Tuesday, September 21, 2010

30 days of Boredom: Day TWO.

[this picture means nothing, much like my blog name]

Robot and Rectum means nothing. I had an old blog with a stupid name, and I was having serious trouble naming my new one, so I looked for inspiration in one of my favorite places, which happens to be Coralene's blog. I am creepy internet lurker. After reading her challenge I've learned that her name has to do with cute pub names. Mine is not cute. It is nerdy and stinky and pirated. So stick that in your fawn and smoke it, flower.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

30 Days of Boredom

I snagged this from Coralene. Blame her.

[Day one]

[1] I love Banana slugs. I think they're beautiful little evolutionary miracles. I'd love to keep one [or ten!] as a pet, but slugs + glass terrarium = slimey disaster.

[2] At one point in my life, I was in a modern sideshow. I started out taking tickets and geeking, but eventually worked my way up to fire breathing and the gavage. I stopped doing this because when my parents found out what I was doing with my life they actually threatened to disown me. I think this is the one time they were ever ashamed of me. In retrospect I regret giving it up as my time spent in the show and on stage was one of the happiest times in my life.

[Spike is the short surly looking guy.]

[3] I'm adopted. My adoptive mom is Greek [and something else, I forget] and my dad is Swedish. My biological father, Spike [his real name is William] is a short muscular Irishman with a giant mustache and a big laugh. I got to meet him when I was in the sixth grade and we've had a great relationship ever since. I don't know my biological mother.

[4] I love old people. If you gave me a choice between hanging out with someone my own age or taking some oldster out for a bite to eat so we could just chat, oldster would win out every time. I don't love them in that "aw, so cute!" kind of way - it's definitely just a huge amount of respect and awe. The fact that anyone could make it past 70 in this world is amazing to me, and I really like hearing about it.

[5] I have airbrushed male and female genitalia. When I lived in LA I worked as a makeup artist [mostly SFX at a lab in the valley], but as computers began stealing jobs, I took a job at an adult production company. I have airbrushed [and touched, ech] countless wangs and cooters. It paid well, and I laughed a lot, but the job ruined porn for me. Seeing how it's made just left a bad taste in my mouth. And a foul smell in my nose.

[6] I can eat just about anything. Despite being sort of picky about what I like to eat, if money or any sort of bet is involved, I'll eat it. I guess this relates to my geeking experience. I've eaten live insects, tadpoles, and small fish. I've bitten the heads off of a couple of chickens, but they were humanely killed beforehand. In high school my friends and I would make money at parties by betting people that I could eat anything. I never lost a bet, and I never puked. I think the worst thing was a pig feet/cat food/head cheese burrito. With pickles.

[Me and The Coose a few years back]

[7] My old Pit Bull Coosie [RIP, Bubbers] kept me out of prison at one point. I was living in LA, short on cash, and desperate. Some friends I knew were going to run some illegal substances out of state for a pretty good chunk of change, and offered to bring me in. The only reason I declined was because I had a newly adopted dog to take care of. I thought of leaving her with a neighbor, but I swear to christ she gave me this fucking LOOK. So I didn't do it. They did, and they got caught. I think they're still in prison.

[8] I don't laugh very much, and I don't have a fake smile [if I try it looks like this weird bell palsy grimace]. So I'm straight faced a lot. As a result a lot of people assume I'm angry. I'm not. I'm just not amused, nor am I willing to fake it for your benefit.

[9] Jennifer Tilly kissed me once. I have had a total boner for her since I was like 12, and one day I saw her walking down Sunset. I said hello, and she stopped and said hi, and we got to making bullshit chit chat, which in normal circumstances I'm bad at and hate, but with Ms.Tilly I was still bad at but LOVED. Anyway, I ended up blurting out "I'VE BEEN TELLING PEOPLE YOU'RE MY GIRLFRIEND AND YOU JUST DON'T KNOW IT."
Yeah. She was really nice about it and called me cute, told me I was a little young, even for her, and gave me a nice sloppy kiss.

[10] I am a total reptile NERD. almost an amateur herpetologist [ha]. I can tell you the latin name of just about any lizard off of the top of my head, as well as its breeding habits, history, and preferred habitat. I'm pretty good with snakes, and not bad with amphibians. I'd love to keep reptiles again, but Dorian just isn't into it.

