Angering people makes me happy. Not in a, “you’re angry so I’m smiling” sort of way. More like in a “I personally have angered you and now I’m experiencing such great joy that I feel like I may very well have discovered the meaning of life” sort of way. It took years for me to figure out what it was that brought me such satisfaction when others were disgruntled, but then I had an epiphany. There are actually two aspects of your outrage that give me the warm, fuzzy feeling inside that one equates normally with, dare I say, love.
First, and most importantly, I am controlling your feelings which only serves to prove that I am, in fact, God. Behold my great power. (Side note: god is make-believe)
Secondly, angry you is hilarious. No matter your method of displaying your anger, it all looks to me like a Leprechaun having a seizure.
I could go on and on and on about how the anger of others fuels me, fulfills me, brightens my life in the darkest of hours. How when I’m being tailgated, and I slow to a crawl then watch the driver of the car behind me turn red and start screaming. Or how when someone is waiting for a machine I’m on at the gym and, instead of asking to work in, they just glare at me and I pretend not to notice until they stomp off like a petulant child. Or how when my girlfriend is yelling at me and I just smile and roll my eyes causing hers to almost pop out of her head in a fit of rage. But no, I won’t mention those things. What I will do, however, is tell you about two wonderful experiences that I had, not just on the same weekend, but on the very same day.
I woke up on Saturday morning after a restful night of sleep, soothed by the sound of pouring rain outside my bedroom window. After a delicious cup of coffee, I donned my workout clothes, ready to hit the gym and start my day off right. As I approached my car, parked on Manhattan Beach Blvd in beautiful Manhattan Beach, CA, I noticed something on the windshield. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a handwritten note, soaked from the prior nights precipitation. Because it was damp, I removed the note gingerly so as not to tear the page. Luckily, it had been folded in half which effectively doubled the structural integrity of the paper. Once I was seated in the car, I carefully unfolded said paper so that I could read what some stranger had thought so important that they must hand write it and leave it upon my vehicle.
On one side it read,
“FUCKING IDIOT COCK BREATH MORON, SHIT MOUTH ASS WIPE”
A smile instantly plastered on my face, I could barely contain my excitement and reading the other side of the note. I turned it over as gently as I could to read,
“ASS MUNCH YOU SUCK COCK!! TAKING TWO SPOTS ON THE STREET. WE WANT TO FUCK PUNCH YOU! YOU MUST BE FROM IRAN, IOWA, OR I DONT CAREIA. THIS IS MANHATTAN BEACH NOT NEW YORK. LEARN TO PARK AND DONT MAKE LIFE HARD FOR OTHERS ASS BREATH!!!”
I was so delighted that I must have read the note five times before fear set in. Not fear of the scribe, mind you, but fear that the note might be somehow damaged either by tearing, or perhaps the ink running. How would I preserve this beautiful and unexpected gift that karma had given me? Should I leave my car taking up the two spaces it was parked in, skip my beloved workout, and take it inside to de-moisturize it with a hair dryer? Or maybe I could microwave it briefly and dry it out as if I were making jerky? Would that even work? I’ve never made jerky as I have a job and I’m not some kind of freak that makes his own jerky because I can fucking buy unlimited amounts of jerky. I panicked for a moment until it hit me that I could both engorge my ample pectoral muscles with blood using weights that are certainly too heavy for the average man, while also preserving my note that was physically delicate yet poetically powerful. I turned the passenger seat heater on my Lexus to the highest level, then gently placed my letter upon the supple leather normally reserved for my girlfriends pristine twenty-five year old ass, and drove off toward my fitness facility. By the time I arrived at my gym, it had gone from being a soggy, saturated mess, to a crisp, clean, lasting piece of correspondence that would later be given a coveted position upon my refrigerator. My day was made.
After karma’s sweet kiss on my most delicate windshield of a soul, I thought my day could get no better. I was flying high on cloud nine and a half when I walked in to Target to acquire some new socks, underwear, and Paul Newman’s Special Blend Coffee in K-Cups which is not only delicious, but also organic or, should I say, orgasmic. Upon collecting the necessary items I began making my way toward the registers when I walked past a young black couple. Lost in thought, I barely noticed them until the man’s voice rang out behind me.
