saving the human race & such...

So a friend of mine alerted me to this bit of info, which suggests that men who jerk off regularly are less likely to develop prostate cancer. Then I see this article which introduces pants that have a keyboard built into the crotch.

I'm no scientist, but...

Combine this with the amount of whatever-the-fuck-your-fancy-is porn on the internet, I do believe we may just stumbled upon nobel prize type information here. This may just put a serious dent in those pesky mortality rates.

Well in developed countries with broadband at least...

10:16 PM - 14 Comments - 13 Kudos - Add Comment

lfb presents: the bitch box...

It was just any other day. I came home from work, took the dog to shit, and went to check the mail. The mail. Shit. bills, bills, junk, credit card offers, something telling me I may have already won a million dollars. Then I saw it. A wedding invitation. A break in the monotony. If the handwriting seemed somewhat familiar, I dismissed it.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, kicked off my shoes & clicked on the television. There's something about sportscenter & coldbeer that can ease the pain of opening bills, knowing that I'm powerless to prevent my checking account from being drained.

Thinking it might be some pleasant surprise, maybe an old college buddy I hadn't heard from in a while- the idea of a wedding invitation was interesting. Until I opened it & got a look at the name.

She had the nerve to send me a motherfucking invitation to her motherfucking wedding? I couldn't believe it. I felt like I was drowning, set adrift in a sea of emotions, sans life jacket. Was she that mean, or just stupid? Wait, dumb question: A little from column A, a little from column B.

After Samuel Adams and a couple of his buddies helped calm me down, I went to my closet to dig out the bitch box. The Bitch box. It's an old shoebox full of odds & ends that remind me of my past. Things I did right, things I did wrong. Things I should have done but didn't. It seems odd to some people, but it's a way of keeping me grounded. I have a habit of going a little nutso when I'm involved with someone. The bitch box reminds me where I've been, and where on pain of death, I shouldn't go again.

That's when I see it. The house key. Her house key. The house key I didn't return. I wondered where she was, then. checked the RSVP's return address. It was the same place. The place we'd gotten together. They place she'd tried to move her new boyfriend into before I'd figured out where to go. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the evil side of my consciousness gave me the idea. Well, you know where she'll be the afternoon of June 11th. Like a maniacal cartoon character with a twisted lightbulb illuminated over my head I stood there, hatching a plan. An evil supergenius plan.

So I checked "No." Because I didn't want to come help them celebrate. I would be having a little fiesta of my own, however.

A few months later I had a brand new addition for the bitch box. A newspaper clipping with the headline "Local House Vandalized," it said something about someone defecating in a washing machine, that the words "satanic mongrel whore" were spray-painted in several places, and that police were continuing with an investigation, despite having no current suspects. Man, I just hope she didn't throw out her toothbrush.

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Currently listening : Favourite Worst Nightmare By Arctic Monkeys Release date: 24 April, 2007

4:36 PM - 35 Comments - 35 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: mutton: the other red meat...

It was the dead of winter and I was bored. A friend and I had decided the best way to keep ourselves sane was to get out of town every couple of weeks. College life, like all other sorts, consists of routine. Looking back, it was a hell of a lot more exciting than the boredom of 9-5- but tests, keg parties, and girls was a routine nonetheless.

That week we were headed to the mountains. We had a couple friends in school up there & decided a change of scenery, and a little skiing would do us some good. So after C'ing my way through a Friday of midterms, I threw some stuff in a friend's car & made our way West.

Something, once upon a time, had died or been left to rot in this guy's car. This made any kind of travel unpleasant, and the four hour drive we had ahead of us would be downright horrendous. I know you're thinking "well why didn't you just clean it out?" Well we tried. Nights after the parties were over and we were drunk enough to be brave, we armed ourselves to the teeth with febreeze, rubber gloves, and pine sol. It helped for a while, but short of gutting the car to find the source of the evil odor, it was a very temporary fix. That being said, a fair amount of recreational substances were absolutely essential to our trip being any kind of enjoyable.

Partly to keep us awake, partly to air out the car, and partly because we were stoned, every hour or so we had what we dubbed a "freeze out." Rolled down all the windows letting the putrid funk smell and some smoke out of the car, while blasting us with frigid air. So it went for a while.

Now these were the early days of MapQuest. I've been told it's much more reliable these days, but back then it seems all it ever got us was a whole hell of a lot of lost. Being the adventuresome sort, and dealing with a smell that would rival a dead skunk's asshole in terms of pungency, a shortcut through the backwoods sounded damn right appropriate. that was until we hit a few streets with no name (the scary, deliverance kind, not the mellow U2 sort).

A few seconds into our last freeze-out, something dashed in front of the car, too fast for my buddy to respond. We heard a thump, then he pulled the car over. As soon as we stopped you could hear it crying. Bleating, or baaa'ing or braying or whatever the hell it was sheep did.

"What the fuck was that?" He said.

Looking at him in a bit of disbelief I had to respond to that one. "Dude, can't you hear that? You hit a fuckin' sheep. Is the car ok? Fuck it man, let's get out of here."

"Nah, man I need to see if he's okay."

Now normally I would have made a joke about his newfound fondness for sheep, but I was ready to get the hell out of the Twilight Zone. "It's a fuckin' sheep, it's making noise, it's ok. Let's go. The last thing we need is some inbred farmer pissed at us for killing his girlfriend. Get baaah-ck in the car, asshole."

"But what if someone comes around that curve & hits it, they could get hurt." Was his response.

"Someone else? This isn't exactly a fucking thoroughfare." We hadn't seen a car in an hour. "Dude, let's go." I was pissed, but could tell he wasn't going to budge.

Five minutes later I saw the bluelights. As i turned to look out the rear window, I saw my buddy carrying a fucking sheep in his arms.

