Dead Guys, Polygamists, The Amish, and Forgiveness...

Before you continue, if you take religion very seriously and don't like jokes about it, stop reading now.

No, really.

I'm super serial.

I'm not kidding.  You'll probably get pissed off.

Well fuck it then. Don't say you weren't advised...

I went to the funeral of an acquaintance the other day.  Actually I had to drive my father to the funeral, which is much different than attending these things alone.  My normal modus operandi at these things is to sign in, drop off an envelope, walk through to greet the family and express various heartfelt sentiments and deepest sympathies, find the donuts and juice, and exit stage left.  Total time spent at uncomfortable event: 8 minutes.

Don’t judge.  We all have our own grieving process.  Mine is just…faster.

But my father, who actually hates funerals as much as I do, feels a sense of responsibility to stay through the whole service and pay his respects.  Please understand that I agree with him if I knew the deceased well or if it was a family member.  But he does it just because it’s a funeral, regardless of how well he knew the person.  My initial theory was that he had to get dressed up for the damn thing, so he may as well get his money’s worth from the Brut aftershave he broke out for the occasion. 

I’m coming to the realization that it’s more than that.  As he gets older, he seems more at ease with the concept of death.  I suppose that’s natural, but it can get unnerving to talk so casually with a parent about their demise.  My Dad is a smart ass to begin with (apple, tree, falling), so he gets his jollies peppering conversations with references to his funeral or preferences as to the preparation of his body:

“These dogs look hungry.  When I die, cut me up in to bite size pieces and feed me to the dogs.  Then when they shit me out, fertilize that tree I like.”

Or this one:

“It’s really windy.  Which reminds me, when I die, burn me and scatter the ashes in to a strong wind that is blowing towards a fancy outdoor restaurant.  That way a whole bunch of pretentious assholes will literally bite me.”

The logic is compelling; I’ll give him that. 

So, since we are suddenly spending more actual time at these damn things, I have to find ways to amuse myself.  There were always the aforementioned donuts and juice to keep a dude busy, but I do have to watch my girlish figure.  For a while, I was telling the children that if they got sleepy during the service, the body would reanimate and hop out of the casket to eat their parents.  However, the reactions were a little more…dramatic…then I had anticipated, so I stopped.

Next, I tried to get an over/under pool going on how long the Eulogy was going to be; with some side action on how many mentions of Jesus there were.  Apparently these people were fairly devout, because I got no takers.  It was at this point that I remembered that this was a Mormon function, so I decided to modify the side bet to mentions of Joseph Smith rather than Jesus, which upped the action a little bit.  Those Latter Day Saints always favor the home team, anyway, so they took Smith and the points.

Having remembered the LDS connection, I then tried to figure out which of the funeral attendees was a secret polygamist.  One bearded guy wearing a hat looked like he was the type to live on a compound with his thirty wives and eighty-seven children.  I began to picture a butter churn on the porch, packs of little snot gobblers wearing patent leather shoes running around rolling big metal hoops before stopping to bathe in a creek of some sort.  Then they walk to their triple-decker bunk beds where they study by candle light and write their math lessons in coal on the back of a shovel.  Finally they extinguish the candles, saying quaint things like, “Goodnight, John Boy.”

Then I realized I watch way too much fucking TV.

I also realized that I was mixing up the Mormons with the Amish again.  The Amish think electricity is the Devil incarnate and that mechanical things make you some kind of sinful pussy or something.  Mormons, on the other and, have nothing against electricity and modern contraptions.  I know this because I have HBO and watch “Big Love” every Sunday.  Since it’s on TV, it must be true.  The family owns a hardware store, part of an Indian casino, and three very large houses on the same street right next to each other.  The lucky husband gets to hop from bed to bed whenever he feels like it, which is awesome because all three of his wives are hot.  Life is a fucking paradise, except for the fact that outsiders hate them and look with disdain on the concept of plural marriage.

Well fuck them.

I wish I could get away with that shit.  It would fucking ROCK to have three wives who I could choose between depending on the circumstances.  Or why choose?  SHARING IS CARING, AM I RIGHT?  Then I would go down to my Indian Casino to look for wife #4 and gamble, after first stopping at my hardware store to pick up a belt sander or a nail gun, just because I can.  So what if 95% of the country disagrees with my lifestyle and thinks I am morally corrupt?  Me and the other 5% are hitting it daily, rolling in the dough, and generally giving everyone else a big middle finger while doing it.

Down Side? None whatsofuckingever.

But I was talking about a funeral.  There was a lot of talking interspersed with the occasional properly somber musical number, followed by a lot more talking.  One of the songs was called “Scatter Sunshine”, which instructs us as to the proper attitude expected by the supernatural Big Guy.  Apparently He wants us to:

“Scatter sunshine all along your way,

 Cheer and bless and brighten every passing day…”

Well.