“OH, SO YOU LOOKING AT OTHER GUYS NOW, HUH?” he screamed.
She replied, “What?”
“I SAW YOU EYEBALLIN’ PEE WEE HERMAN OVER THERE!” he shouted angrily.
His volume was what made me turn my head and, as I looked around, realize three things in rapid succession:
1) There was no one else in the vicinity.
2) They were both looking at me.
3) I was “Pee Wee Herman”.
I have stated on hundreds nay, thousands of occasions that I deny the existence of god or any type of higher power but, in that moment, my conviction faltered. For something this amazing to happen after the awesomeness of the note I’d received just hours before, I almost had to allow for someone “upstairs” to be smiling down on me. This was a defining moment of happiness in my life.
It was obvious that the girl had checked me out and turned her head as I walked by, no one could deny that. In all fairness, she couldn’t be blamed for I am extremely, undeniably, excessively attractive on so many levels but let’s not belabor how handsome I am which is so very, very handsome. That was flattering enough. To make matters infinitely better, her boyfriend was so threatened by her gazing upon my visage that he felt the need to publicly and embarrassingly scold her while simultaneously attempting to insult and belittle me with his “Pee Wee Herman” remark. I can only assume that his reference to the beloved character created by the gaily masturbating genius that is Paul Rubens was meant as an attack on my height, because I in no way resemble Mr. Rubens or his Pee Wee character. In fact, I believe Paul to be a very slight gentleman, physically speaking, and I was looking particularly buff on this day. I already possess a high degree of muscularity but I was also still slightly pumped from the aforementioned pec workout this morning. I was virtually busting out of my extra-medium shirt. This could only lead me to conclude that he was insulting my height which he assumed would somehow either upset me or detract from my beauty in his girlfriend’s eyes, or both. I can’t speak for the girlfriend, although I think we can all agree that she was, how do I put this lightly, “all up on my shit with her eyeballs”. As for me, it only serves to bloat my already massive ego when a young lady risks a vicious public berating from her man just to scope me out. I probably should have tried to make him feel less threatened by explaining to him that I would never try to steal his girlfriend because A) I have eyeballs which enables me to see her face; B) Because she was the type of girl that would be with the type of guy that would scream about another dude in the middle of Target; and C) Because I am 42 and already have a smoking hot 25 year old girlfriend that, on her worst day, is better looking than any chick he could get to speak to him. But really, I didn’t feel like it was my duty to alleviate his concerns or relieve his stress, so I simply laughed and kept walking.
The point I’m trying to make here is that I’m thankful. I’m thankful for who I am, and my ability to elicit such strong emotion in strangers with virtually no effort whatsoever. It reminds me that I am all powerful, basically controlling the world and everything in it. More so, I am thankful for the angry people who have a complete inability to control their outrage and resulting actions. But mostly, I am thankful for the knowledge that I am really super hot coupled with the unwavering belief that all parking spaces are mine, no matter what.
I thank me. I thank me from the bottom of my heart.
Although I think we can all agree that MLK Day is the holiday, All Hallow’s Eve is definitely in the upper echelon of celebratory occasions. Here are 5 inarguable reasons:
1) Halloween is awesome, but it’s much better as an adult than it ever was when I was a kid. All the neighborhood children come to my door dressed in their adorable costumes squeaking out, “Trick or treat!” to which I happily respond, “Obesity or diabetes!” Then I fling a king sized Snickers at them as if they were an attacker I was trying to impale with a knife. It’s easily more fun than Easter where you have to actually go out and find kids to throw hard boiled eggs at.
2) It’s also one of the more educational holidays, since kids learn that it’s perfectly acceptable to go door to door begging strangers for food under the veiled threat of doing something fucked up to them. “I will create paper mache out of old eggs and toilet paper which I’ll glue to the front of your house and all of the foliage in your yard unless you give me something delicious with nougat. Oh, and my mom said to say, “Thank you!”
3) Pedophiles with ambulatory problems don’t even have to leave their houses. Rather than stalking children throughout the neighborhood in their windowless vans, they can simply relax while watching Justin Bieber videos and wait for their doorbell to ring. If they’re smart, they don’t rape and murder the first five or ten kids. They give them at least a dozen pieces of premium candy then let them spread the word to all of the other youngsters in the area. That’s called “viral marketing,” and it’s not just for Herbalife anymore.