"Stop right there, son. Put the sheep down." The sheriff, whose parents must have been related said to my friend. "We take livestock theft pretty seriously around here. You ain't part of some Satanic cult, takin' that there sheep for a blood sacrifice or somethin?" This guy had watched too much TV.

"I hit it with my car, I was just trying to get it off the road." My friend said to the cop. Being the perpetual smartass, he added a quote from one of his Psychology of Deviant Behavior textbooks "Actually, SIr, the FBI recently concluded that there is no concrete evidence for the existence or operations of satanic cults in the US..."

"Well, then I reckon the only other reason for a young man to steal a sheep is to take 'im home 'n fuck 'im."

At that point, I got out of the car & went to explain things. Being from the middle of nowhere myself, I'd had my share of dealing with stupid inbred sheriffs & was able to talk our way out of the situation & get directions to the highway.

Anyway, that's the story of how the guy we all called "Mutton" got his name. He hated it.

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Currently watching : Scrubs - The Complete Fifth Season Release date: 22 May, 2007

11:15 AM - 17 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

lfb presents: razing taxes...

There are only a handful of things on this earth that can inspire a murderous rage in yours truly. As you might know, these things include crying babies in airplanes, people who cause pain to my family/friends/dog, slow drivers in the fast lane, Applebee's commercials, the old ladies who say "hello" when you walk in the door of Wal-Mart, the Salvation Army's bell infantry, and of course- taxes.

Tax day. As of this writing it is a mere 4 days away. Much like christmas shopping, I rarely complete this task until exactly the last possible moment. I'm no slacker, as you might suspect. I actually need the prep time to get my receipts and deductions & such in order.

Now, I currently belong to the "Fucked" tax bracket. This is a highly technical term used by the Internal Revenue Service. It basically means I make too much money for any kind of break or government assistance, but too little to hire an army of accountants to hide my assets, do my nefarious bidding, and whatever else it is accountants do for the other 11 months of the year.

As the majority of my gross worth is spent on taxes each year¹. And the only benefits I can identify are the roads on which assholes drive slowly, and waiting in a line behind a group of people who rival the population of the nation of Cambodia in number at the DMV, we in the "Fucked" bracket must learn to embrace deductions.

Today, you lucky bastards, we'll examine a few little-known acceptable 1040 deductions. As in any other reputable tax preparation manual, there are footnotes everywhere². Enjoy:

Capital Losses

-As lottery winnings must be reported, legitimate gambling losses can be written off, proven you have sufficient documentation³

-You are entitled to deduct up to ten dollars for each loss loss of Washington D.C.'s professional hockey team.⁴

Charitable Donations

-Dinner & entertainment expenses spent on any dates that do not end in sex with person(s) you take out.⁵

-Exorbitant tips you leave bartenders / waitresses / cabdrivers / hookers (while under the influence of mind altering substances) that exceeds the standard rate of gratuity (15%)

-All one dollar bills stuffed into strippers' g-strings who claim that they're "only doing this to put themselves through school" ⁶

Business Expenses

Costs incurred due to the duties of your job: ie Extra large Docker's pants to accommodate your ever-widening ass, , dry cleaning to remove the smell of curry from your clothes, and hiring translators to speak on your behalf with someone in Kuala Lumpur.

Devaluation of personal property used in work situations, such as coffee stained shirts, or damage to computer hardware sustained during matches of intra-office laptop frisbee.

The cost of prescribed pharmaceutical tranquilizers that it takes your average american worker person to get through their workday⁷


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¹yes, more than beer & porn. Hey, I'm as surprised as you are.
²deal with it, bitches
³A copy of an IOU to your bookie Vinnie No-neck is an acceptable receipt. Remember the vig.
⁴This year: 40 (losses) x $10 + 14 (overtime losses) x $5 = $470
⁵As does Bill Clinton, leading tax analysts disagree on the definition of "sex," so there is some leeway here. If personal injury (carpal tunnel syndrome) occurs due to lack of after-date sex, medical expenses can also be deducted.
⁶Cover charge can also be deducted if the club employs a dancer whose name is indeed "Charity"
⁷Non-prescribed and or black market crystal meth or rental porn is acceptable if you must stay awake during conference calls, or while on hold with Technical Support.

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Currently listening : Because of the Times By Kings of Leon Release date: 03 April, 2007

1:12 PM - 31 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: life after love, after life...

A lot of people will tell you that when you die, that's it. Nope. Others preach & ask you to send money because they believe that if you live a good life your reward is paradise; if you don't the penalty is eternal damnation. I guess there's no way for me to be sure about the last little bit, but I do know that none of that stuff happens immediately.

I think I've been dead for about twenty years.

I'm not really sure how to describe any of this. I don't have the vocabulary, if it can even be expressed in words. Try telling someone about what it means to be happy without using the word "happy." It's a little bit like that. Come to think of it, I'm not really sure whether I'm writing my account of this in a journal, thinking about writing it, or I'm just some figment of the imagination of some whacko. I would prefer it not be the latter, but who really knows anything?

First of all, I'm not really sure when I died. Hell I wasn't even sure I actually was dead until someone told me. Someone like me. Dead people don't do a whole lot. We watch: Yes, I'm sorry to report that there are perverts, even in death. We talk to each other: Bored to death has a whole new meaning when you're actually dead. We think about our lives: Basically, this amounts to a whole lot of depressing dead folks. So no, we don't rattle chains, make scary noises, or murder housefulls of sorority girls while they happen to be pillow fighting naked. Being dead is just so hard to explain. It's a little bit like a lucid dream that way. You think of someone and they're dead, you can talk to them. If they're alive, you can watch. If you're not talking or watching, then you're thinking about something you did wrong.