In retrospect, I can honestly say that I have never actually scattered sunshine.  Not ever.  Not in any way shape or form.  I do not recall an instance where I hopped along, scattering sunshine, and brightening or cheering the day for anyone.  If you did that in my neighborhood, you’d wake up naked and chained to a car radiator, wondering why you were wearing lipstick.  Suffice it to say, I began to get concerned for my spiritual well being at this point.

A further perusal of the hymnal confirmed my growing fears.  One after the other, these hymns encouraged me to treat others with love and caring, faithfully follow the 17 Commandments (I think there were 17.  Maybe 20?), shower blessings upon the weak and infirm, and generally run around grinning like a moron with a giant rainbow crammed up my ass.

This didn’t look good.

They also admonished against all the GOOD sins, like Greed, Gluttony, and my personal favorite, Lust.  Why not warn me to avoid the really BAD things, like Broccoli, Taxes, The View, and any song by Justin Bieber?  That’s the shit that makes the kids crazy these days.  No one ever caused a riot rushing the stage to see Sloth and Despair play a twin bill at the Staples Center, have they?  But you get a couple thousand pre-pubescent teenage girls in the vicinity of Bieber and you have a shrieking riot on your fucking hands. 

I’m not saying that hymns shouldn’t be sung; just that maybe we could use a little more perspective when writing them.  Maybe praise me for letting old people cross the street without running them over.  Or some encouragement for not farting in line at the supermarket.  Or maybe even acknowledging the fact that I have not, as of yet, strangled one of those assholes who cut in front of me in traffic, then slow down to a crawl while talking to some other asshole on the phone, as I seethe behind them looking at that fucking Jesus fish on the back of their car.  WWJD?  He sure as fuck wouldn’t drive like a lobotomized shit stain, cutting people off and behaving like an asshole.  I’d like to think our Lord and Savior would use his blinkers and mirrors, and you should too, dick cheese.  That’s in Leviticus somewhere, I think.

 So I sat there, becoming increasingly aware that my mortal soul was in peril, and wondering just what I could do about it.  I pondered going to church , but that really starts too early and they make you wear pants.  Then I figured I would start volunteering at a soup kitchen, but I really can’t stand the smell of homeless people.  They smell like sour soup smothered in deep fried onions, so that’s out.  Donating to charity? Maybe those Habitat for Humanity projects? Delivering meals to elderly shut-ins?  The thought of doing any of these things gave me a screaming headache and a sinking feeling in my gut.  People should be doing shit like that for ME, not the other way around. 

As all of these thought spun around my head, I heard one of these religious dudes say something that actual managed to get through.  Apparently, if you ask for forgiveness for your sins, even right up to the actual SECOND before you die mind you, you get to go to heaven.

Fuck and Yes.

I had no idea that God had such a liberal return policy.  This, of course, puts my mind at ease.  So unless I am unable to send a quick, mental, “I’m sorry for being an asshole.” to the nearest God-owned cell phone tower, I should be gold. 

Well I’m going to go out and get my debauch on.  Those hymns say God is always watching.  He may want to change the channel for a while, ‘cause this may not be pretty…

It's a Small World (of Porn) After All

 I’ve been sick for a week or so and because I’m thoughtful and responsible like that, I stayed home.  While it was a HUGE sacrifice on my part to miss work and avoid spreading my surprisingly clean germs to my staff, I’m a giver, so naturally I wasn’t going to sit on my ass and do nothing for all of you.  I needed to find a way to continue making important contributions to the National Discourse.  But how to do that while holed up at home?

Porn, naturally.  You can only watch so many reruns of “American Chopper” before feeling the need to end someone’s life, so I spent a large (yet not abnormal) amount of time reviewing pornographic offerings on Al Gore’s Internet invention.  The Internet is a valuable tool for increasing productivity, spreading vital information, bridging international chasms of communication, buying Snuggies, and getting your rub on, if you get my meaning. 

Not necessarily in that order.

I am by no means passing myself off as an expert in the ways of perversion and pornography.  I’m no slouch to be sure, but I am sure that there are millions of hairy-knuckled, pale-skinned, raw-dicked guys out there who spend countless hours every day whacking it and letting loose loads of tadpole shaped palm children on the family drapes.  And I am equally certain that there are millions of women out there rubbing it out au natural or draining batteries like a Samsung Vibrant while watching “Avatar”. 

This is merely a quick review of the state of International porn, a country by country roundup of what’s out there.  And believe me, there is a surprising amount of porn on the Internet.  Yeah, color me shocked.   Fuck 31 flavors at Baskin and Robbins.  There are thousands of sub genres in pornography, and in the 7 days I was stuck at home, I was committed enough to view every one of them.  Yes, I care enough to do that for YOU.  You’re welcome.