[11] Growing up I had no real concept of danger or consequences. I understood the stove was hot and I shouldn't touch it, but I was the little maniac who was jumping off of the entertainment center as soon as I could walk, and riding my skateboard off of the roof and into the pool as soon as I could ollie. I've calmed down as an adult, but I've broken my fair share of bones.

[12] I think in pictures. Seriously, my brain works like a poorly animated cartoon. This is probably why math is such a challenge for me. When someone says "2 + 2 = 4", I literally see two little 2's standing next to eachother, looking slightly confused. I understand how the concept works, but the pictures come first. I remember things the same way. When someone describes something to me, or tells me a story, if it's lacking detail or just isn't believable my mind will either fill in the gaps or completely ditch it and tune out. Sometimes beneficial, sometimes not.

[13] My 'girlfriend' in the 7th grade was arrested for teen prostitution. Looking back it makes sense because she was totally pressuring me to have sex, and I was totally like 'sorry, parents r 2 crazy k' when in reality it was 'sorry, I'm 12 and I barely have pubes and my penis is tiny, k'. Anyway, turns out she was turning tricks and involved in some sort of incest. The incest is just a rumor, though. This is interesting to me, but also really sad.

[14] I have difficulty with my emotions. Because my father figure was my grandfather, and he was a tough old greek bastard, I think I've kind of tried to unconciously emulate the 'strong silent type' of man that he was, although I pretty much fail at silence. When I do show my emotions they tend to be extreme, whether they be anger, sadness, or happiness. I have only cried four times in my adult life, and they all centered around the deaths of those I loved [my grandpops, my best friend enzo, my daughter zoe, and my dog]. My neutral state is fairly hard to read, and although I am generally content I think I come across as quite boring.

[15] I really like kids. Despite my 'intimidating' [so says my mom - she likens me to Tony Soprano] appearance, I absolutely love children, and they really like me. I have a way with them. Small things in general, I think [I hate to compare kids to animals, but hey]. When Dorian and I are out in public babies and kids alike are absolutely fascinated with me, and as soon as I make eye contact I get a gigantic smile. The other day we were eating breakfast in a little cafe and this little boy had no interest in eating, all he wanted to do was share his toys and play with me. I was happy to oblige. I think I annoyed his mom.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Crusty feet, clean heart.

Nothing to write home about. Dorian doesn't update anymore because her life is/was consumed by school. She's pretty much in school for my benefit so I appreciate it and feel bad at the same time.

By my benefit I mean that once I am in the nursing program I will have to cut my hours back to weekends only and this will not be enough to pay the bills. I want stability, so she's doing the medical receptionist program. It's a bitch but it pays decent money and there's certainly no shortage of jobs in the medical field.

Anyway, we have/had a break between the spring and summer quarter and I had a little extra money, so I put her on a plane and hulk smashed that shit down to California so she could see her family.

Sometimes I am nice.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

The Dicks, Germs, my dick has germs.

I have re-acquainted myself with two of my favorite bands from yesteryear. The Dicks, and Ye olde Germs. I keep listening to 'Forming' and 'Hate the Police' over and over and over. I think it is making Dorian crazy.

Despite Hate the Police being an amazingly written song, it still reminds me of this book. Which was one of my favorites growing up. Well that and everything Maurice Sendak ever did. Shel Silverstein.

In shitty news, Dorian's schooling will take twice as long as it should. She can tell you about that. Mine will take like five million years longer than it should. I would tell you now, but I'm at work and it's quittin' time, so get fucked. Okay, not really. I like you. We're friends. Best buddies. BFF. Let's make bracelets.

I am tired.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

I am cocksucker.

So I realized my last post was really long and unreadable and boring and stupid. A brief recap[haha so read it AGAIN]:

I work in a group home for developmentally disabled adults. The house I work is hard because the guys who live there are notoriously verbally and physically abusive. One in particular. We'll call him...Jake. He is mildly autistic and suffers from horrible ADHD. He takes a crazy dose of Amphetamine cut with salt [in capsule form, duh] twice a day to help out with that. It really doesn't.

