The Golden Age.

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don’t let anger ruin your life

^ Another search term that someone used that landed them on my blog. Clearly they came to the wrong place. If anger didn’t consume my life, I would have very little to talk about. You’re welcome.

Drove by (okay, through) McDonald’s today. Looks like the McRib is back. When are they going to stop crying wolf about the McRib? Every time it comes out, it’s “out for a limited time ONLY!”  McDonald’s is to the McRib as Brett Favre is to football. Either retire it or don’t, McFavre.

We only have 3 more days to play McDonald’s Monopoly, boys and girls. This means that I have a legitimate excuse to go overboard with large fries and medium Dr. Peppers this weekend other than “I’m fat” or “I deserve it.” My amigo Alison, myself, and my cross-country friend Mr. Kocourek decided to join forces to increase our odds of winning.

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I would like to win a million dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win fifty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win a car so I can sell it for twenty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win free McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life. If that’s not possible, then this isn’t America.

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I am ghost-like. My tan is fading rapidly. I am beginning to resemble a person in hospice. All the colorful life draining out of my flesh, death slowly taking over. I need to start tanning. I am leery of sunless tanning lotion. A girl I know has been using it just on her face and neck, and she looks like a bronze goddess. The only problem is, I imagine that when she is not clothed, her tan head looks like a brown paper sack on a white ghost body. Then again, it’s not like I’m parading around in the nude for everyone to see my color progression. At least not on weekdays.

I recently dug through about a thousand old photo albums from my late high school/early college years. Boy are they something. I was fatter, drunker, and whiter, if you can believe it. I don’t understand how we all partied like we did back in those days. We were unstoppable binge drinking machines. Nothing could get us down. Not even a .34 blood alcohol content or the police.

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In those days we would start drinking at 2 pm, doing beer bongs in the shower while we got ready, and taking shots well into the night. Somewhere in the midst of blacking out and doing keg stands, we would rally a gang to go tearing through Taco Bell in a loud, drunken stupor, barfing all over their single stall bathroom and stealing an unnecessary amount of mild sauce packets. We would scream with disbelief when bar-close came around, complaining with excessive foul language that the night was still young, returning to our respective dorms/apartments and continue to throw booze down our pie holes, blaring DMX at an ungodly decibel until 3 or 4 in the morning when we finally decided to go to bed.

Now I have two drinks, I’m hammered, and I sneak away and go to bed. I even get hung over. How did this happen? Next thing you know, we’ll be applying for social security. Olds.

WELL, time to go. Goodbye everyone.

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“That’s the hot water, turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”

“I’m SORRY, I’m not used to using my foot as a HAND!”

TGIF.

Friday is always a bad day to publish a blog post. People are too busy destroying their bodies, minds, and spirits with…well, spirits. Not that I blame them. The right thing to do on a Friday night is to come home all pissed off from work, log onto Facebook, update your status to how drunk you’re about to get, grab a Coors Light, and step into the shower with said Coors Light while you shampoo your hair, blare rap songs about getting hammered, and then go get hammered yourself. What’s a Saturday morning without a pounding post-tequila headache, a missing cell phone, regret, and throw up on your shoes? Well that’s just not a Saturday at all.

I am ready to bludgeon multiple citizens of Jeannette and/or Latrobe, Pennsylvania to death. Can I get in trouble for saying this? I don’t think so. I think I am protected by several amendments. Well, maybe one amendment. Anyway, freedom of speech, blah blah blah. Seriously. People here need to be punished. They all share the same mentality that they deserve everything for nothing. They’re all victims. The world owes them something because they work so hard at being lazy, jobless, bottom-feeding parasites. I was red with rage today. Dealing with these people is going to drive me to drink myself to death, and turn grey in the process.

Helping people with insurance claims here in western PA is like trying to help an injured, famished animal. All I’m trying to do is wrap your bleeding wound and feed you some Apple Jacks, raccoon! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO BITE ME?! DON’T YOU KNOW I’M ON YOUR SIDE?!?!?

People don’t get it.

I am 100% certain that I will be slapping one or more people across the face before I leave this state. I am also delivering some very brutally honest, mean, “you suck so bad” letters when I depart. There are so many people here that need to be told how miserable, ugly, incompetent, disagreeable, and ignorant they are. I am first in line to do so. I’ve already written one. It begins like this:

Dear Toucan Sam,

It’s a nose joke. This woman’s nose is the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. You could build a gazebo on it. You could install an in-ground pool on her nose. They could move the Iowa State Fair campgrounds to her shnoz. It’s that big.