4) Children who would normally be called dorks can wear super cool garb and change public perception of them. Nothing gets bullies to back down on the beatdowns like an 8 year old boy wearing a Katniss costume. I, for one, will always dress my child as either a pirate or a ninja, because those are two figures that demand respect, even from the older kids. Or maybe it’s just that my little ones outfits will be accessorized with real swords.
MY KID: “Daddy! Mean Billy from up the street tried to take my candy.”
ME: “What did you do?
MY KID: “I cut off his fucking head with my sabre!”
ME: “Good boy. Let’s have some treats.”
5) Slutty nurse outfits.
And there you have it. While your fat ass is binge eating all of your kid’s candy under the pretense of “checking it for poison,” remember the true message of this exciting and wonderful holiday.
Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.
Or I’ll kill you.
I believe in lower taxes, smaller government, and the right to bear arms. I’m also pro-choice, anti-religion, and think that Republicans, generally speaking, are idiots. Lucky for me, I can vote for Obama because I have a good accountant, the government doesn’t infringe on my life in almost any way that I notice, and I am a law abiding citizen so no Democratic president will ever try to pry my guns from my warm, live fingers.
What I’m saying is that there are plenty of reasons to vote Republican.
Here are 5.
1) You’re a racist. – This one should be pretty obvious but, if you’re a racist or a bigot, don’t vote for Obama. He’s black and, in all likelihood, will remain so indefinitely. In fact, never in any debate or policy speech has he ever once implied that he might consider turning white. What I don’t want to hear is you complaining that you voted for Obama because you were under the impression that he was going to turn white; now you’re all pissy and accusing him of unfulfilled promises. Just vote for a Republican who is most certainly white already.
2) You’re a homophobe. – All gays are Democrats, even the ones that aren’t. You’ll never catch Mitt Romney at a wedding ceremony that ends with, “I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the grooms.” Marriage has nothing to do with love. It’s a legal contract in the eyes of god between a penis and a vagina. That’s really the only way it make sense. If you don’t vote Republican, we will all surely get AIDS.
3) You believe god should influence policy. – Because Jesus saves—-you money on your taxes. America is the greatest country in the world and only because god allowed us to slaughter the Indians, build a slave based economy, and make Ford trucks. Amen.
4) You think a zygote should have a social security number and pregnancy from rape is because god loves you enough to bless you with a child. – Ignorant liberals are just going to keep letting women get away with making their own decisions, and you can’t abide by that. We need to allow every teenage girl who gets knocked up, victims of rape, and ladies who might die during childbirth, the opportunity to be forced to have an infant child that they can’t care for, needs to be visited by it’s father/rapist, and/or might kill them. The lord wouldn’t deprive them of that, nor shall you.
5) You’re a rich old white man. – Because unless you get richer, the rest of us will never survive. We need you to keep buying mansions, yachts, private jets, and high priced hookers so that we can achieve the American dream.
Those are just some of the great reasons to vote Republican this election. I could list countless more but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. I don’t have any kids to support, but there are those 47% of Americans that are lazy as fuck and someone’s got to feed them.
I’ve chewed here for years.
Keeping your teeth in fear.
If you’ve been following the saga of my dental adventures of late, you’ll know what you’re getting into here. If not, I strongly suggest you read both:
Those will bring you up to speed and allow you to understand what you are about to see. If you don’t, proceed at your own risk. Might I suggest you chew on some tin foil while you’re reading? Bwahahahahahaha!
When we left off last episode, I had my new temporary plastic teeth. These are designed to hold one over until their new veneers are created by elves, down at the center of the earth. The plastic temps, however, are created by blind, mentally retarded Malaysian children out of old, recycled, Scooby Doo Shrinky Dinks. They’re actually just one solid piece of material bonded to your teeth so you don’t look like you’re from Appalachia whilst you wait for your real choppers. That said, no one mentioned to me how porous they were and that, if I drank a cup of coffee, I’d suddenly look like I’d been eating the yellow snow. So, after day one, I had pee pee teeth which were evident in the pictures from Episode 36 of my show. Then, to make matters infinitely worse, I broke one of them off while grinding my teeth in my sleep. So now I’ve got three yellow teeth and one little white nub of a tooth. I look like a tweaker who went crazy, obsessively brushing just one tooth.
