I have ADD

And a doctor's note to prove it.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

Off we go
Family here we come
Happy, happy travels everyone!


If this is you, you can meet all your needs at the local Target/Wal-Mart.

(704): Packed at 6 am completely wasted. Damage assessment: 12 pairs of socks (no underwear), a flashlight, 3 shorts, shot glass, 8 sweaters, puff paint, one sneaker.

Newsflash: Mortal Kombat 64 > WWE 64

Life can be painful. So very painful. One moment you can be on top of the world, running, jumping, kicking, pretending you’re Bruce Lee stuck inside the Matrix with the fate of all humanity resting on your shoulders, kicking everybody’s ass because you are Bruce Lee and you are in the Matrix. And the next you can be sitting in a wheel chair, watching the world go by as you take out all that inner pain on the poor fools who think they can beat you at Mortal Kombat 64. But nuh-uh, no way, no one can beat a bamf* like you.

Let us go back to the summer after eighth grade. Let us reminisce for a moment on July the Fifth, Two Thousand and One. I had just graduated from my tenure at a certain public institution not a full month before, the siren songs of the summer calling to me from well into their crescendo. My closest friends had gone on vacation and the day was empty. No sport practices, no summer camps, no video games. Personally, all I wanted to do was sit inside, watch some cartoons and then play Indiana Jones in the patch of woods by my house.

Why no video games you ask? Because my parents wouldn’t allow it, they told me that they were evil things that would turn me into a “god damned couch-barnacle” who would “suck them dry of their very lives.” Or at least that’s what they told me. I think I saw my mother do the sign of the cross when we passed a see-through orange N64 at Toy ‘R’ Us. Closest thing I had to a real video game back in the day, closest thing to those glitzy 64 bit universes of infinite entertainment, was a 32 bit thing called Gizmos and Gadgets. It was made by TLC, not the channel, it was actually was an acronym that stood for “The Learning Company.” You had to go around collecting parts for vehicles and put them together in any assortment of ways. It was a lot of funny really… unless you stepped on one of those damned banana peels. I digress, no matter the details of that story, I had no real video games, but that was about to change.

So in lieu of virtual amusements, my mother decided that I would accompany her to a friend’s house. Why? Because her friend was going through some motion or other and needed someone to talk to and that someone was, of course, my mother. Also the fact the fact that the lady had an unruly, knuckle-dragging, extremely advanced and undiagnosed case of ADHftgdtD (otherwise known as Attention Deficit Hyper-fucking-take-a-god-damned-tranquilizer Disorder) having, future-fuck-up-of-the-year, pale-as-shit, pizza-skinned, motherfucking ingrate for a son who needed attention has something to do with my presence. In any case, I had never met this wonderful individual before the 5th of July and I wish I never had.
Upon arrival, I looked out upon the split-level, ranch styled house. It was red brick and red-roofed, there was a lengthy and winding sidewalk that made its way up a suburban hill. The wind was a’blowing, a slight whistle sounded, and I swear I saw a bird die as it flew across the yard. I watched it twirl, twirl, twirl until it thudded. Poor thing.

Now, I’ve never been a coward, but something just didn’t feel right. I tried to get my mother to just go home. But no, she just had to be a god damned good Samaritan. So I followed her up to the front door, cautious as Monk is OCD. Knock. Knock. Knock. The door opens. Rebecca’s waify self stood in the towering door frame, her son Svenlin (god only knows why she named him that, I say it was a pre-emptive karmattack*) smiling behind her.

He was a tall, skinny kid, greasy ass hair plastered to his bulbous nose. His teeth were all gnarled, like a badger’s or someone from the Jerry Springer show, and his dopey little eyes are suggestive of familial ties to former President George H.W. “the Missing Link in the Evolution of Humanity” Bush. Rebecca greeted both my mother and I and then instructed us boys to go play in the basement.

Everything was going well at first. He took out his N64 and suddenly he was okay. I was shallow like that, still kind of am. Who can say no to 3-D? Not even you grandmother, that’s who. We played Rayman and Golden Eye. We were having a ball. Then after the eighth time I’d beaten him in 007 he switched the game.