He's 21 and about a foot and a half shorter than me. I probably outweigh him by a good hundred pounds on top of that, but he's still convinced he can kick my ass. Yeah.

Here's an example of an average 12 hour shift:

Me: "Mornin' Jake. How's tricks?"

Jake: "Listen Dave, I had a bad dream last night. Don't start with me."

Me: "..."

Jake: [glaring, posturing] "Did you hear what I said, cocksucker?"

Me: "Yes."

Jake: "I SAID LEAVE ME ALOOOOOONE! AAAGHGGGHHH!" [stomps around, punches wall]

Me: "You want some breakfast?"

Jake: "Aw, yeah!"

Me: "You know where the kitchen is."

[If left unsupervised Jake will proceed to go into the kitchen and fry up like 6 hash brown patties, 7 eggs, and 5 slices of pastrami. All in the same pan. He won't eat half of it.]

Jake: [from kitchen] "So what are we doing today? Will you take me out to the store so I can buy some candy and toys and soda? I have moneeeeeeyyyyyy!"

Me: "You need to get your laundry started, get those dishes taken care of, and hop into the shower. Then, uh...Maybe. I don't know."

Jake: [runs out of kitchen and into living room] "If you don't agree to take me I'll kick you in the nards! Do you want that, huh?"

Me: "Maybe I do. Maybe I like being kicked in the nards."

Jake: [frowning, wheels turning] "Fuck you, you corny bitch! I fucking HAAAAAAATE you! I hope you fucking get eaten by wolves or something! GOSH DARNIT!"

So that's how I spend my weekends. Who's jealous?

Monday, May 17, 2010

Let's auto-tune Stephen Hawking.

Wouldn't that be the best? I think so.

So this is what's new in my little life:


Well, not true. Less crazy. I guess I should explain what I do for a living since my profile is sort of vague. I work for a FOR profit company that sets up developmentally disabled adults in their own homes with roommates of similar dispositions and disabilities. Sounds good right? WRONG.

The thing about these guys and gals [or 'clients', as we're made to call them] is that the specific program they're in is protective. It protects them from being taken advantage of by shitheads in the community [again. Most of them have been horribly abused], but it also prevents them from taking advantage of anyone else in said community [also again. sigh.]. To make sure no hinky shit actually goes down, the company hires people like me to hang out with the clients in their homes all day. And night.

I essentially get paid to run interference, play video games, sit around, do my homework, and remind my clients to take their meds, shut the door when they masturbate and change their pants when they have an accident. It's good times. I get paid well over minimum wage to do this.

The bad side of the job is that it's not always easy, and sometimes it's downright scary. Some of the clients are extremely violent, angry and unpredictable. Because of this we have a high turnover rate. Those that do stick around are either good guys who want to make a difference [like me, gasp] or pieces of shit who want to do as little as possible and as a result make the job way harder than it should be for the rest of us. DRAMA.

I don't really have a boss, which is also cool. If I really fuck up I have to answer to the program director, but I'm awesome and that hasn't happened yet. Because I am big and masculine and he is small and metro I think he's generally afraid of me anyway. I could probably come to work drunk and in drag and not even get a call about it the next day.

Anyway, what each house DOES have is a 'head of household'. I secretly call them mother superiors even though most of them are men. The HoH is not my boss. All that title means is that they are directly responsible for managing the clients finances and medical crap. They do not manage me. They just make two dollars an hour more. Remember that I told you this, okay? Okay.

I work four days a week. On Thursday and Friday I work from 3-11pm, and on Saturday and Sunday I work from 7am-7pm. It rounds out to a nice even 40 a week and gives me three days off which is cool. Up until this week I worked at two different houses. The house I work on the weekends has a reputation for being really hard to work because the clients who lives there are notoriously verbally and physically abusive. The HoH there is my pal Juan [who I convinced to grow a mustache, rad]. Juan and I have worked together since forever, and have a great deal of respect for one another. It's a nice situation. Juan has not always been the HoH, though. He recently got the promotion, but refuses to get a big head. Also rad.