I’m sorry, did you need a closer look?
Here’s a series of modeling pictures for a popular dental magazine. Can you pick out which one I call Yellow Steel?
Shortly after my sexy photo shoot, young virgin quadruplets were sacrificed and one tooth was wrenched from each of their mouths. In this ceremony, I am presented with my freshly harvested virgin veneers.
Suprisingly, the virgins all once played for the LA Clippers.
I know I mentioned earlier that veneers were created by elves at the center of the Earth. Turns out the elves are part of the Writer’s Guild and were on strike when I got my teeth done. Learn something new every day.
Remember in my first dental picture blog, when they ground my old veneers off in order to put the temps on. Well guess how they get the temps off, in order to put the new veneers on. No seriously, guess.
Wait, is that too far away for you to see?
This battle was slightly bloodier than the first.
Kiss me you fool!
I just can’t get enough! I just can’t get enough!
This is where they start to implant my titanium skeleton. Wolver-who?
The dental work wasn’t near as traumatizing as ET’s screams when they ripped off his finger for this. Phone home now motherfucker.
The Lord toucheth my gums and said, let there be light. And let these veneers bond to his natural teeth which begat these nubs.
Sonia, my sweet angel of oral pain.
(please note that I can make people laugh even when they’re torturing me in my mouth hole)
Finally, the new veneers are in place. Granted, I’m still wearing the protective goggles and I’m more baring my teeth than smiling, but my entire face is paralyzed from the novacaine. Point is, I got some kick ass new choppers, thanks to the efforts of Miss Sonia, the incredible Dr. Sam and, most importantly, the man who’s little bad ass sperm battled it’s way to a lonely egg, creating both another teenage mother and me. Thanks for the teeth dad!
I hope you’ve enjoyed my dental experience as much as I have. But now that my teeth are finished, don’t worry that there won’t be any more fun picture adventures. Next month I’m getting some hemorrhoids lasered off! Stay tuned.
Allrighty then…if you’ve read my last blog, Teeth Don’t Fail Me Now!, you’ll understand the significance of this particular blog. If you haven’t, go read that first, then come back to this one. Seriously, don’t be a retard. Do as you’re told.
That said, the previous entry left off at my visit to Dr. Sam, the dentist extraordinairre who is giving me my new veneers. He is, to the best of my knowledge, the dentist for some celebs including the LA Clippers basketball team and our esteemed governer, Arnold. Of course all that is trumped by the fact that he’s being featured in one of my world famous blogs.
Anyway, this isn’t going to be one of my notoriously wordy blogs. It’s going to be mostly pics, so you can enjoy my agony right along with me. Ready? Let’s begin…
Here I am in the dentist chair. Those are NOT my sunglasses. They’re protective goggles so tooth schrapnel doesn’t blast into my cornea. What’ll they think of next? Peep the old veneers. They look like regular teeth but if you saw them in person they’re ugly. At least I think so. And they’re more cracked out than a crack whore.
Here is a disturbing close up of my gums and nose hair.
This is my version of a grill. Bling bitches!
Ok, if you thought the nose hair was gruesome, check out the choppers as they start to remove the old veneers. Can you imagine if I bit you?
Wanna make out?
This is what the underlying nubs look like once the old veneers are removed.
I feel so…so British!
The next few pics are for every person who’s ever emailed me said things like, “You’re hot.”
It’s time to reconsider your feelings.
Incidentally, I do not use hair product to go to the dentist. My hair is goofy looking and quite fluffy.
Back in the shades and my grill. Gangsta!
Ever wanted to get up close and personal…with my gums? Here’s your chance. I learned that your gums turn white when injected directly because the anesthesia has no where to go. It just builds up in that one spot. Sexy!