I could already tell that shit wasn’t going to end well. A red sheen came across his eyes, a zealotry true to only wrestling fans twinkled like a nightmare bought at Wal-Mart. I told him I didn’t want to play. He didn’t care. He kicked my ass in that video game so badly that I actually suggested we do something else. That there was the biggest mistake I ever made in the company of a stranger. And I paid a dear, dear lesson.

I was hoping he’d say no so I could just go up the stairs to my mother and ask her to leave. But instead he agreed and out came the Nerf guns. Suddenly, the kid was okay again. Then it happened. After just mere minutes firing off Nerf arrows and plastic tipped foam bullets, he said he wanted to wrestle. Flashes of that craved, Palin-worthy look played before my eyes like I was a character in a movie who was about to die. I told him no and walked towards the stairs.
I didn’t get there…

From out-the-fuck-nowhere, Svenlin tackled me from behind. Now, he was skinny, but he had muscle. He was also a year or so older than I was. He sat on the back of my legs and tried to pull my knees out-their-fucking-sockets. I struggled, tried to get up. But he was too big for me. I heard six, count them, six popping noises from within my own body. Needless to say that the inherent alarm systems in my body went off and I screamed.

Instead of acting like a rational human being that had anything like a soul, Svenlin merely switched to the other leg and pulled harder. I heard seven popping noises this time. That was it, time to bamf this bitch. He had his chance to let me go but he was an idiot. So I heeled him in the face and got the fuck out (I wish). Actually, I cried like a bitch.

No matter, I wound up having to go to the hospital. The fucker had broken my right knee, avulsed it to be specific. An avulsion fracture is when a ligament is torn from the bone such that part of the bone goes with it. When the doctor asked what happened, I told him. Apparently, the doctor himself had seen this before and informed me that Svenlin had done the damage with a move called the “knee breaker” as seen in WWE.

I spent the whole of that summer in a wheel chair, unable to walk, day dreaming of taking my favorite baseball bat to a certain douchebag’s knees. I still sit and dream of going back to my old neighborhood, finding him as a homeless man and still snapping his toothpick legs in half with my favorite aluminum bat. The undesirable reality of jail has kept me from fulfilling that dream. Yet the world can be kind, amidst all that pain and Mortal Kombat there is justice.

In the middle of a catch up drink at my favorite bar an acquaintance of mine, who also knew Svenlin, got a text message from him. We had just revisited the 5th of July, 2001, and in the spirit, showed me. It read:



(310): Just got kicked in the balls by a girl in tap shoes. Fuck EVERYTHING





*Bamf – short for bad ass motherfucker

*Karmattack – when Karma comes around and kicks a douchebag in the nuts

Moneyshot the Stars

When I was younger, my father used to wake my whole family up at some ungodly hour on some random ass day. By day I mean morning, by morning I mean three-the-fuck thirty a.m. Trauma-wise, waking a kid that early is definitely within in the range of telling them that Santa Claus isn’t real and ignorantly not locking the door so they can have a nightmare, need a hug, come to you and witness that moment, that horrible, horrible moment… that moneyshot moment.

In any case, in the end, it was kind of worth it to see those streaks in the sky. And it was because of those Downy soft greensgreens, those o’ so brilliant oranges, and those regally royal blues that for the next few years of my life I wanted to be an astronaut. From the 3rd grade on, all I could ever do was stare out into the night, imagining, playing on fields without gravity. From there my tiny lids would dip, dip, dip close and I would truly live and be amongst the stars.

I had many, many dreams, all on distant planets, all within in that beautiful void. They were never the same, there was always so much to discover. Like Planet G-antz, a world so close to Earth they’re almost conjoined, a globe covered in mounds so high they can be seen from outer space, the home of one of the most insidious forces of evil EVER: the GIANT ANT MEN of G-antz! Those bastards were so crafty…

It is as this time that I would like to explain my irrational fear of those freaky-little-swarm-over-a-human-baby-and-eat-its-flesh abominations of all that is Good and Holy. Somewhere, at some distant point in my life, I was playing in my sandbox, a four-by-four realm of wonder and phenomenon, when it happened. It is like the first rule of Fight Club: you don’t talk about it. The most I can reveal is that it was preceded by a same day, double feature of “A Bug’s Life” and “Antz” and ends in tears, eventual emohair*, and the hospital. And a therapist bill.