The house I work on thurs/fri is a fairly easy house, and the HoH situation is almost the same. This guy's name is, uh. Jameson. Yeah, Jameson. Jameson is from Nigeria, and he is crazy. He was promoted like four months ago, and since then he has turned into a giant cocksmear. He is convinced that he is my boss and I am a turd. We no longer get along. At all.

Last Thursday everyone who works at the weekend house had a meeting at the office. We have new schedules, yay! My new schedule is that I will not be working at Jameson's house anymore. Juan wants me full time, and he can have me. I made a joke about how it will just give me more time to stroke his mustache and him more time to stroke my beard and I think the program director got a boner. I mean something thumped up against the underside of the table.

So, yeah. The ladies in the office tell me, "Okay Dave, DON'T GO TO JAMESON'S HOUSE TODAY AT 3. GO TO JUAN'S."

I say, "Okay, fine. Sure."

So it seems weird to me, so I double check before I leave the office. They confirm. Again. So I go to Juan's instead of Jameson's, and after being there for about forty minutes Jameson calls me fucking PISSED. He proceeds to yell at me, belittle me, and be a fucking douche. Apparently I was supposed to go work there, and he's been WAITING. Oh no. I try to explain. He says I'm wrong. He wasn't in the meeting, but hey.

So I drive across town to his house [at the behest of Juan. I was prepared to do nothing] and he met me in the street in his own car, mafia style. He rolls down his window to yell at me. I made a few things clear with some choice words, and we almost resorted to fisticuffs.

I still have my job though.

In other news I planted flowers in front of the weekend house and it looks pretty.


Monday, May 10, 2010

Christ like [to the tune of thug life]

So this dork I work with [we'll call him Jack] just got a totally rad tattoo. He got CHRIST LIKE tattooed on his forearms. Christ on one, Like on the other. This guy is a total meathead/jock, so the forearms are the perfect place as he spends a ton of time with his beefy arms folded in front of his chest. Gross.

Anyway, the tattoo[s] really bother me. For several reasons:

A) BLASPHEMY. I'm down for making fun of just about everything, religion especially, but seriously and permanently comparing yourself to the [alleged] son of God? Come on man, that's too much. You'll never be that good.

B) Jack is not a good person. Here's a little history lesson: He and his wife were both in the Navy together. She received an honorable discharge on medical grounds PLUS early retirement as it turns out she has bum ticker. She underwent several open heart surgeries. They had a couple of kids. Jack stayed in the Navy. He then proceeded to cheat on his wife several times.

C) In between fucking other women and his own wife, Jack got into juicing. Unfortunately Uncle Sam found out and got pretty pissed. They threw him out and gave him a dishonorable discharge and to make things even better, our friend Jack rolled over on the seventeen other people that he was juicing with. Nice.

So now Jack has turned himself over to Christ. He also 'hates faggots', and constantly confuses the developmentally disabled adults we work with by filling their heads with religious rhetoric and bullshit. One time I called him on it and I'm pretty sure he flexed his muscles at me.

Back when Dorian was pregnant we had this conversation:

Jack: "So, your wife is knocked up, huh?"

Me: "Yes."

Jack: "AWESOME! Jesus really hooked you up on that one!"

Me: "What?"

In MORE boring news I have given up on maintaining my beard. I have taken to blow drying and brushing it after the shower as it is already so long that that sort of behavior is warranted. It's bushy and curly and I want it to be huge. Huger. The hugest. Dorian doesn't, but too bad.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Are you there, Caleb? It's me, Judy.

So Dorian's ex-boyfriend has moved on from harassing her via text message and drunken phone calls to lurking her facebook and blog. Apparently since my blog doesn't meet his high standards [he fancies himself a young Bukowski] he decided to make a vague attempt at hurting my feelings over the internet. On Facebook. Awww.

Caleb Macias:
You write like tessie circo, or clint bosan . . . or maybe if judy blume wrote adult oriented creative confessions . . . i like it, akin to the melesio special.

So naturally, I'm crushed.

Anyway, I have homework to do but I wanted to immortalize and cherish that little moment, as Caleb's sad attempts at besting me apparently know no bounds. Kudos to you, you scrawny little fuck. Have fun living with your parents in Armona, doing whatever it is you do.