Japanese porn is interesting.  They mosaic (blur) the actual genitalia and penetration, but have no compunction in showing the “money shot” in graphic detail.  So I am not allowed to see some Japanese guy’s pecker, but I can watch him skeet soy-flavored semen all over some dentally-challenged ex-Disney Japan employee?  Even through the mosaic, it is obvious that the female participants need to “mow the lawn” a bit before getting in front of a camera.  A little turf on the field is cool, but let’s not get all “grassy plains of the Kalahari”, ladies. 

And can somebody tell me why they always make sounds like a monkey being impaled by a broomstick?  It’s almost enough to make a guy stop watching.

Almost.

One of these girls is named Maria Ozawa and she has spectacular frontal assets.  I mean they are the stuff dreams are made of.  I remember reading somewhere that she is part Japanese and part Caucasian and speaks both languages, which I bring up only because of the fact that she makes those same damn noises when she’s having sex.  But you can tell it’s forced, because when she really starts getting in to it, she loses the monkey noises and appears to have to remind herself that she is required to sound like Curious George humping a flagpole.  I can only conclude that this noise is an affectation that turns Japanese men on for some reason, which reinforces my belief that foreigners are, indeed, fucking strange.

I’ve only seen one actual Chinese porn movie in my life.  And a half an hour later, I wanted more porn!  Hey now!!! 

Sorry, couldn’t resist.  I have actually seen one, actual made in China, porn movie.  And since I am a judgmental prick, I feel it’s perfectly reasonable to judge every Chinese porn ever made by that one example.   It was bizarre, because they couldn’t figure out if it was porn or a Kung Fu movie.  People were spinning around and fucking from treetop to treetop like horny, over-caffeinated pigeons.  And for some reason they wouldn’t get naked.  They sort of just pulled their robes aside, pumped like crazy for a few minutes, then went on their way.  I remember there was a dragon at some point (of course), and a blind guy with a cane (naturally).  Don’t remember if they fucked each other though…

German Porn.  Fuck this shit is sick.  There appears to be a law in Germany that you are not allowed to star in a porn movie if you are a female and: a) under 60 years old; b) own AND know how to use a razor; c) weigh less than a small love seat; and d) are attractive in any way.  There must be some lingering sociological effect from getting spanked in two World Wars, because these people have severe self-esteem problems.  Between letting people piss in their mouths or shit on their chests, there are some serious toileting issues that maybe the school system needs to address or something.  A little fucking decorum is in order, people!  Jesus…

I saw one clip where a hirsute Fraulein found the need to do herself with the stick shift of a Mercedes.  Yes. A Mercedes.

Does she know what that does to the fucking resale value?

Not to mention the sanitary issues.  You’d have to douche with a garden hose and a gallon of Clorox after that.  Worse if it was a rental.  You’d never get the deposit back, that’s for sure…

When they aren’t relieving themselves on each other or violating automobiles, they are industriously fornicating in public bathrooms, on trains, on crowded highways, dressed as farm animals, encased head to toe in latex, wearing gas masks, and hanging from various hooks and other hardware.  It’s a wonder they ever get around to making Volkswagens and Sauerkraut with all the fucking that goes on.  They also like to fuck old people. A lot.  If I never see another grey pube in my life, I will die a happy man.  Distinguished, my ass…keep your old scrotum in your drawers, Hans.  I don’t need to see it.

Indian porn is…different.  I mean 7-11 Indian, not scalp your ass Indian.  For some reason, they feel the need to wear a lot of jewelry while riding the baloney pony.  The jingling is almost distracting, in a Hare Krishna, selling flowers at the airport kind of way.  Now you have to know that there is a niche where some geographically unaware ass hat finds a hot Hispanic girl, throws her in a sari and some costume jewelry, and has her Bend it like Beckham.  The fake accents are terrible but they are very…enthusiastic.  The authentic stuff is usually much more grainy, filmed with poor lighting, and less energetic.  The men all look like this guy…

/shudder/

Yeah.  I’ll pass.

Friends in Low Places

I have suddenly become very popular with my friends since beginning this blog.  While normal, socially appropriate, and emotionally mature adults would be reluctant to have their misadventures plastered all over the internet, my particular group of malcontents is clamoring to be the next subject of one of my missives.

I received a call from Donny yesterday, extremely excited that he was the subject of the last post.  While most of the content was directed at pointing out what a douche nugget his cousin was, he was happy that his name appeared in the title. 

My friends are easily impressed.

He did, however, lobby for more stuff about him, even pointing out the stupid things he has done recently in an attempt to get more exposure.

“The car thing, with me going into the mountain.  You could have wrote more about that.”