Moving on, I spent the whole of my shining public school career preparing my self for my journey to the stars. It wasn’t until that one fateful day that I learned that my GPA, that all important, life-giving, piece-of-shit, bureaucratic-circle-jerk tool of judgment was just wasn’t going to cut it.

Looking back now, everything worked out just fine. I just sent my father a text message even though it’s three-the-fuck thirty in the morning. It said:

(518): Wasted. Watching meteors. Most awesome idea I ever had. I can see 2 for every 1 with mah double vision. Beat that childhood memories.


_____________________________________________


Emohair – that gelly thing perched atop emochildren and emotards, most are unsure if it is hair or some hair accessorie akin to that bump thing you can get off TV.

Emochild – a person within the ages of 7 and 18 who dresses in dark clothes that are adorned with obnoxious band logos, spikes, and potentially Ed hardy. If another individual is dresses like an emochild but, is in fact, above the age of 18, then he or she is known as an “emotard.”

Emotard – 1. a person who writes My Chemical Romance fan fiction and wears wristbands even though they don’t cut themselves. 2. any person over the age of 18 that has hair dyed “shadow black” or any derivation of and for whatever-the-fuck reason has a My Chemical Romance*

My Chemical Romance – 1. a band whose diehard fans are all pre-pubescent emotards (see above) who should be sossed* 2. A guilty pleasure

Soss – the act of scoffing on sight as in “I sossed that emotard the other day” or “I just go to the mall to soss emotards, that’s what a college diploma is for.”

Ninja.Pirate.

*Disclaimer*

The author has no actual prejudice or hatred towards redheads whatsoever. In reality, the author finds redheads extremely attractive.
___________________________________________________________

Man, last night was ridiculous. A no-holds-barred, commit-it-to-memory, shenanigan-filled journey of epic proportions. And it all started with a single text. A single bit of data that only exists in waves and electronics. “What’s happenin’?” That was it, that was all. My best buddy, David, had started an avalanche of awesomeness with only eight letters and two apostrophes. Beat that MacGuyver.

“Nothin.’” I texted back.

“Let’s do something.”

“Ok.”

“When works for you?” He texted.

“Now works for me.”

“Ok.”

“See you in thirty.” I texted.

“See you in thirty.” He texted.

Thirty minutes is the average time it takes the both of us to slip out the back door at work on a sunny Friday afternoon without being noticed. We call it “fading” and we’re damned good at it. One moment we’re sitting at our desks, the next we’re gone like ninjas, like smoke-bomb-throwing, ninja star-flinging, living-shadow, nunchucking motherfuckers. And yes, Ninjas are better than Pirates, at least when it comes to not getting a lecture on why drinking heavily on one’s lunch break is “offensive” and “illicit” behavior. Apparently, whoever wrote paragraph 6 on page 234 of the company rulebook didn’t truly know what our forefathers meant by “Casual Friday” and/or (most likely and) was a prudish tool of epic proportions and if he/she had gotten laid before the ages of 40 and Ever would have just hit the backspace button and moved on. But no.

In any case, the drunken swaggering, grog and wenches are for the evening. Being a Ninja by day and a Pirate by night is my true calling, is where my heart really is. Now that I think about it, there should be a fucking comic book about me or someone who looks suspiciously like me but has an 8-pack. I’m just saying.

So I faded from work without a hindrance and met David back at our place. Time? 4:47. Fun level? Barely above average sprinkled with a mild dose anticipation. We’re passed that point in our relationship where we say “hi” or “hey.” We still talk about how our days went but neither of us is always listening. You know that period of time way beyond the honeymoon phase of the bromance, years into the “broege?” (pronounced bro-ege). Well, we’ve been there for the better part of our lives. We’re wunbro (pronounced one-bro and refers to a person that typically hangs with a single bro of choice as. This is in opposition to twubroers, or polybroers, who have two or more bros of equal preference at a time) type people.

As I walk through the front door I see him standing there, looking hungrily out at the world. He asks me a question, to which the answer is written on the boards of my memories, woven forever with tales of white mice. “Gee, Lee, what’re we going to do tonight?”

I smile. “Same thing we do every night David. Try to take over the world!” Normal people might be joking. We’re not normal people. When we get together, when we go out, we’re on a mission. And when on missions, there’s always battle. Always.