In the mean time, I'll be here. Being happy and successful with my wife.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

An oldy but a goody.

So this is something I wrote in notepad when me and Dorian were both working for this shitting [meant to type 'shitty', whoa there Freud] customer service call center. I guess it was kind of like a blog, except it wasn't online, which meant no one read it. So, the only difference is that this one is online, right? PITY PARTY TIME, WHEE. Just kidding, I don't care. Anyway, I like it. It's like I was on drugs when I wrote it. I wasn't. I just had liquid pouring out of my ass. Or trying to. Anyway, enjoy:

I was sick at work today. When I woke up, I felt like bad news that
no one wanted. But that's okay. Anyway, before I woke up to get up
because the alarm clock was going off, I woke up because I thought
the alarm had never gone off.

So I jolted up, shook my head, mumbled, and went back to sleep. Six
thirty finally came. My alarm went off. I was up, dressed, and half
way ready for work by six forty. This is when I REALLY started
to feel like bad news. So I say, "I feel strange." and Dorian, she
says to me, she says, " So stop smoking." Like I have cancer. I
don't have cancer. Atleast I don't think so.

Then we're in my little red car, zipping along at the break-neck speed
of thirty two miles per hour. I'm smoking. Rubbing her leg, too.
It's a nice leg. Not too big, not too small. Just right. I hate
fucking porridge.

So then we're at work. At our lockers. Hers, neat an organized. Mine,
an orgy of crumpled papers, dried up pens and mindless doodles. She
goes her way, I go mine. I looked at her ass. Like her legs, it's good.
Although I tell her it's big. I never tell her it's too big. Just big.
Big enough for me. She says I'm big, but I don't think so. I tell her
that and she just laughs and rolls those big peepers of hers around and
around and around until I change the subject or pinch her nipples.

I don't remember which.

Anyway, at work, out of my locker, gear in hand, still feeling like bad
news. That's fine. I pooped before I came to work. I use the verb 'poop',
but really a large amount of liquid shit just fell out of me with no
effort on my part, big or small. I get to my cubicle, sit down. My
neighbor, or 'cubby buddy', as they're often referred to by the supes
looks at me and says, "You look grey." I just look at her, already
bored. Then she says, "Well, not your cheeks. Those are rosey, But
the rest of you looks grey." I look at her for a while longer, log
into my computer, thinking that my stomach is making noises that
can only signify trouble ahead. She's still looking at me, and I say,
"I feel strange." then I lurch out of my uncomfortable office chair,
half run-half stagger to the bathroom, and shit again.

Back in my cubicle, barely listening to the pre-shift meeting. My supe,
a moderately over weight apparently well educated yet still ghetto enough to fit in with her peers black woman named Aisha comes up to
my cube, looks at me, and starts to say "Are you okay? You look - "
and before she can finish I'm out of my chair and back in the bathroom.
This time I'm bending over the toilet, and foul smelling liquid is once
again being drained from my stomach, this time choosing my mouth as its
preferred emergency exit. When that's done, I pull down my pants and
shit again.

Back in the cube.

Seven thirty eight.

Pre shift meeting still going.

Aisha, the black woman I described moments ago, comes up and says,
"You okay, sweetie? You nah lookin' good!" I open my mouth, then
close it again, because I can feel more liquid and chunks rushing
up my throat.

Bathroom again, same dance as before, new song. I have never mastered
the art of vomiting quietly. I practically roar when the bitter juice
is flying out of my nose and mouth, small chunks becoming stuck in my
beard. This time, someone is in the other stall, and inbetween a couple
of loud farts, yet before the splash of a colossal turd making contact
with the cool water I want to bury my whole head in, they ask,
"You okay over there?"

"MUH," I say.

Back in the cube. Everyone staring.

It's suggested that I go home.

I put in my time off request, zip back home in my red car, nearly
shitting my pants on the way, lurch up stairs, fling open the door,
running into the bathroom, my feet hitting the floor and making this
interesting BARUMP BARUMP BARUMP noise the whole way. I wonder if
the people living underneath us can hear it, and if they appreciate it
as much as I do.

On the toilet, shitting. Nothing to read, and that's okay, because
now my eyes feel funny too.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

More blog posts ploz.