I can’t wait to deliver it. I am rubbing my palms together with anticipation, snickering all the while. I hope she cries and is too embarrassed to ever show her nose I mean face in public ever again. Perhaps she’ll cut it off. I’ll have to send a follow-up letter to find out what she decided to do.

I’ve really been sucking down the Dr. Pepper today. In the store, I noticed they sold 8-packs of these miniature cans of Dr. Pepper, so I bought them thinking that it would be a good way to satisfy my insatiable craving for DP without drinking a pony keg of it at a time. That didn’t work. Instead I just drink like 3 miniature cans instead of one regular one. It’s too delicious. I have no regrets.

If you need me, I’ll be in a soda-induced coma. Goodbye for now.

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“At my grandfather’s funeral and I just sharted bad.”

Sheen Genius.

I have come back to visit the 51503 metropolitan area this week, folks. After my biological birth parents vacationed in Colorado over the past week, I decided to ride back with them in their very packed, super cramped vehicle to the Midwest for a solid 8 days to get a little social butterfly stretch in. The ride home was fine if you don’t consider the claustrophobic conditions, the giant 60 pound suitcase falling and jackhammering me twice, and their weight-sensitive corgi’s terribly foul breath stinking like cat food and choking my lungs half to death for 10 consecutive hours. Besides that, Fancy Feast was shedding like a Siberian Husky in Scottsdale, Arizona during the middle of July. By the time we rolled into town, I was sore, stiff, smelled like tuna, and looked like a battered lint roller. I’m not complaining though.

Yes I am.

In lieu of my arrival, I have been doing many activities. Breakfast with an old customer and friend, thrift store hunting con mi madre, sushi with a real live midget and the voluptuous Glenna Freemyer, drinks in Midtown, got my hurr did, coffee with CJS and Clouse, watching Hall Pass at Star Cinema, and today I will be going ice skating and then shoveling chili into my face with the Freemyers. The real shenanigans will be taking place Thursday through Saturday, however. I am considering going out and purchasing an economy size bottle of Pepto Bismol in anticipation of the severity of my upcoming hangovers.

I’m trying to plan out my weekend ahead of time, just so I have some sort of structure during my three day bender. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive. This time I won’t be taking any pseudophedrines on account of nearly grinding my teeth into tree stumps and being awake for 36 hours last time. I’m hoping I can survive on 5 Hour Energy shots and sheer enthusiasm alone. So far the weekend is looking like this: On a scale from 1 to Charlie Sheen, I think Thursday (dueling pianos night) will be about a 5/6, Friday will be a Lindsay Lohan, and Saturday will be a Courtney Love. I really don’t want to travel back to Colorado more hung over than Amy Winehouse on Sunday, but both Cole Alloway and Kelli Beyer are going to be in town that night, so I really don’t have a choice in the matter. When the ballers are in town, you gotta ball. Shaquille O’Neal once said that.

I made that up.

Speaking of partying, Charlie Sheen is absolutely on fire right now. The quotes this man is generating is enough to get me through the entire year with excellent buzzwords. I mean, the man actually thinks he’s from outer space. Who doesn’t like someone that believes they’re from outer space? I mean, just look at District 9.

Wait.

Well, I need to go hit the tanning bed again. I’ve developed a pretty severe and distinct goggle/helmet tanline from my near-daily snowboarding up in the mountains, and no amount of bronzer in the world can even hide it anymore. Bring it, UV.

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“I’m tired of pretending I’m not a total bitchin’ rock star from Mars!”

iTrip.

*~*OkAy, so here’s what 2 do…. put ur iPod on shuffle, and the first ten songs that pl@y are the soundtrack to your li—–Oh wait, I forgot I’m not a faggot with no life.

I’M A PITA-EATING MOTHER FUCKER!

Labor Day Weekend more or less means a 94-hour block of drunkenness for anyone who’s anyone around these parts, so naturally I’m joining the majority. The past 72 hours have been full of vodka and cheap beer. A little substance abuse and nudity never hurt anyone. Except Anna Nicole Smith. And Kurt Cobain. And Marilyn Monroe.

…And presumably Elvis Presley. Shit happens.