How Do You Feel?

My blog here is about my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes my feelings and thoughts have harsh words in them. I've worked on gripping my feelings with both hands and massaging them to full release, but sometimes it's better if I just let 'em hang loose. I hope not to offend anyone. If you get offended by my ideas and feelings, I'm real f*cking sorry. Feel free to picket my website, which you don't pay for.

---------------------
Just Jokin'

George Tenet resigned this week. We all have the same question:
Who?

Chrysler recalled over 400,000 PT Cruisers this week, after finding a major design flaw: They look f*cking stupid.

---------------------
How Far It Has Gone

The normally reserved and anti-depressant-laced self-styled "Funny Gal" next to me seems to have introduced a new word into her vocabulary. She's used it at least ten times today. It's a major step forward for her, because this is someone who uses words like "oh futzy futz" when her stapler runs dry. It's pretty intense, actually, her use of the new word. She's throwing heavy emphasis on the first syllable and a little vitriol into the tone of it. Dig it:

"DumbAss."

That's it, that's the "new" word. I was thinking that before I could speak. Then again, that was only 5 years ago, but still... That's just wild. WILD. I need rum.

---------------------
I Am Perfectly Unperfect

Not that I've ever figured it all out, but I've come close a few times. I've figured a few things out, but never all of it all at once. If you ever do figure it all out, you probably get killed by a friend playing with a gun to celebrate his girlfriend losing the baby. I saw it on "The O.C.", lighten up.

I recently read an article about "The Search For A Soulmate," and it's been resounding in my head for a while now. After reading about characters and people and ideas and demi-gods and Demi and Ashton and all of these other participants, the article talked of how the search for a "Soulmate," that "perfect someone for each of us," is killing the modern relationship. Firstly, when I hear "soulmate," I want to punch Alanis Morrissette in the cock. Secondly, the divorce rate in this nation for five or fewer years of marriage is disgustingly huge, because kids raised with TV remotes and CD players with skip-to-the-next buttons think it's a great idea to get married. There's no perfect TV show, although "Scrubs" is pretty close. If ever I have a child who, at an age of less than 28, wants to get married, I'll throw them a party where they can get dressed up and kissy-face their half-wit pokin' partner, but I will forbid them from getting married. I'll abort a child up until the 24th tri-mester. Damn, that's two dead baby lines in the first two paragraphs. No more, it's not my style.

It was Charo or my 4th Grade teacher after a dismal spelling test who once said "Nobody's perfect." What the hell is "perfect" when it comes to a person, anyway? Donny and Marie Osmond, that's pretty close to perfect, but they are also made entirely of seafoam candy and LipSmackers lip balms, now in low-carb Chipotle! I accept myself as Perfectly Imperfect. That is, I'm okay with all of me, but always want the best of myself to come forth. I accept the bad with the good. That was hard enough to do, and it's even harder for others to accept. That's a good time to grab a spoonful of Splenda to help the benzodiazapines go down. If you don't like me, odds are I forgot about liking you a long time ago. Unless you sign my paycheck or decide the fate of my soul, I don't give two Pabst Tall Boys about what you really think of me. It's hard enough to deal with my own imperfections, let alone your misinterpretations of Life. If y'ain't For me, you's agains' me. And you better put your back into it, son, I ain't budgin'.

I am in no way perfect, nor do I ever intend to be. There are some things I strive for perfection in, like writing and sleeping more than 4 hours in a stretch each night. The rest, I'm just doing the best I can. I read this weird theory in that Soulmate… damn you Alanis… article about how the intimate/romantic relationship is intensely imperfect in so many ways, that the less a person tries to mold it, the more it will take it's natural shape. And once you see something for what it is, not what you wish it would be, the more clearly you can see the schidtpile in your path. You can then accurately assess and decide where you go. Walk around it, walk into it, you just gotta keep walking.

No, I don't know what Perfect is, so I will never be the Perfect Soulmate. The only perfect things in my life are the imperfections. The chip in my guitar. The double-twisty heart drawn in the card given to me by M, who is like a bomb baby come on get it on. The scuffs on my shoes. They all mean something, they have character and history. To be perfect is to never have been scuffed, to never have learned, to never have gained character. And that is perfectly f*cking boring.

I am the F out of Here. Thanks for coming, get home safe, don't forget to tip your arresting officer.


Take Me Home

It Got Broughten

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from ChiliDog, asking me if I could headline at the illustrious Pegasus Pizza and Comedy Palace. I said I couldn't, as I was taking my dad and his friend to watch the Seattle Mariners get reamed by the Toronto BlueJays. Comedy isn't going anywhere, but there are only so many chances to watch live sports with a man you idolize.

So we go to the game and by the top of the 7th, we realize that a 3-run deficit is too much to overcome for the M's, and we bounce. Turns out, we were right. That team sucks. Oh well. More on why I hate baseball in another blog. So we leave the game and I drop elder statesmen Lott and Masterson off at their car, and decide, "Hey, why not, I'll head to Pegasus and catch a little comedy laugh." As I arrive, one of the all-time greats, Tracy Tuffs, is in the box doing his hilarious thing. The headliner for the night, who shall remain nameless out of respect, was in the house as well. I go up after Tracy and do about 10 minutes, then bring up the header.

After about 7 minutes of hating his own act, hating comedy, and general defeat, the header says "Sorry gang, I'm not into it tonight. The show's over. Sorry. Bye." Drops the mic, and walks off. WALKS OFF STAGE, live mic, moderately live crowd, and leaves. I felt bad for the guy. I've been there. I've wanted to bail so many times. But never on a paying gig. There's money involved, go for it. But he walked, and the mic was hot. So I ask T-Bone Tuffs "Hey, wanna save the show?"

I get on stage, and proceed to do 40 minutes of old stuff, new stuff, just rambling here and there, doing the refined stuff here and there, getting laughs and groans and ad-libbing to keep the crowd happy. I walked off, got paid, and after all was said and done, headlined the Winged Horse Pizzeria and Fun Jungle. Why am I telling anybody any of this? Because of this... Never once did it feel like work. I did what I love to do, got paid, and walked away feeling pretty darn good. I got to hang with my dad, I got to work on some new jokes, and I got some extra scratch for it.

What'd you do? I hope you did at least one thing that was good for your Being today. You deserve it. Unless you are the manager I call PigTit. More on that when I'm not falling asleep on myself.

Hey everyone, thanks for coming out, drive safe, and don't forget to tip your cow.
Take Me Home

Tuesday or Monday or Whatever

So much to write here, but I'll begin later. Let's put it this way: This weekend I did a public show, a private show, I saw love, I saw acceptance, and already this morning, 8 minutes into my workday, I'm seeing an overwhelming anymosity towards the overly cheerful and ignorantly ebullient.
Sometimes I wish the antidepressants weren't prescribed so freely, when the flip side is laughing at EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR OWN MOUTH.

Welcome to my Tuesday. I'm not even awake yet.

Rosie O'Donnell's a woman?

Take Me Home