David turns towards me, points to the counter behind me, smiles. I turn around. On the table are six six-packs of Mike’s, each a different type. “I’ve taken the liberty to enhance our afternoon and evening. Each six-pack contains six unique flavors, hand-picked by yours truly. I call them MREs or Mike’s Righteous Enhancements. They’re so strong that you only need one to two per night. They can be taken with or without food. They do not need to be refrigerated though it is highly suggested. They are both delicious and cost-effective. The side-effects include beergoggles/beerview, fun, dancing, thinking that you’re dancing better than you really are, douchebaggery, emotional overtures, and good times. It should be stated that if too many are consumed in one night, then bodily damage and/or regrettable walks of manshame have a 99.9542% chance of happening, most always together. Also, it should be noted that David LLC claims no responsibility for anything other than fun and good times.”

I swear, six months in the Marine core and nothing was ever the same with that kid.  I put my fingers together so they looked like a pyramid and said. “Yes, David, these are perfect.”

Now, its time for the pwning. I picked up two of my allotted three MREs, sat in my Lazy Boy and medicated. Before the hour was out, the MREs were starting to work. I wasn’t teabagging the other toons as quick as I should have been. Before long, I wasn’t able to boomheadshot anybody. It was horrible. David wasn’t doing any better. Then, after a full nine drinks, my non-beer drinking-Marine buddy and I hit our stride. God bless the troops, but really man, drink a Guinness

After our ridiculously awesome comeback against what sounded like a chorus of PMSing eleven year old girls, we knew we were done. So we flipped the channel and watched Jeff Dunham and his freaky ass puppets. At first, I was not okay with them. Then Achmed the Terrorist came out and all was well. Nothing makes a man feel more comfortable then seeing a dead terrorist, one who is also coincidentally funny and says “I KEEEEEEL YOU.” I have no idea, but that shit is hilarious. On a related note, I think one of our PMSing rivals had his balls drop during the match. I swear to god. He headshot David and for a second there, just a mere second, his self-congratulatory “fuck you nub” sounded like a man. An awkward Jewish man, but a man nonetheless.

Moving on, it was at this point in time we decided to go “out.” I use quotes around “out” because that’s literally what we do. We never really have a destination. We just go on impulse, instinct, with one thing in mind: good times. It’s kind of like the 21st century’s version of hunting, funting if you will. As day becomes night so we become “young adults.” Dressed in ripped jeans*, a nice black button up, a shiny silver watch, a black cadet hat and black leather boots, I am ready to venture off into the night. I wear boots because they say “Fuck yeah, I’m ready for anything. Bring it on.” And I wear a watch because it says “Yes, in fact, I do know how to read Roman Numerals bitch, I went to grade school.”

So we were on our way. We drank a pitcher of water and a bit of rum and suddenly we were pirates. We pillaged bar after bar after bar. By pillage I mean we ordered Pabst and bottom shelf liquor and tried to hit on girls who were totally out of our league. I got one number, he got two. No matter though, the second girl was a Ginger. Not my thing.

Then he did something he shouldn’t have. He took the only number I got that night, he stole my booty. It would cost me my manhood to let this depravity stand. I asked a nearby woman if I could borrow her scintillating glove, which was not unlike Michael Jackson’s, and backhanded him with it. A dou’duel had been issued. He looked shocked, stunned. To be challenged to a dou’duel is to have offended a man to his very core and must be accepted on penalty of two kicks to the ass and three nights paid at the bar. David took that glove and slapped me back. Then I backhanded him twice and ran out the door. My motto is “More is always better.”

Off we went, into the halogen lit darkness in search of the closest Dunkin Doughnuts. We found one three blocks away. It was quarter after midnight. Perfect. We went to the dumpster and looked through the bags. You may raise your eyes brows at this, but do not be so judgmental. At midnight, each night, Dunkin Doughnuts throws away perfectly good product. Bear claws! Poppy seed bagels! Boston Crèmes! Muffins! They pitch it all because everything is baked fresh daily. God bless America. So when that hour hand rolls over they through it all away, often in sterile trash bags. Every once in a while some jerk mindlessly throws in coffee or milk and ruins the whole thing. Good bags are referred to as “loot” and soiled bags are called “greys” and met with disappointment.