So I was thinking about how I'd write this really amazing blog entry that would pull people in and get them interested in my life. Then I realized that I'm boring and my life is dull. So I started reading Dorian's blog and someone at some point said we 'should have our own sit-com'. For the sake of proving them wrong, I grabbed the ole' handycam and started recording. Enjoy my heavy breathing [too many boogers] nasally voice and verbally abusive ways. I wish I could say that the video was an act, a put-on, but sadly, it is not. Ask Dorian. This is our life. I'm pretty horrible. She'll probably leave me soon. Plooz love me and follow my blog. Ploz.


Casanova Frankenstein | MySpace Video

[I used myspace video because they allow fucking huge files. Eat it, Tom]

In other news we went to a discount grocery store and the signs that hung in the aisles sent me into giggling fits. This one in particular:

It also turns out that Captain Sig of Deadliest Catch fame has launched a line of discount frozen fish treats, which come in three distinct variaties:


In more interesting news, I recently ate KFC's "Double Down" 'sandwich'. I think that's the closest I ever was to having Dorian walk out on me, but it was totally worth it. I mean, it's a fucking sandwich that has two fried chicken breasts instead of buns, and in the middle is melted pepper jack cheese, bacon, and some kind of chemical sludge.

It was glorious. Dorian suggested I write some kind of review, and she got some pretty good pictures but I think we'll save that for next time. Also, the above picture is just a reminder of the bear paws that I pass off as hands every day. The Double Down really isn't as small as my hand makes it look. Honest.

According to Dorian I am a Gorilla. The 'Silverback of white people'. Isn't she lovely?

EDIT!So I want a header, but my computadora skills only extend as far as MS Paint, lol. [ew] So I found this:

Which I then turned into this:

Which I think is a lot funnier. But I just want him sitting on the throne. Not bathroom. So if someone made me a pooping robot header with some sort of fancy font, I'd love and follow and comment them for life. Or until I forgot.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

El gato se comiĆ³ mi comida? Spank el gato, por favor!

So I'm sitting here at work, not really working at all, when all of the sudden this God Damned Robin hurls itself head first into the window I'm sitting in front of. He died. I saw him coming, and my first reaction was to duck. Isn't that funny? I think it is. What would have been even funnier is if the Robin had decided to phase through the glass, osmosis style.

But then what? I'd be stuck in a tiny little room with some crazy osmosis bird banging around, or maybe not at all - maybe he'd just keep on osmosis-ing right through the rear wall and out of my life, leaving me utterly confounded. I'd probably piss myself and go crazy.

Last night Dorian and I went out for drinks with my coworker/pal Codey after I got off of work. We were drinking these drinks called 'otterpops' that got me drunk. Maybe because I had about five of them. With double shots of vodka. Quickly. Or maybe it's because my Irish drinking powers are waning, and I'm just turning into some regular fat guy who goes to Applebee's with his wife and friend to drink fruity cocktails on a Saturday night. Who knows? The Shadow knows. Did you like that movie? Do you even remember it? I did, and obviously do. Which is why I'm talking about it.

On Monday we are going to my Mom's house and I am making chicken fajitas [I somehow manage to make the word rhyme with vagina] which is a dish I make pretty well, I think. I will eat more than I should, hopefully get along with my Dad, and then we can catch up on Breaking Bad and I can blame my covertly dropped farts on my 17 year old Pit Bull, Coosie.

In other news, I am hungry. A cheeseburger sounds simply delightful, but I'm honestly a little worried about osmosis birds now. They say that birds crash into windows and glass doors because they can't see the glass, but that bastard could definitely see me, and had his osmosis plan worked, he would have phased into my skull and liquified my brains. Then I couldn't write a blog warning you all about the impending threat of the Osmosis Birds, and the Coroner would look at my scrambled brains and blame it on drugs and everyone would shrug and maybe one or two people would cry, the end, no more Davie, that's that.

So, no cheeseburgers. Even though I am within walking distance of Burger King. I can smell the grease. I kind of want to call them and hiss "I can smell your grease!" the way Multiple Miggs said he could smell Jodie Foster's cunt in The Silence of the Lambs. But I doubt they would get the reference.