since I’m not QUITE stupid enough to put her name in this post too and “that girl” seems too impersonal, let’s just call her “Dom Delouise”.

I don’t know how many of you keep blogs, but keeping one has helped me realize something about myself: about two weeks after I say something or write something down, I completely forget that it ever happened. More frequently than I’d like to admit, I’ll come up with what I think is an original idea for a post, only to realize that not only am I reiterating something that somebody has already said, the person who said it before was me. I’m sure that I’ve done this all of my life, but now I have a place where it’s all carefully stored and cataloged so I can get a more accurate picture of just how bad my dementia is.

Because of this, my blog terrifies me. I’ve kept it for two years, and I can only remember the last two weeks of content, so whenever someone new starts reading my blog, or I see that I’m inexplicably getting far more hits than usual, or I see the name of a girl that I showed remarkably poor judgment with fifteen years ago show up in my search terms, I shit my pants, because I have literally no idea what sort of crazy, stupid things I’ve put up. Did I just accurately retell the story of my 9th grade stupidity? Did I get all sour-grapes and accuse Dom of being a Nazi sympathizer? Did I lie and claim that we’re married now? Who knows? Don’t ask me! All I do is think up the posts, write them out, edit them and publish them on the Internet!

I searched for Dom’s name on my website, and, lo and behold, there it was.

And what did I say, exactly?

My entire summer before starting high school was spent in the basement, dicking around with BASIC on my sweet ass C64, trying to trick [a lithe, blond, 13 year old Dom Delouise] into letting me do it on her face, and listening to KTCL.

Classy, Johnny. Classy.

I suppose it could be worse – there were better ways to describe what was going on that summer, and I suppose I’m not painting a completely accurate picture – I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking at 14, but it wasn’t quite that vulgar. It was more “Maybe we can hold hands and go to first base!” than “She’s coming over in 30 minutes. I have some candles, silk sheets, a Kenny G cd and this ether-soaked rag. The trap is set! She’ll come in the door, I’ll tackle her, and then BAM! Pearl necklace, pearl goggles, and a dapper pearl hat. There’s just one thing that she wasn’t counting on – when I say ‘pearl’, it’s actually a metaphor for semen! My semen! It’s almost too easy!”

I know that. Now you know that. You know who DOESN’T know that, though? The 31 people who have googled her name and then visited my site. Now, 31 different people (or one incredibly dilligent person) think(s) that not only did I call lady Delouise that summer the way Daryl Strawberry did cocaine, I was doing it because I was planning to go full bukkake on her.

What I’ve done here is taken an embarrassing situation from my past and found a way to squeeze even more shame out of it.

Either way, I just got back from a trip to Chicago. It was a lot of fun, but my flight back was at 6AM, so I’m pretty sleepy.

I’ll see you all on Friday. Get ready for a great post, too! It’s this doozy about Jay Cutler playing for the Bears! I don’t want to spoil it for you, but it turns out that I’m pissed off that he doesn’t play for the Broncos any more! I hope you brought your laughing shoes, because it’s going to be like nothing you’ve ever seen!

See you then!

Hey.

I almost didn’t post today. I’ve been visiting friends and family in Chicago, and it’s really been cutting into my blogging time. You don’t come here for excuses, though – you show up for my three-day-a-week, later and later and lower and lower quality blog posts. Don’t worry – baby’s got you covered.

I’ve never been to Chicago before, so here are my notable experiences thus far in Chicago, which is Spanish for “The Butthole of the Clown” (I know that’s not actually what it means. I’m just trying to keep butthole-related search traffic high):

- Suppose that you’re dating a girl. She’s really smoking hot, but she’s kind of a bitch. Then, one day, she tells you that she thinks you should see other people. You’re not happy about it at all. You’re kind of mad at her for being emotionally unstable, but she’s hot enough that you’re willing to overlook it. You try to convince her to stay, but she won’t return your calls. By the beginning of summer, she’s gone.

It’s hard for you. It’s really hard. You find a new girl, and the two of you start dating. You try to convince yourself that it’s just as good as it was with the last girl. You tell yourself that, hey, maybe she’s not quite as fun, maybe not quite as good in bed, might not have the arm strength or accuracy in the pocket that your last girlfriend did, but hey, that last girl you dated was a nutty bitch, and so it’s a fair trade-off.

Now, suppose that you go on a four day vacation, but, as luck would have it, the hot girl who broke up with you not only lives there, but she’s dating someone new.

Now, pretend that every time you turn on the television, look at a newspaper or listen to the radio, someone is talking about how great it is that your hot ex-girlfriend has a new guy.

Got a nice mental picture of that now? Okay. Now you know what it’s like to be a Broncos fan visiting Chicago right now. Everyone is prancing around with their boner poking out of the fly of their pants because Jay Cutler plays for the Bears now. They show clips of him at practice. People all over town are wearing Cutler Bears jerseys. Every football fan in the city has that look in their eye; that look that says “I’m excited to have Jay Cutler playing QB for my football team, because Kyle Orton kind of sucks”. It’s a feeling that I haven’t experienced in several months. It’s going to be a long football season.

- Girls apparently use the term “Butterface” just like guys do (I assume everyone is familiar with this, but it’s when a girl is really hot except for her face, as in “She’s really hot butterface reminds me of Milton Berle”. My little sister and cousin were talking about some guy they call “Butterface”. I pointed out that the correct name if it’s a guy would be “Buttisface”. I’m torn about this; on one hand, it makes less sense than butterface. On the other hand, even though I don’t know what “Buttisface” is, it sounds funnier to me.

- There’s far less stabbing here than I was led to believe. My parents came out to visit my sister about a month before I did. When they came back, they told me that they had a good time, but that they had some trouble with panhandlers and scary people on the El. My father advised against using the El after dark. Then one of the people who was nice enough to let me stay at their place while I’m here told me that someone got stabbed on the Orange line last week. All of this made me think that there was a pretty good chance that I would get knifed during my time here. I showed up ready to take a blade or two in the abdomben, but so far, people have been polite, inasmuch as they haven’t tried to shank me even once. In a strange sort of way, I’m sad about this; it makes me feel like I’m not getting the authentic experience if I don’t get sliced up a little bit. I guess it’s okay – if not getting stabbed means I didn’t really experience Chicago, that’s probably alright, and hey! I’m here for another day, so “Stabwatch 2009″ is still going on, and I’m planning on riding the El naked tomorrow at two in the morning with my wallet sitting loosely on my lap covering my goods!

Other than that, nothing too noteworthy has happened. I’ve eaten a lot of really good food, spent some time with my little sister and had a good time visiting my friends and checking out the city.

Either way, I should probably go to bed. I have one more day to check out the city, eat at a few more restaurants and provoke someone to cut me!

God speed!