I say "I don't know what happens," because I don't know if this is the last stop on the ride. Some people that were here with me aren't anymore. There doesn't seem to be any timetable to all of this. I don't know if now they're one with some god, their light has finally extinguished, or they've been reincarnated as a dungbeetle (although I may secretly wish that fate on some).

Living or dead though, confronting love lost is always a pain in the ass. That's assuming I still have an ass. It sucks. Well you know what I mean. Or maybe not. Shit.

Anyway, it had to have been fifty years since we were really together. It's springtime now, almost summer. The last time we saw each other was the day of our high school graduation. May 31, 1943.

I'm not sure when she died, but one day when she woke up, she started talking to me.

She complained that I went away to play army, and I stayed away. She said it wasn't like I died in the war. I could have looked her up when I came home. Done...something. She always thought I didn't care. She said that wasn't her fault.

I told her about how I'd thought about her every day. How I'd watched her go away to college, and fall in and out of love. How I'd watched her make something of herself, fall in love again, how she'd had children, and been proud of them. I told her how I watched watched her children have children, and how much they adored their grandmother.

She told me she'd never laughed as hard as we had together, never felt love the way she had loved me. She had never felt as safe as she felt when she was in my ams. She had never felt as happy as she had when we were together.

I said 'ditto.'

So now here we are. I know it isn't forever, but it's something. It's something, and it will do just fine for now.

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Currently playing : Lost Planet: Extreme Condition Release date: 12 January, 2007

6:35 PM - 25 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: a day with jd...

Today was pretty boring. I woke up this morning because some aggravating bird. The Food Dude's little black box hasn't started buzzing yet, and I wanted to go out. I didn't really have to go, but I wanted to see if that hot little poodle had left me any pee messages. Her owner leaves her out on the patio when she works so maybe I'll be able to slip in a little through-the-fence quickie later. It had been a while since I'd rolled in anything that would impress her, but I had all day to find something.

I bet if I jump up on the bed, Food Dude will get up. He spent last night at a bar & brought home some chick that smelled like pepperoni. She had left already, I tried to ask her for some pizza, but she didn't listen. She might have been stupid or something. Yesterday morning I brought him a dead squirrel, chicks like that sort of thing. It's better than the stuff in the blue bottle he sprays on himself before he goes out. Humans can be weird. If he had taken the squirrel with him, I know he would have found a better chick, but it's no use trying to reason with Food Dude.

"Hey, food dude - take me outside!" I said, pouncing on him.

"Jesus, JD- hang on a sec." He said.

He stumbled around & put on some clothes, then took me out.

"Come on JD - hurry up. Do you have to sniff & piss on every single twig out here?" He growled, drinking coffee. That stuff makes his breath smell funny. Sometimes he tells me I have doggie breath. That's a compliment, right? I tried giving him a rawhide, but he just threw it across the room.

"Chill out Food Dude - I'm checking my messages. You should look into this, it's so much more convenient than carrying around a laptop & cellphone." I was almost done anyway, nothing too interesting. Rusty from across the way got a "Bad Dog" for humping his Food Lady's cat though.

"Time to go in, I'm going to be late. Ok, JD- don't tear up too much shit- I'll be back home early this afternoon- Maybe we'll go to the park." He told me.

"Ok Food Dude- don't pretend we're going to the park for me. I know you want to hook up with the cute chick with the little ratdog- but ok, what the hell- I'm down with it." They met when I tried to eat the little ratdog. What? I thought it was a squirrel.

Food dude left. So then I decided to fuck with his fish.

"Hey stupid fish!"

"Whoa. That's a big fuckin dog. Look, a rock. I wonder if I can eat that." He said. Then he tried to eat the rock. Did i tell you he was stupid?

Food Dude was washing clothes & put all the laundry on the couch. I can't watch tv from the floor, so I'll just get in the lazy-boy.

Well, that was a mistake. I tried jumping in his chair, but apparently it rocks back & forth for some reason. When I was circling around to get comfortable, I flipped out of it, knocked some stuff off of the coffee table & got my tail tangled in a phone cord. Food Dude is gonna be pissed. I hope he doesn't "Bad Dog" me. He probably will. I could make a nice little bed out of that laundry on the couch, guess I'll take a nap.

Pierre, one of the cats woke me up at about 3. I hate that guy. He speaks in a french accent, even though he was born at the PetSmart over on Hebron. He does that because his Food Chick told him he was Parisian. I think she must be stupid too. I kept telling him he was Persian, and not to tell anyone because they'd take him to the pound in Guantanamo as a suspected terrorist sympathizer. I hear it's a lot worse than the regular pound where they take strays, and that's saying something, cause they cut one of my friend's nuts off at the regular one.

"Wake up, you disgusteeng mongrel! Your mother was a beetch!" He shouted.

"What do you want, you stupid pussy?" I asked.

"When your master has returned, tell him that I have brought him this bird which I killed. It is my present to him. He will realize that I am a superior hunter and animal." He was trying to taunt me, but that show with the fruity mexican who trains dogs was about to come on. Plus I was glad he killed that bird, it woke me up. But I wasn't going to tell him that.

"Whatever, I don't think Food Dude has very good luck with cats. Every weekend he says he's going out to get some pussy & he's never brought home any stupid cats." I told Pierre. Then I ran at the sliding glass door to the patio barking & growling. Since Pierre is a cat, and they have evolved over generations to fear dogs, he flipped off the patio railing. That was probably funnier than the lisping mexican dog trainer.

Food Dude came home with Subway. I love Subway. Just for that, tomorrow I'm going to give him that dead bird.

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Currently listening : Tical By Method Man Release date: 15 November, 1994

7:23 PM - 29 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: femme fm...

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Change the channel? Every time there's a break in the music, you switch the station."