The reason that they numb your gums up directly is because they have to yank them back and shove a bunch of yarn up there. I know it looks like there’s just a piece of string running along the edge of my gums, but that’s the THIRD piece. Two others of equal thickness are jammed up INSIDE my gums. This is to create a hollow space when making yet another mold. Today, my gums are bruised. It feels really good. No, really. Like an orgasm. If an orgasm felt like you’d been punched in the gums.
I believe I mentioned another mold, no?
I look like a retarded dog with my tongue hanging out. Mr. Winkle anyone?
The resulting mold of my jacked up mouth.
And finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for…
my temporary plastic teeth!
They actually look even better than my old veneers. Pretty sad isn’t it? I only have to wear them for a week or so. I’ll go early next week to the lab to do color matching and then they’ll create my new veneers. Once they’re ready, it’s back to Dr. Sam for more torture and to get em installed. If all goes well, I’ll have pics of both. Hell, maybe Doc Sam will let me take some video. One can only hope. Nothing entertains like the sound of a dental drill and me screaming like a girl.
Stay tuned and stay toothed!
I’m at a Mexican restuarant with my girlfriend and another couple. Both of the girls are super hot and we’re all dressed nicely. After dinner we’ve got tickets to Quidam, one of the traveling Cirque du Soleil shows. It’s the first time one of those shows is in the Washington DC area and I’m overwhelmed with excitement. And, for the first time in a long time, maybe since I was a child, I’m smiling. Not just a little smile either, I’m grinning from ear to ear. Big ol’ toothy grin, kinda like I’m insane.
Our food hasn’t arrived so we’re all munching on chips and salsa. I grab a chip, scoop up some salsa and take a bite. As I’m chewing, it feels like a piece of a chip is lodged between my front teeth. I touch it with my tongue and it feels really weird. Turning to my girlfriend, I ask her to check my teeth and she sort of gasps.
“Um, I think your tooth is broken.”
“I think your tooth broke in half. Oh shit.”
I reach up and feel my front teeth and it does NOT feel right. I pull the object out that’s lodged in there and clearly it’s half a tooth. Not a top or a bottom half, mind you, but a left or a right half. My tooth has split down the middle. Vertically.
Even worse, I look at the remaining piece of chip in my hand and the other half of the tooth is sitting on it, mocking me, like an evil little half tooth bastard. I feel like I’m gonna cry. See, it’s been just over 24 hours since I got four new veneers on my upper front teeth. Already, one of them has cracked. They’re supposed to last 10 years. “Don’t try to remove bottle caps with em,” the dentist said. He did not, however, mention that I could not utilize them to crack through what is, apparently, the equivalant of wrenching a metal cap off of a beer bottle, a fucking tortilla chip. Maybe he should have told me that I needed to be cautious about Wonder Bread. Soft, fluffy bread can wreak havoc on fragile body parts, like teeth.
“Actually, these veneers could explode. But only if you touch them to things like food. Or liquid. Or air. They’re not rated for breathing at all. Truth be told, it’s best if you keep them cryogenically frozen and buried in an underground lair, safe from anything that might destroy them when you’re out with hot girls in a public place and don’t want to look completely retarded with gaping hole, front and center, in your grill piece. That’ll be thousands of dollars. Please pay the receptionist and enjoy your new smile!”
Needless to say, I spent the rest of the evening with my mouth slammed shut. I’m certain that every person who saw us that night thought, “Damn, that dude looks insanely pissed.” If anybody looked at me wrong I’d have wanted to fight. But I was scared that if they called me a name my other 3 veneers might leap right out of my mouth and run. Chickenshit fake teeth.
The next morning I called the dentist and demanded an appointment immediately. The three of us; myself, and the two halves of my tooth, got in the car and sped to his office. When I walked in I just shoved my hand out, sad little broken tooth in my palm and hissed, “Ten years comes around faster than you’d think.” The dentist was flustered and tried to explain to me that, on occasion, accidents happened. You’re right, they do. Like right now I might want to accidentally use one of your those cleaning scrapers to pop your eyeball, then one of your drills to bore a little hole in your skull, and then that spit sucker thing to vacuum out your cerebellum and put it on a fucking tortilla chip. OOPS! Accidents happen!
