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.

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.

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.

plooz

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:



AND:



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.

El gato se comió 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.