What follows the looting is the search for a desolate or abandoned parking lot or roof, or other public space that people would not frequent in the late hours of the night and would take the cops a few minutes to get to. Once found the dou’duel can commence. Such an event goes as follows:

The loot is opened and scoured. The participants eat as many doughnuts/éclairs/holes/etc as they want. Some may also be put aside for later (it is highly recommended that this be done with apple fritters as they are quite awesome). After the Feeding concludes, the remaining items are poured into one giant pile. Each duelist stands on opposite sides of the pile, facing opposite directions. On the count of three, each takes up to fifteen steps from the loot, turns around and runs as quick as he can to the pile. Whoever gets to the pile first picks up his weapons and opens fire. The next minutes are filled with utter chaos. Jellies and crèmes stain the ground red, blue, brown, and yellow. Frosting mauls faces. Bagels leave welts but muffins bruise

David and my duel was one for the ages. Four bags of doughnuts and doughnut related products. A bagel actually split my eyebrow. I may have cracked one of his ribs with lemon poppy seed muffin. I don’t remember who won or who lost.
All I know is that when we were done we knew the horrors of war.
The rest of the night is lost to me. My phone buzzes, a text message. It’s from David.


(843): When I came home you were watching infomercials, eating croutons out of the box and salsa from a funnel. Well done.


*Meaning jeans that are not bought ripped and/or acid washed in light of fashion. Instead, the * refers to a pair of jeans that have been ripped because they’ve been worn forever, or on one drunken night you fell and ripped them and it’s a badge of honor. See also, wornjeans.

-This story/post is dedicated to Grant Turner III, 8th Comm BN 2nd MHG Camp Lejeune NC-

Congrats man!  Oorah! (or whatever)

No Dessert Tonight

I got a call from my buddy Greg a couple of days ago. Our estranged mutual best friend, David, passed away the day before. He was calling to tell me the news. At first, I didn’t know what to say then I asked him if it was suicide. David had been acting weird lately, turning down bars and movies. Even video games. No one could get through to him no matter how hard they tried. Greg informed that his death had nothing to do with his own hand and I breathed a sigh of relief. Then we lapsed into a soft silence for a minute or two.

“So how did it happen then?” I asked, breaking the quiet. He told me that no one had completely put it all together yet, but it involved David’s favorite thing: food. I had to chuckle at the irony. Then more silence. Now it was Greg’s turn to ebb the quiet’s flow. “Just so you know, the funeral’s tomorrow.”

“So soon?” I asked.

“Yeah. I guess his parents are of the get-him-in-the-ground-before-he-starts-smelling frame of mind. Or maybe they just suck at grieving. In any case, it’s time to come back home buddy. I told him I’d take the first flight I could. He told me that he’d meet me at the airport, but before we hung up, he told me to watch a couple of episodes of the good CSI, the Vegas one, in preparation to solve the mystery at hand.

The funeral came and went. I held my corner of the casket, Greg held his. I gave my epilogue, Greg gave his. Everybody watched him lowered into the ground. Afterwards, there was a celebration of life ceremony, or as we call it around here, a colmony, with lots of food and booze and food and booze. And music. There were many tears, some of sorrow some of joy. It was during this whole thing that Greg gave me all the details he could that dealt with the fatal night. “They found him, sitting in his favorite chair, a giant smile on his face. Turns out, David died in a cooking accident. He had made himself a prime cut, a Texas sirloin, and went to town. I say “made” and not “cooked” because it wasn’t. The thing was almost completely rare. The paramedic told his parents that if they had gotten there any later, the piece of meat would have walked away. You know how he liked it. Anyways, there was something in the meat that did him in. Some toxin or something.” He paused a moment, letting me chew on and digest all of the information, before letting me know that he and I are apparently the executors of his will. He then informed me that we were to go to his apartment and get everything ready to be dolled out.

Later that night, we were going through the material entirety of our fallen friend when I stumbled upon it. At first, I didn’t know what to do, I just stared. I kind of smiled, kind of laughed, kind of threw up a bit in my mouth. I tried to keep it all in. But I couldn’t so I called Greg over to me and pointed. His reacted the same way I did. We just lost it, fell on the floor laughing. Then my girlfriend texted me, asked me how it was going. I texted her back.

(850): So when we opened his headboard we found a bottle of Crisco sitting on top of his porn magazines
(850): I guess we all know what he was cooking for dessert