He kept saying that it was a fluke. I wasn’t convinced. I was prepared for a lifetime of crumbling teeth, and traumatizing nights on the town, where strangers wondered why that hot girl was out with a dude who’d been punked in his smile by the tooth fairy.
NOTE: I have, to this day, recurring nightmares about my teeth falling out. I never once had them before the veneers. I am not joking.
Anyway, he repaired it and, although I lived in fear of another breakdown in structural integrity, it stayed strong for almost 10 years. Then, one day, it cracked again. This time I was more prepared. Distraught yes, but prepared. I always knew this day would come. Sadly, I didn’t have enough money to do what was needed, which was just to get four totally new veneers. So I went and had the halves cemented together once again, figuring I’d get them all replaced when I had the extra cash. Then, a few months ago, a girl I was dating pointed out that I had a crack in my tooth. I said, “Yeah, that’s from years ago. You can see that little line down the middle,” and I pointed to the tooth. She looked confused for a second and said, “No, the other one.”
Now both of my front teeth were cracked. Ironically, this happened at the worst financial time in recent years. So, I did what any normal person would do in this situation…I ate around my two front teeth. Literally, I started cutting everything into bite sized pieces, even sandwiches. If I did bite into anything, I did it off to the side of my mouth. My theory was that, as long as I didn’t touch anything with those teeth, they’d stay intact. Then, one day I was on the phone with Big Kev and felt something weird going on in my mouth. I told him to hold on and reached up to see what was on my tongue. When I pulled my hand away, and saw a half of a tooth, I made one of the most interesting discoveries in the history of cosmetic dentistry….
Veneers break if you talk to black people.
I still have not figured out if my fake teeth are racist or just scared of blacks. I used to dye my hair but the color faded when I saw Asians so I went back to my natural shade. You can’t very well go around avoiding Asians. Particularly if they’re Asian girls wearing schoolgirl outfits.
Ok, so at this point I’ve got two cracked front teeth and no money. It’s a really good spot to be in and I’m pretty happy about it. Times like this make you resourceful. I’d considered getting some Lee Press-On Nails and fashioning them into choppers, but I couldn’t decide if I wanted the American Flag on them or the word “Hot” in glitter. I’m the MacGyver of dental repair. I once created braces, for a poor Cambodian child, out of a Kleenex and the “w” key from an old typewriter.
The aforementioned girl who had aforely mentioned the crack in my tooth, had found me a great dentist, Dr. Douglas Sam, over in Marina del Rey. He’s Asian but like I said, my hair is back to my natural color so there was no risk involved. Dr. Sam had my newly broken tooth glued back together in no time. But he also warned me, it’s time for those old school, George Washington wooden teeth to be replaced before they get termites. The were going to cost $1,050.00 per tooth, for a grand total of $4,200.00. It was time to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and do what any self respecting grown man would do in this situation.
I asked my dad for the money.
Hey, fuck you guys. My teeth are jacked and I’m broke. You think writing these blogs and doing an internet TV show is paying my bills? Granted, I’m ridiculously brilliant, hilariously funny and disgustingly handsome, but even that takes time to monetize. And who the hell is going to pay me to be smart, hot and funny if I have fucked up teeth? Nobody, that’s who. So I went to the man that’s always been there for me. The man that took my mothers virginity in the backseat of a car, impregnating a naive and impressionable teenage girl, and creating what would later become the genius that you know as me. As he has always been supportive of my endeavors, he ponied up the dough. It’s like he was just running a tad behind schedule on child support. Fact is, even as a grown man, I don’t worry about much. Cuz anytime I need something, I can just call him up and he always makes it happen.
Make it happen he did. Yesterday, I went in for the first of 3 steps in getting my brand new veneers. They didn’t actually do too much on this visit. I mean, all they did was give me about 30 shots in my mouth so that my face was numb from pretty much my forehead down to my neck, pry off teeth that have been glued to me for 10 years, grind on my nubs for 2 hours, yank my gums back, put big wads of string under them to create space, shove 3 different disgusting tasting trays of goop in there to create molds, make me drool on myself for an hour, grind on my nubs some more, then glue fake plastic temporary teeth on so I don’t look completely retarded for the next week. Once it was over and the novacaine wore off, it felt like I’d been hit in the mouth with a midget wearing a suit of armor.