“I could have WRITTEN more about that you illiterate jackass.  And I chose not to because the staggering stupidity of your cousin makes you look like Albert Einstein.”

And he’s not the only one.  I have received calls and emails from people I haven’t spoken to in months, wanting to be written about and basically ridiculed in public.  When I point out that I have not, as of yet, bothered to give my subject’s false names, they are fine with it.  Most are actually counting on it. 

Yes, my friends have problems.

I did, however, receive a tip about my friend Malcolm’s recent experience sleeping at a friend’s apartment that, I believe, illustrates my point about my friend’s being sick sons of bitches.  And not that bright either, let’s not forget that.

We have a friend named Sean who is very gay.  By very gay, I mean he makes those Queer Eye guys look like Chuck fucking Norris.  But he’s funny as hell and can bust balls with the best of them.  And by bust balls I mean give other people shit and not in any other way he may choose to spend his free time.  In any case, Sean is a giant prick like the rest of us and likes to screw with people.  And not in the…fuck it, never mind…

Malcolm, Sean, and another friend named Joe went out drinking last month to celebrate Tuesday or some other inconsequential shit.  My friends don’t really need a good reason to get hammered, so they have been known to celebrate the Vernal Equinox if it can be used as an excuse for a party.  In college, we once held a two day party in memoriam of a girl’s hamster passing on to the great Hamster Wheel in the sky.  And yes, it was a touching celebration of Peanut’s life, as far as I recall…

So it was Tuesday and the three amigos headed out in the early afternoon for a bite to eat and many, many drinks.  Being socially responsible individuals, they parked at Sean’s place and took a cab to the festivities.  After a hefty meal of Indian food to coat the stomach, they got completely and incoherently drunk.  The details of the actual drinking were not related to me, as I am sure none of them have a clear recollection.  The story picked up during the cab ride back to Sean’s.

Malcolm began to get extremely agitated during the ride because he suddenly realized that he needed to take a rather urgent shit.  The other two did not help matters by finding this extremely hilarious and aggravating the matter by purposefully giving the cab driver the wrong directions.  At one point they were actually in front of Sean’s house and made the guy drive two more blocks, claiming they were in the wrong place.

Now this was all well and good until recycled Indian food odors began to permeate the cab as Malcolm began to…relieve the pressure, so to speak.  This sobered Sean and Joe up quickly and they suddenly remembered the correct address.  As Sean unlocked the door, Malcolm bolted past him, unbuttoning his pants on the move, and barely made in to the bathroom in time.  What followed, was described to me by the others as the “most foul, unholy, and deafening crap ever taken”, and literally shook the walls of Sean’s delicate little bathroom.

Emerging from the bathroom shortly afterwards, a very drunk and still agitated Malcolm announced to the other two that he “must have blew an O-ring” during his mistreatment of Sean’s toilet, because he noticed blood when he wiped himself.  Having already experienced too many of Malcolm’s bodily functions and their attendant repercussions, they maneuvered the drunk to the couch and put him too bed, while they finished off a bottle of Cabo Wabo as a nightcap.

Now, as men tend to do when we are drinking in the vicinity of someone who has passed out, a plot began to hatch.  They ran through a quick laundry list of stuff they could do to our buddy but soon arrived at the obvious.  While Joe undressed the still comatose Malcolm, Sean got the camera out, got naked too, and began a photo shoot that would make Caligula blush.  Having enough fun for the evening, they put the camera away and retired.

When Malcolm woke up the next morning, he was understandably fuzzy on the details of the previous night.  By feigning ignorance and acting guilty, Joe and Sean had Malcolm a little worried about what he had done.  Malcolm kept asking if he had forgotten to pay his bill, or had made an ass of himself the night before.  He also made the following statement:

“Speaking of ass, why does mine hurt?  Feels like my butthole is on fire.”

In their buildup to the big photo shoot reveal, Joe and Sean had forgotten about the power poop that Malcolm had pulled off earlier and the resulting…tissue damage…that had occurred.  To quote Sean:

“This was just too fucking sweet an opportunity to pass up.  I just had to do it.”

Thus began the most uncomfortable 10 minutes of Malcolm’s life.  With pictorial assistance, Sean and Joe began to spin the most elaborate load of crap they could think of about the wild sexual encounter that Malcolm had engaged in with Sean the gay guy.  Sean even had Mal convinced that he had been the one who instigated the man on man love, with Sean trying to talk him out of it, but finally “giving in because you were too much man.”

At that, Malcolm just picked up his keys, gathered his stuff, and walked out of the house without saying a word.  He still believes to this day that he had sex with a man.  Hopefully he doesn’t read this and realize that Joe and Sean pulled one over on him.  This is just too good of a gag to let him off the hook so easily.

Then again he’s probably too busy looking at gay porn to read blogs….