"I don't like commercials. You always bitch about them. I thought I was doing good. Anyway, my music is better."

"You keep changing it to this stupid top 40 shit. If i hear Kasey Kasem introduce another fuckin' Fergie song, I might just have to steer the car into oncoming traffic."

"What, I like that song. You said you liked that song. You're just being an asshole."

"I liked that song three months ago before they made it into an Applebee's commercial. Forgive me if I'm not feeling especially chipper this evening. We are going to your parents' house."

"What? My parents love you. Wait...they made that song into a commercial."

"Jesus. No they didn't make it into a commercial. I'm just saying, they play it every five minutes. I'm sick of it. And no, your parents don't like me."

"Well they like you more than the other guys I've brought home."

"Oh, that's good. Now I get to picture the litany of strange dudes who've said they loved your mom's cooking or talked NFL football with your dad over Thanksgiving dinner."

"Dammit, you know what I mean. Don't be difficult."

"I'm not being difficult, I just hate this music. And you know this isn't exactly like visiting DisneyLand for me. Can't you just let me listen to my classic rock station?"

"I get tired of all that old stuff. I want to listen to something that's been recorded since they invented CD's."

"It's not Old Stuff, it's Classic. They still play it because it's good music. It's not the battle of the biggest tittied one-hit wonder versus ex boy-bander debating the current whereabouts of sexy. Whatever. I'm driving. I'm supposed to get radio station privileges."

"That's such a bullshit "Man's Rule." Is this like not asking for directions? Ok, well fine then. Pull over. I want to drive. You never let me drive. Why is that?"

"Because you can't drive. You scare me. You scare everyone who's ever ridden with you."

"You're just saying that cause I got those tickets, and had those accidents. I'll do better this time. Let me drive!"

"No. Anyway, we've already stopped twice so YOU could pee. If we stop now, we'll be late for dinner. The last thing I want is to listen to another lecture from your father about how it's impolite to to keep people waiting. Just don't change the damned station again, ok? Jesus, why does this have to be so complicated?"

"Oh, what a big man. it's not enough that you get to be lord over the remote control, you get to decide who drives & the radio programming too. Now you're telling me our conversation is too complicated, so we should stop. You decide which topics are and aren't fair game. Hey, instead of being Big Mr. Man, shouldn't you be concentrating on the road? I still can't believe you're wearing that shirt. I have such better taste than you, you should let me pick the music."

"You know what, Fuck you."

"Yeah, if you think you're ever going to do that again, you'll let me choose the stations."

"Fine. That's just lovely. The fact that you have a vagina entitles you to free dinners your whole life, license to be a bitch a week each month, and the right to claim superior taste every time I leave the house wearing something you don't like?"

"Well you get to pee standing up, don't have to deal with childbirth, and don't have to wear makeup. I think that tradeoff is fair. I'm just saying you could have better taste in clothes. And music. And friends. I'm a woman. I have better taste. My music is better. Deal with it."

"Fuck your snide attitude. Fuck your top 40. Fuck your illogical arguments and your speeding tickets, and fuck all those guys you brought home to your parents. Wait. Fuck your parents."

"Yeah, personally, I'd love to see you get it up that many times."

"Whatever. The funny thing, the really funny thing about all this is what you'll tell your friends. 'He was being such an asshole.' When in reality, you're just being difficult for no reason."

"I don't have a high pitched, nasally voice. You make me sound like Fran Drescher. And yes, you are being an asshole. Oooh, I love Gwen Stefani."

"Wonderful. What a perfect start to what will undoubtedly be a splendid evening."

"Asshole."

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Currently listening : In Light Syrup By Toad the Wet Sprocket Release date: 24 October, 1995

2:18 AM - 39 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: the food dude & jd...

It had been a little while & a few women since I woke up from the ashtray induced coma. I had been enjoying the single life, drinking, and trying to pick up single girls in bars. It was my little version of The American Dream.

This latest conquest would see the shit hit the proverbial fan in my little dreamworld. It started out the same as most. Thursday (ladies night) at the local watering hole had been a bit of a disappointment in terms of selection. With several colleges in the area, this is rarely the case. There must have been a break, or midterms, or one of those other of everyday college life that I hadn't been familiar with in ten years.

After several rounds of shots, I had relented. I took her back to my place, and well...you can imagine what happened then. Afterwards, I hadn't been nice. I'd spent most of the night on the couch, after freeing my arm from the weight of her shoulders. It almost didn't work, because I had began laughing nervously after thinking about a show on the Discovery Channel. A hiker had his arm trapped under a boulder & had to sever the fucker with a swiss army knife. It stopped being funny after I realized there were no knives within reach.

After waking up, I'd tried every trick I knew to try to get her to leave. I made a big production about how I had to get to work early. I offered her cab fare. Getting ready for work, I huffed, stomped around, and generally went deep into my repertoire of generally being a dick.

Well, none of that worked. Faced with the prospect of being late to meet a client-to-be, I offered a casual 'please lock up before you leave,' as I stormed out the door of my apartment. I even put emphasis on the 'leave.' apparently I wasn't as straightforward as I intended.

After a rather disappointing day of work, having the dog greet me wearing a hot-pink collar should have been my first clue that something was terribly awry. "What the fuck? If I had known you rolled that way, we'd have gotten you a fruity little number with rhinestones." I said to the dog. I'm not sure if it was blunt force trauma via ashtray to the forehead, or boredom...either way, lately I had began talking to the dog quite a bit more than normal. He didn't seem to mind, and I wasn't high on the concept of asking my therapist what having long conversations with a labrador retriever might mean in terms of mental health.

He wagged his tail & gave me the silly look that was in his particular dialect of dogspeak, something like "Hey Food Dude, I'm colorblind. Did you bring me something?" Before he ran off to grab one of his toys.