Now that it’s over, I can’t wait for phase 2, the color matching. Then, the final step which is to rip off these fake plastic teeth, grind the nubs some more, and put on my new veneers. It’s all very exciting. Maybe this time, with advances in dental technology, I’ll be able to chew harder types of food like Jello, and perhaps soup. But I’m not getting my hopes up, regardless of what Dr. Sam says.
I’m gonna go sip some lunch now and tap maniacally on my plastic temporary teeth. When I return, I’m going to post another blog if you’re interested. Dr. Sam was kind enough to take pictures through every step of the process yesterday.
Who wants to see gross pics of my dental work?????
PLEASE NOTE: Lest you be concerned about my financial situation, this blog is quite a few years old and today I make so much money that sometimes I knock out my teeth just to demonstrate my ability to purchase new ones. Also, I used the term “midget in a suit of armor” before Game of Thrones ever existed.
Let me say up front that I like all of my neighbors a great deal. The majority of them have figured out not to try to befriend me, speak to me, or engage me in any manner including, but not limited to, eye contact. The lone retarded gentleman who believes that, because we share the same landlord and parking structure, we are somehow socially connected, at least has the courtesy to be loud so that I can hear him coming and take appropriate evasive action. My living situation is not totally unlike that of the characters in The Walking Dead. My neighbors are zombies who would try to devour my precious time, so I avoid them by sneaking around. Should they catch my scent and try to approach me in a threatening (friendly and conversational) manner, I’d be forced to split their skull open with an axe. Unlike zombies, they seem to have the intellectual capacity to understand this and act accordingly. These people seem to comprehend the dangerous nature of invading my life. The ants, however, do not.
I’ve lived at my current address for approximately 6 months and, up until last week, had never seen a single solitary ant in my neighborhood, much less my apartment. Then, the new neighbor, who we shall call “Ant-agonizer”, moved in upstairs. I believe that someone lived above me prior to this but I was only loosely aware of them. From time to time I’d hear a thud that I assumed was either him dropping a baby or that he owned one of those fainting goats but either way he wasn’t bothering me. Ant-agonizer, however, does not appear to sleep and has somehow made the water running through the pipes in my building appear louder than a goddamn oil pipeline. And I’m pretty certain she turns on the water at least every 30 seconds. For some inexplicable reason, her running the water effects the temperature of my water. In an old building like this, with shared pipes, it shouldn’t seem strange but this never happened with the previous tenant. When I shower, regardless of what time it is, she apparently turns on her cold water full blast in an effort to scald me. I’m confident that third degree burns now cover most of my body except maybe my taint. Perhaps I can finally get on Dancing With The Stars.
The purposeful burning began the moment she moved in, and the ants came shortly thereafter. Coincidence? I think, fuck her.
I’m not necessarily a detective, but I have watched quite a few episodes of First 48, some reruns of CSI, and all six seasons of Dexter in one month, so I’m qualified to deduce the circumstances under which a given crime has occurred. In this particular instance, the first thing I realized is that Ant-agonizer moved in to my building under the pretense of not having any pets. What my naive landlord did not realize was that not all pets are obvious. For example, it would be difficult to hide a dog because of the barking, a cat because of the meowing, or a Mexican because of the mariachi music and truck loads of pregnant teenage cousins. What is not difficult to hide is an ant farm. And this bitch definitely brought an ant farm.
What happened after that, is clear to anyone with a modicum of common sense. Because her new apartment was pricier than her previous abode, she was instantly unable to feed the thousands of tiny mouths that she’d adopted as her own. The incessant wailing from the starving ant colony was too much for her to bear, so she decided to release them. Having previously labeled the ants with a tiny Sharpie so as to be able to identify them individually, she knew she had to remove the evidence that they were her ants. Otherwise the SPCA (Society for the Prevention of C*nt neighbors with Ants) would be all up her ass. This explains the constantly running water. What, you say? How the hell does this crazy chick having a plethora of ants explain why she’s running cold water twenty-four hours a day? Elementary my dear Twatson.
She’s washing the ants.