I went to the fridge to grab a cold beer. None. I could have sworn I picked up a six pack yesterday afternoon. Oh well. Gaps in memory were par for the course with the new lifestyle I'd been leading.

"Well, JD, there's always sportscenter & my spot on the couch. Two outta three ain't bad." I said to the dog. Apparently this translated to something approximating "I've got food" to JD's dog brain, because he leapt up onto the couch, wagging his tail. He then begins sniffing the couch. "Hey what the hell is this, Food Dude?"

"What the fuck is this on the couch, JD- a duvet cover? You decide to redecorate or somethin?" He tilted his head to the side & whimpered a bit. "Wait, why do I even know that word. Fuckin' Crate and Barrel Martha Stewart corporate brainwashing I guess."

JD began barking. At the time, I waived it off. Usually this barking meant he was hungry. I went to the cupboard where his food was kept. It had been reorganized & labeled. I didn't remember doing that. I poured out his evening ration of two cups, but he just stared at me uninterested.

"Ok, well JD, what the fuck do you want then? I'm making a sandwich." As I dug through the drawers in the refrigerator, something was weird. No ham. No salami. No roast beef. "Hey JD, what the fuck is 'Tofurkey?'" The dog, now whimpering, had hidden his muzzle under his left forearm.

"Something here ain't right, huh JD?" I asked my canine friend & therapist. Noticing the wrapper I was holding in my hand, he had perked up. After opening the cellophane & smelling whatever the hell deli sliced tofurkey was, I tossed it to him. He sniffed a couple of times before sneezing & shaking his head violently.

"What the fuck is this, Food Dude? I know I bark too much, hump the couch cushions & chew up some of your shit sometimes, but you ain't gotta poison me. If you start buying free range chicken and vegan dog food, I'm running away."

"Sorry bud. It says on there we're not supposed to be able to tell the difference." I told JD.

"I tried to warn you about those fuckin' hippies, Food Dude. All their food tastes like shit. Animal suffering adds to the flavor." JD thought, and his attention span reached it's limit, so he ran back into the living room.

Feeling a headache coming on, I made my way to the bathroom, dying for an aspirin. As I reached for the medicine cabinet, JD began barking again. "Shut up, JD" I said over my shoulder. "I'll throw the damned tennis ball in a minute."

Again I had misinterpreted JD's barking. As the medicine cabinet's door swung open, I understood what he had been saying. "Danger, Food Dude. Don't go in there!" My medicine cabinet had been transformed into a mini version of Walgreens' aisle 8. Tampons, sanitary napkins (which is, incidentally, the worst product name ever coined), 'feminine sray' and a small bottle of 'herbal, all natural cure for yeast infections were staring back at me.

Mouth agape, I was still struggling to understand what was going on here. Wait, maybe I died on my way home from work, and now I'm in hell. I'm seriously pissed at Disney. Didn't they say something about All Dogs Going to Heaven? JD was here with me. My spirit guide in the netherworld. "Good God, JD. This is some weird shit. Did someone slip me a mickey last night?"

The dog then made a noise that startled me. His animal instinct had taken over, and he was guarding his territory from impending evil.

"Hi sweetie. I'm back." I heard in that familiar voice. The one from last night. "I hope you don't mind, I brought some things over." Everything clicked into place & I felt nauseous.

As the door swung open, my stomach lurched. Relieved to see JD, I had to stifle a sigh. She might not know I'm here.

"We gotta get the fuck outta here, Food Dude. Help me out the window." The dog pleaded with his large brown eyes.

"Yeah, JD. I think it's time for both of us to run away."

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Currently listening : We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank By Modest Mouse Release date: 20 March, 2007

10:44 AM - 35 Comments - 36 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: near-dead reckoning...

Yesterday started out like any other. I had a great job, sizable bank account, a live-in girlfriend, a cool dog, a nice car. Growing up was a struggle. I worked my ass off in school, and as such I have been able to afford the things that make life enjoyable. A lot of people work so hard they rarely take the time out to enjoy the things that their work provides. That is not my problem. Every year I spend a week in the Keys, and a week in Tahoe. I have all the latest & greatest gadgets. Whether I know how to work them or not is another matter.


So I was having a good day yesterday. I was watching the game on my sixty inch plasma, cold beer in hand. Basketball has always been a passion. I yell and scream at the television because deep down, part of me believes that I'm actually affecting the outcome of the contest. Most of my friends & family accept & understand this. The dog even hides in the bathtub, coming out for a few quick minutes at halftime. It's a system that works. I know this seems silly to some, but it's no sillier than planning a dream wedding you'll never be able to afford, or playing lotto every week. At any rate, no matter how I explain this, some of you won't get it, but others of you can identify completely.


I'm using the past tense here, because yesterday is gone. I'm not sure who won the game. I'm not sure when she took the beemer, and I'm not exactly sure how she emptied my checking account. I do know that I was fired, because she went through my rolodex, calling all my clients and leaving obscene voicemail. I'm not sure why she did that, but it's done. This much was revealed to my by several angry messages on my answering machine. So yeah, I'm not sure of much, other that my peripheral vision caught a large decorative cigar ashtray flying in my general direction a split second before everything faded to black.


And so now I'm awake. It's been something like 15 hours since the game was on. I woke up to find most of my possessions either gone or smashed. She even rifled through my clothes, taking everything except the lucky silver dollar I keep in my right jeans pocket during games. I suppose now though, I have to question it's effectivity. I wouldn't call the last 24 hours' events 'lucky' by any standard. She always did have a keen sense of irony.


So did I learn my lesson? Or should I say lessons? You bet. And yes, I'm going to share them. First, I need to find a woman with thicker skin. Or at least one who isn't prone to bouts of violence and/or assault when her feelings do get hurt. I should also consider hiding the remote control during Duke / Carolina games, so none of these thicker-skinned women feel the need to change to the Lifetime Movie Network during especially important stretches of the game. Perhaps most important though, is when an irate woman does have projectiles within reach, I should drag my attention away from said game so that I might dodge any airborne threats to my well being. The pause button on Tivo must become my friend.


Of course calling a lady a "stupid cunt" probably isn't the smartest thing you can do either. Even if changing the channel to a Meredith Baxter Birney movie during a TV timeout does justify it.

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Currently listening : Houses Of The Holy By Led Zeppelin Release date: 19 July, 1994

9:50 PM - 33 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: springtime fresh...

Thursday. LFB Day. This week: A Commentary on Spring

I imagine for you folks in areas where the weather actually matters: the pacific northwest where it rains all winter & clears up in spring, it stops snowing on you poor bastards in the midwest, and you New Yorkers who can reclaim your stoops and apartment hallways from the crackheads that migrate to the park- it's a bigger deal. Companies that market douche, and her new cousin feminine deodorant spray like to mention Springtime too, but that's creepy - cause that's when the bugs come back, there are tornadoes & then there's that whole lion/lamb thing.

Spring doesn't mean shit. At least not anymore. In college, it officially spring when chicks donned bikinis & took up residence in the quad. In corporate america, the fact that the axial tilt of the earth is moves the northern hemisphere closer to the sun means Fuck All. Seasons in general don't mean very much to me. While discussing this with a friend, we decided that seasons that made chicken tasty were important, the kinds that broke up the calendar were not. In the south, it's hot 9 months of the year, and chilly for about six weeks. In between those times, you get around two weeks that are pleasant. A few minutes of nice weather does not deserve its own proper noun. Now when it gets so hot & humid that walking to the mailbox will make you sweat, creating the wretched situation that can only be described as "Swampass," well that's different. Seasons are a lot like the WNBA or cat people. I know they exist, but if they didn't, it wouldn't make much of an impact on my day-to-day.

Now I find myself in need of some kind of angle to write a commentary on Spring. How do I begin? Like I do every week, I looked at our topic, to see if i could find a loophole. At first I thought about writing a little story about how embarrassing it was when little j noticed something 'Spring' into life in his pants, during an elementary school class. As red faced about it as I was then, it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship that's seen it's share of interesting situations...But I just couldn't get motivated to write about it.

While talking to one of my college buddies, I realized I did go to college with a chick named 'Spring,' and a little commentary on that subject would at least be a little more fun to write, even if you guys were expecting some horseshit about blooming flowers, flying kites, and butterflies.

So this 'Spring' was a slut. And before you ask, no- I'm not using that term in an affectionate way. Spring was definitely not the good kind of slut. In Chapel Hill, most of the good kinds of sluts find their way to the basketball team, in hopes that they might cash in on their morally casual attitude & live happily ever after until divorce, when they'd take half the player's NBA salary. To give a bit of comparison, this chick hung out with the swimming & diving team. Well, up until that point I was not aware we had one of those. Woo-hoo! Oh, and apparently the desire to shave your whole body & wear speedos is perfectly legitimate masculine behavior if you're on a swimming & diving team (it means something entirely different if you're roller-skating on the Boardwalk at Venice Beach.)

Yeah, so I'm still not feeling it. So I guess this is my commentary: Spring is Uninspiring.

Now, I do like March. But it has absolutely dick to do with changing seasons. There's a lot of basketball on. But there will be more on that at a later date...

peace-
jh

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4:15 PM - 30 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: the driver...

When life became more than she can handle, she drove. Giving in to the subtle calm of the road seemed to help everything make sense. It was her own private meditation. The chains of everyday life that restrict the heart and the mind would melt away, and things made more sense. She could step back from her emotions, get out of her own slightly neurotic head, and achieve a type of clarity not so easily found amongst the chaos of the day to day.

Or that was the way it usually worked. She'd made it halfway to Tampa by the time it had started to rain, snapping her out of her thought process like a blown fuse. Suddenly, a sharp pain in her bladder made itself evident. She'd need to find a restroom, and quickly. Reluctantly, she pulled into a seedy gas station, ducked in & asked the attendant for the key. Pointing at the gaudily large wooden block hanging from a nail in the wall by the door, the lady at the register grunted. A cigarette hung between her cracked lips as she petted a large furball that might have been a cat, napping on the counter.

"Thank you ma'am," the driver said politely.

"Hrmph," the attendant said in acknowledgement, a wisp of smoke escaping her lips.

With that, the driver smiled & headed to the ladies' room.

Seeing herself in the dirty, spotted restroom mirror came as a bit of a shock. Stress had caused her face to break out. Crying had made her eyes red, and a lack of sleep had left what her mother would call 'saddlebags' under her eyes. At this sight, she began to cry. Slowly at first, it intensified. It was as if her lack of control at that very moment had snowballed, making everything worse. After sobbing for a few minutes, she splashed a bit of cold yet somewhat murky water on her face, and rubbed her eyes hard.

Handing the key on the wooden block back to the attendant with a muffled "Thank you," the driver turned towards the door.

Lighting a new cigarette, the lady at the counter blew smoke straight up into the air. It hung there for a second before its tendrils were caught by a gust of air from an unseen fan and dissipated into the dimly lit station. It was then that the attendant spoke. Two packs a day & a hard life had given her a gravely voice.

"Are you alright, honey?"

Somewhat startled by this turn of events, the driver turned and tried to manage a thin smile. "Yes...No...I don't know." She said, her voice quivering.

"Well I'd love to tell you that it gets easier, but I'd just be bullshittin' you," the older lady said before stifling a cough.