That’s right. One by one, individually, she is cleaning the ants to destroy any evidence that they once belonged to her. She’s removing the Sharpie marks, her perfume, and any DNA that may have sloughed off her aging body on to those tiny pest pets. Then, as they emerge freshly scrubbed from her tub, she dries them off and sends them down a secret tunnel she’s created between her apartment and mine. It’s really quite genius if you think about it.
Now we have untraceable ants streaming in to my apartment at a rate of about 20 per day. That’s how I figured it all out. It’s not an infestation of ants from outside that create an obvious trail from their entry point to, say, a food source. No, these ants appear individually, strolling nonchalantly across my counter, through the sink, in my bathtub, and even in my bedroom. They’re not foraging for food, because they haven’t gone near anything edible. Is it because they’re not hungry? Of course not. We’ve already established that they’re starving. It’s because they don’t know how to find food, or even that they’re supposed to be looking for it. They’re domestic ants you idiot. The kind that are used to being fed by hand. They’re just hanging around, waiting for me to offer them a roast beef sandwich, or perhaps a Cornish game hen. And because she can only wash one ant at at time, their arrival is staggered. To the best of my knowledge, of which I have none, the average ant farm houses approximately twenty thousand ants. At the current immigration rate, I expect the ants to stop arriving in oh, three years give or take.
You’re probably wondering why I haven’t used ant spray or traps in order to commit mass antocide and rid myself of this headache. You clearly do not know me very well if you think I haven’t taken every possible measure to destroy my enemy. I’m the Machiavelli of apartment A. I’ve used both ant spray and traps, along with bleach infused cleaning fluid, attempted drowning, and the weapon at which I am most skilled, emotional abuse. If condescension killed I’d be the world’s most successful mass murderer. What you haven’t thought through is the fact that each of these ants has obviously been trained to detect and evade all modern methods of attacking their race. The Ant-agonizer must have run what amounts to a terrorant training camp and each bug is like a little Jason Bourne, with survival abilities far beyond that of a typical ant. They are traversing rivers of ant spray, carefully scaling mountains of ant traps, and skirting the deadly force of me wielding a piece of TP with which I would crush them if I could catch them.
At this stage in the game, I’m fully prepared to surrender to the ants and offer them my spare bedroom. I’m happy to invest in extra groceries to feed their tens of thousands of tiny, weird, crab-pincer-like mouths. I’m even willing to stop watching Andrew Zimmern eat them so as not to cause them trauma. What I’m not willing to do, however, is forgive the lady above for forcing upon me a colony of ants who are guilting me into becoming their queen. So, over the next three years, I’m going to break the ants down, turn them to my side and then, when they believe that I am their one true god, I’ll construct tiny little explosive vests and strap a minuscule bomb to each ant. Then one day, when she least expects it…boom. Blown up by an insect with dreams of 72,000 virgins waiting for them in the anterlife.
And I’ll finally be able to take a fucking shower without being burned like an ant with a magnifying glass.
I watched the CNN Republican debate in Florida. These are my tweets:
Rick Santorum is a bottom.
“Sorry, I have the pube of a woman that is not Calista stuck in my throat.” – Newt Gingrich
“I have some questions for you Republicanos!” – Juan Epstein’s mother
Speaking of jihadists…we have a question from someone named Hassan.
“I am not programmed to debate Ron Paul. Obama zzzt, bzzt, Obama zzzt bzzzt, Obama.” – Mitt Romney
“How did that Mexican get in here?” – Newt Gingrich
“I didn’t get involved in politics early on. I spent my time counting money & laughing at poor people” Mitt Romney
“Even my wife knows I have no chance to be president so she stayed home to watch Broke Girls.” – Rick Santorum
Mitt Dawg and Newton G about to de-regulate.
“FUCK the fucking Diaz brothers. I bury those cock-a-roaches.” – Mitt Romney and also Tony Montana
“I don’t want my tax dollars used to pay for poor people’s healthcare. You know, if I paid taxes.” -Mitt Romney
“Newt, there will never be a lunar colony on my watch. I just bought the moon.” – Mitt Romney
“Why would we go to the moon? No oil, no one to bomb, no fun at all.” – Any Republican Candidate
The Grand Wizard of this Klan rally looks a lot like Newt Gingrich. #tweetthepress #CNNDebate