"My boyf..." the driver started, but that term seemed so inconsequential, so juvenile. "The man I'm with just proposed," she finished.

"Those ain't happy tears. You don't love him?"

"No, I do. It's just..."

"You're knocked up."

"I'm pregnant," she said, trying to hide the revulsion she felt at the lady's terminology. "And I do want to marry him. Someday. I just don't know if he loves me. You know what he said? No flowers, no ring, no down-on-one knee. He said 'Well, I guess this means you'll get what you wanted.' "

"Heh. Even them good men can be a little stupid when it comes to the things that comes out when they open they mouths. My first husband, Karl. He got so drunk the night before our weddin, he threw up on the justice of the peace durin' our vows. I guess you could say he won't big on romance, either." The attendant seemed almost wistful. "Yep, he was a horse's-ass, but he was a good man, rest his soul. You seem like a smart girl, you'll make the right choice darlin'," the old lady smiled.

"I hope so. I just don't know what that is." The driver said, making her way towards the door.

"It'll come. Take a drive, clear your head. You'll figure it out." The lady at the counter smiled.

"Hmm, that's what I was thinking, but it doesn't seem to be working."

"You gotta remember to leave your radio off. Seems like every song I hear reminds me of one of my old jackass men. It can cloud your judgement."

With that, the driver got in her car. With the advice of the Texaco sage ringing in her ears, the weight of the world on her shoulders seemed a little less frightening.

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Currently listening : The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner By Ben Folds Five Release date: 27 April, 1999

5:45 PM - 12 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: rainy day ramblings...

Being from the southeast, his trip to Seattle in December gave him a whole new level of knowledge on exactly how much rain one place could get. Right off the bus, he made his way down to Pike Place Market to check out the sights. After a few minutes, he found himself thoroughly soaked & terribly thirsty. He smirked at the irony that his outside could be so wet, and his insides feel so parched. Picking out a small bar that advertised "free internet access," he ducked inside. After taking off his wet jacket & sitting down to the bar, he ordered a pint. As he looked around he noticed quite a crowd.

"Busy today?" He asked the bartender before laying a twenty down on the bar.

"About average." The bartender grunted, before grabbing the bill & waddling over to the register.

Only in a city this grey would you find such a crowd at a dive bar at 2pm on a Wednesday, he thought as he quenched his thirst with the icy cold lager. Flipping open his laptop, he began a half-hearted attempt to send emails to higher-ups. A little e-justification for the hours he planned on billing. He was cold, wet & distracted. After several beers, his head began buzzing. His attention span halved. The two men beside him were having a heated, if not completely coherent discussion about something.

"So, what am i doing wrong?" The larger gentleman said.

The short, balding, sickly looking man next to him patted him on the shoulder & then remarked, "Jim, the only thing you're doing right is staying afloat. That's not good enough."

"What, I'm not happy making money?" Asked Jim.

"I make money. Money don't mean shit to me!" Barked the sick gentleman.

"What, it shouldn't mean shit to me? What a thing for you to say, Steve." Jim said, almost sounding offended.

"That's different. You've got to think about the future." Steve responded.

"I see people making money, they're happy." Jim said, a quizzical look slowly passing over his weatherworn face.

"Well cheers on that." Steve smiled, threw back his shot & said "But that don't mean a goddamn thing brother."

"Come on, you've got to have dreams, ideas- things you want to do with your life." Jim said,

"You ignorant fucker, you do know I've got cancer eating up half of my little ass." Steve hissed.

"That doesn't matter, I could get hit by a train tomorrow." Jim responded, trying to make up for his earlier comment.

Smiling, Steve sipped whiskey from a highball glass before saying, "It doesn't matter. I'm happy. You're not. All you do is bitch."

"You, happy?I don't buy that shit. You really can't make youself happy, unless you make someone else happy. You live your life closed off from everyone else, and that makes you a mean bastard." Steve said, quite loudly.

"Keep saying that. It's starting to piss me off. I'd hate to have you embarrass yourself in this bar, by getting your ass beat by a frail bald chemo patient." Steve answered, chuckling.

"Whatever man, order us another round, Mister Ultimate Fighter."

"Tell me about ten years from now. What will you be doing then? Still repairing roofs in the suburbs, that's what you'll be doing."

"And you'll be doing the same fucking thing. If you're still alive."

"There's the rub. You'll be here in this seat, bitching to some other mean bastard about how you want to do great things with your life, but can't get out of this silly hole, fixing stupid roofs for stupid assholes. Having dreams is a good thing, but you've got to do something about them."

"Fuck this serious shit. We keep drinking whiskey & talking like this, we're going to be crying or fighting in a half hour."

"Fuck this indeed. We're going to need some more shots. I'll be back in a minute. Hey, and get one for our friend, the wet gentleman here. He looks like he could use one too." "Closed off my ass." Steve grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom.

"So, Jim, is it always this grey here?" the traveler asked.

"You mean the weather, or that grumpy old fucker in the toilet? Doesn't matter. It can't rain every day, kid." He held up a glass, clinked it to the traveler's and they drank. "On bad days, it can be really bad- but when it's nice, well that just makes it all the more beautiful. Right Steve?" He asked his friend, making his way back onto the barstool.

"Yeah, it can be pretty. But if you're smart, you'll go across the street and buy a goddamn raincoat."

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Currently listening : Blind Melon By Blind Melon Release date: 22 September, 1992

12:16 PM - 36 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment

LFB Presents: tj & otter...

Otter had just started working at the county emergency room out in the middle of the sticks. The unemployment office had set him up with the gig as an orderly, and as lame as it sounded in the beginning, he was enjoying himself.

He worked with an older black guy everyone called TJ. TJ had given him the scoop the first night. It was the early seventies, long before the days of meddling DEA investigations and medicines locked away in cabinets. Dr. Dan was either really cool, or pissed at the world for having gone through years of medical school just to be stuck in redneck hell- He was more than generous with the fun stuff. Say you had a headache, and he'd dispense with the percodan & valium. 'Orderly's little helpers' TJ called them. Tell him them were having trouble sleeping? Here, have a qualude. The anesthesiologist would hook them up with ether, and the pathologist was never stingy with the embalming fluid.

So they spent most nights blurry-eyed, trying not to be noticed by mopping the same part of the floor for hours on end. Sometimes they'd trade a few pills for whatever the ambulance drivers picked up from their patients. They were good times.

The particular evening in question started out much the same as any other. Otter & TJ sat in a 1960 Ford Fairlane, smoking a doobie & listening to AM radio.

"Hey man, is this on the new ABBA record?" TJ tried to ask, coughing after taking a particularly vicious hit off of the joint.

"Give me that shit man," Otter said as he took the j from TJ. "How fucked up are you today, man. That's a fucking Alka Seltzer commercial. Huh-huh, man, what did you take?"

"Awww, just a couple of these." TJ reached into his front pocket & pulled out a handful of different colored tablets, some of which Otter didn't even recognize. "Want some?" TJ asked.

"Which ones?" Otter asked.

"Take one of each. That's what I did. I think most of them should cancel each other out- Here take these." TJ handed Otter several pills, a button, a ball of lint, and a small ceramic tile with some sort of chinese character on it.

Otter glanced at the handful, before asking, "What the fuck?"

"Shit, that's one of my old lady's mah-jongg tiles. Lemme get that back. She'd whoop my ass if you downed one of those things." TJ said, giggling.

Otter choked down the pills with a slug of warm Schlitz, and then said, "I hope you know what we're doin,' brother."

TJ gave a smile that would put the cheshire cat to shame before saying "No sweat, bro- be cool." As they walked into the emergency room.

Otter soon found his head swimming. He looked for an empty bed & closed the curtains. "Just gonna rest my eyes, man," he told TJ. What seemed like a split second later, TJ was shaking him violently.

"Wake up man! Some guy just came in with his dick cut off!" TJ was screaming.

Looking confused, Otter replied, "What? How the fuck did he do that?"

"No fuckin' clue, man. Dr. Dan needs us to hold him down so he can knock him out. He's bleeding all over the place, talking about bein' down on the farm, or some shit like that. Man, he drove here in a pickup with his dick is wrapped up in a fuckin' towel!" TJ yelled, already running towards the new patient.

After wrestling the unfortunate farmhand into submission & strapping him to a gurney, Dr. Dan administered a generous dose of sedative. Otter promptly announced, "Well, I need a fuckin' cigarette," and ambled to the break room, TJ in tow.

A quick smoke later, Otter & TJ shuffled back into the emergency room, both still a little shaken up.

"Doc, what happened to that dude?" Otter volunteered.

Shaking his head, Dr. Dan replied. "Crazy bastard...Well, he wouldn't say anything until he got pretty doped up, but evidently he had put some peanut butter on his dick & tried to get a horse to blow him. Fuckin' horse bit it off, chewed on it for a minute & then spit it out."

"Holy Fuck! Damn, that's some stupid shit." Otter couldn't help himself.

Dr. Dan chuckled & said, "Yeah, that's pretty much what I told him. You know what he said then?"

TJ & Otter just stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Dr. Dan laughed a little bit harder. In the thickest country accent he could muster, he repeated the man's response:

"Yeeah, you riiight Doc, that thar wadn't too smart. I prolly shoulda' just fucked 'im."

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Currently listening : Rockin' the Suburbs By Ben Folds Release date: 11 September, 2001

11:22 AM - 46 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

my adventurous trip to wal-mart...

Much to my disappointment, it was again time for my semi-annual trip to the local Wal-Mart. Finding a parking lot amongst idiots, digging through items that are completely out of order, waiting in line for thirty minutes only to have an inept cashier fuck something up & have to call a manager is generally not my idea of fun.

There I was. The end was in sight. One gigantic lady separated me from checking out. Hot shit, she only has three things. I might get out of here in time to catch Heroes

"Excuse me," she said to the cashier "What are the differences between these." She held up a box that said "Massengil Hygienic Disposable Drop-In Liner Bags," some other name-brand product with a similar description & another plain Wal-Mart brand generic equivalent product.

That can't really be what I think it is, can it? I thought to myself, before glancing over at the tabloids & other junk set up by the registers.

The cashier let out a stifled cough, and at this I looked up. She was either blushing or having a ministroke, because her face had turned a shade of red not often seen in nature.

"Errm, these two are the same," the embarrassed cashier said, holding up the Massengil & generic boxes. Pointing at the third box, she said "This product is specified for the, uhhh anal cleansing prouct."

At this point, I was no longer to hold it together. I let forth what I can only describe as a guffaw. Wiping a tear away from my eye, I noticed both the cashier and the customer gave me a glare of contempt normally reserved for child molesting islamic terrorists. Pointing to the Weekly World News on the rack I managed a sheepish "Did you know they're using zambonis to repair the polar ice caps?"

Shaking her head in disgust, the large lady customer shook her head & said "Okay, I'll take this one."

Upon making my way to the register, the cashier was still looking at me like I was mentally imbalanced, so of course I had to say something.

"I guess that brings a whole new meaning to seeing a bunch of douchebags at Wal-Mart."

She did not find that nearly as amusing as the guy behind me in line did.

So for me, the next time someone cuts you off in traffic, feel free to call them a filthy "hygienic disposable drop-in liner bag." You must admit, it does have a certain eloquence.

Currently listening : So Divided By ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead Release date: 14 November, 2006

10:15 AM - 44 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment