THe FReCKLeD FINGeR

As I sit here at my desk, or what IKEA led me on to believe was a desk, I stare at the brickwall.

Typical Monday.

This night, however, is very different from the rest as I do not count the bricks on said wall, but rather begin to think.

I remember learning in high school History class about The Great Wall of China.  The most interesting fact I recall is that during it's grueling construction, workers and slaves died in the process but the building of the wall never ceased therefore the bodies of the dead workers would become part of the wall's structure. 

Now, the apartment building I am currently squatting in is over 100 years old and I cannot help but think about how many Italian immigrants lost their lives constructing this here building brick by brick... and are forever laid rest within it's mortar and brick walls.

I could sense that the spirits of these Italians have been haunting my apartment and until this very moment, thought it was simply a coincidence that whenever I cook spaghetti sauce, it always splatters to the left.  What is to the left of the stove where the sauce (gravy to you Italian enthusiasts) continually splatters you ask?

THAT BRICK WALL!

What I'm getting at is that rent is expensive when your building is held together with immigrant bones.

Went out tonight to a bar.

Went out tonight to a trendy spot.

Went out tonight to a sports bar.

Went out tonight to a trendy bar trying its damnedest to be a sports bar to watch the fight.

Manny Pacquiao vs Joshua Clottey.  Of course PacMan won unanimously in the 12th.

What a horseshit fight wrapped in $12 drinks.

I could be in the best shape of my life, my muscles barely able to stay under the skin and then lather myself in all kinds of oil and stand under a harsh light and I still would not look as jacked as a black guy with the same body.

That's not racist.

I don't get it, but this Clottey guy looked fuckin' unreal.

That's not gay.

Why can't white people ever look that good shirt less?

Just another testament to white man's struggle to find equality in a black man's world.

I deserve reparations for 400 years of being embarrassed at the gym.

Sorry for the almost full-day-late post, but I'm an unbearably lazy piece of shite... also, yesterday was busy.

PREFACE

I decided to save this post until I got home last night, which definitely would bring some fodder for hatred for humanity as I was in the thick of nature.  I was stuffed to the brim inside Caroline's On Broadway taking in a comedy show from the best working comedian on the planet, Louis CK.  OK, so I may be biased because he too is a redhead, but the proof is in the strawberry pudding.

It makes sense that the few stand-ups that reach a certain level of fame and appreciation, simply walk away from the stage.  Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Carlin and Steve Martin have all disclosed the handicap that comes from being a world renowned comic:  genuine laughter.  You reach a certain level of success as a comedian and you'll never again know if you are in fact, funny enough to justify your success.  You tell jokes to sheep your whole life and worked your way up the stand-up ladder to the point where you are a hot-ticketed headline act and therefore, no matter what's being said, people will laugh.  Was the joke funny?  You'll never know.  People will laugh because it's their beloved comedian who is telling the jokes.  George Carlin could simply tell a knock-knock joke, but in his voice and demeanor, you'll find it funny.  If you're retarded and never heard of these comedians, it also worked with people of tremendous power.  For instance, Barack Obama.  If he was giving a speech and you were attending, you'll take everything he has to say as truth and it will fill you with whatever feeling he is portraying onto you.  He may tell you bad news and you will feel worry or fear.  He could tell you how the economy is turning around, and you will then feel a sense of hope. 

Louis CK has reached that point.  Don't get me wrong, he's a funny sonofabitch, but he's attained the dreaded holy grail of comedy where he doesn't need to be funny to generate laughs.

ACTUAL RANT

Having said that, I sat uncomfortably close to one of these cackling shitheads.  Now, I'm not sure if you have ever been to a comedy club or not, but the general idea is to pack as many people as they can into a moderately-sized room all while allotting enough room for the stage, dozens of tables and walkways for the waitresses... all trying to stay within the confines of a very strict NYC fire code, mind you.  Anyway, I was literally touching shoulders with this woman next to me.  I barely even like to touch a women when having sex, so why the hell would I want to be touching a women when I'm in public...?

After every joke.  EVERY joke, this women had her own relevant and, what she though, clever 'side-story' about said joke.

Comedian: "... anyway, the point is, I don't understand why these people were standing when the plane landed."

Woman: "Oh my god, I do that too... that's so true, that's so true.  Remember?  Honey.  Remember on the plane honey? So true."

 

Comedian: "You can't read fun, interesting stories to your daughter.  No, you have to read them boring shit so they'll fall asleep faster."

Woman: "Not our son.  Brian, our nine-year-old, loves our stories.  Honey, remember that story we told him on Thursday?  Oh boy, he loved it.  I think he now wants to write books when he's older."

 

Comedian: "I mean, it's not like God is looking down and seeing heterosexual sex and is OK with it then look over and see two gay guys fucking and has a fit."

Woman: "You know what, that's right.  I don't know what the big deal is.  Why do people even care about gay marriage.  Some people are just so ignorant, ya'know?  Boy, I'll tell ya.  Some people."

All night with this ill-timed conversation holding cunt.  No one at the table even wanted to hear it, either.  That's what blew me fuckin' away.  She did that 'arm grab to reiterate that you are talking to them' thing... that's the business where you grab the forearm of whoever you are addressing because they could give a shit about what is coming out of your mouth but your opinion WILL BE HEARD.  Shouldn't she know by now everyone hates her?  I've sat next to this woman for only twenty minutes and I wanted her to die horrifically in a house fire. 

Her husband or boyfriend or whoever's night she ruined will eventually leave her.  I've never been more sure about something in my entire life.  Her son, Brian, remember him?  Yea, well, he'll kill himself with drugs.  Guaranteed.

She'll, of course, talk over whoever is giving the eulogy.

"Oh my god, Brian used to love eulogies, too."

It may not already be an illness, but I know I have it... and I know it sucks.

I am unable, completely incapable rather, of going #2 without the aid of a third party.  I need 1.) a toilet, 2.) the urge to go and 3.) a gaming machine.  Otherwise, I am writhing in pain with insufferable constipation.

Over the many years of using some kind of hand-held device to help me through the duty (doodie?), I've unknowingly conditioned myself to only be able to go when using such a device.  Kind of like Pavlov's Log.

Whether it is a hand-held solitaire game, Tetris on the GameBoy, an app on the iPhone or even typing a shitting Rant on a shitty website, I need something to poop.

Let's put Aids and cancer research on hold for half a decade and get this bedpan-demic (<---- you see what I did there?) under control.

Kind of a light one tonight as my day was anything but eventful.

Watched a good chunk of television today and one thing I tuned in for was a show on National Geographic Channel about 'Prostitution' and how it's perceived in different cultures around the globe.

Every day.  Every single day the world is a constant battlefield for dominance.  Being a pure superpower on Earth is a struggle taken on every day and will continue to do so until that goal is taken.  We all know that up until the last decade or so, America had been pretty prominent in the list of world leaders.  Given some economic and political changes, we can yet again fill the void so many crave.

But why...?

Why National Geographic?  Why would you push the USA down with your editorial decision?  ALL of the other locations featured, whether it be Australia, Praque, England or Amsterdam, ALL showed attractive and in some cases, HOT, women soliciting prostitution to men. 

Not America.  Nope.  National Geographic, a company based out of Washington D.C., decided to showcase the best and brightest cattle we have on display here in America promoting 'the world's oldest profession'.  The choices we have as men, according to NatGeo, is either the lovely caucasian bag of bones with a sweet tooth for methamphetamine or the thicker cut bacon who may or may not have been stunt doubles for the star of 'Precious'.

Couldn't you have just taken video of hot women walking the streets at night?  I mean, you didn't show any faces of these women, so who would have known if they weren't actual hookers?  I sure as hell wouldn't have... and I'm willing to bet the majority of the audience currently watching this or any show on National Geographic, could not even describe what a prostitute looks like.

Even the teenage girls in India that are forced into prostitution were more attractive than the ones that openly choose to have sex for money here in my homeland.

The world already mocks us for our shitty economy, our greedy and free lifestyles, our fat inhabitants and more importantly, our politicians that have been involved in, are currently involved in or have lost their positions because of sex.  Now they have one more stick and stone to throw at us and they are named Mrs. Gross Sex and Ms. Awful Oral.

Shape up or pull out, NatGeo.

Had one of life's little romantic comedy moments today.

I took my dirty clothes down to the dungeon to do some laundry and the exact time I walked in, another tenant from my building practically bumps into me.  Guy meets girl.

Being the chivalrous son of a bitch that I am, I decided to let her go ahead and do her laundry first.  Guy woos girl.

I figured I'd leave my laundry basket down there to promote that I am the next one in line to use the machine.  Girl recognize guy trusts her.

We exchange flirtatious pleasantries and I leave to go back up to my apartment with my dirty laundry on a side table next to the washer machine.  Guy and girl separate.

I waited roughly forty minutes to head back downstairs so I could load my own laundry.  I excitedly arrived in the laundry room, looked down at my clothes and saw on the very top was a pair of disgusting skid marked briefs.  Must have been the pair I wore to the St. Patty's Day Parade last Saturday, which then I accurately recounted: all day alcohol binge and end of the night Taco Bell eating contest.   There's absolutely no way she could have not seen this.  Guy never sees girl again.  Guy buys pornography... again.

So New York City wants to throw on an extra tax for sugary drinks and unhealthy foods, like pizza.

All of this, of course, is under the guise that NYC is trying to help it's extra large residents in the ongoing struggle against obesity.  The major engine behind this tax is that it will sway fatsos from buying soda and junk food, therefore trimming their diet, because they will not stand for this and REFUSE to pay the extra buck to indulge and binge. 

Come on.  If there was a cup cake inside an alligator's mouth, you better be sure there will be an obese person sneaking up behind it.  A tax is not going to sway a person from eating... especially now because all these round bozos classify overeating as a 'disease'.

Watch.  This tax will be in the city for less than a day before a lawsuit against the city is filed claiming that:

My client, Susan Trunfio, is morbidly obese and due to the city's recent food tax, chronically under funded to support her habit.  She is sick.  She is diseased.  She needs these products to keep her healthy and to continue to have the upper hand in her fight against this addiction.

Why can't Americans just be responsible?  If you are fat, don't eat so much shit and don't drink soda.  Listen, I know America, as a whole, is mostly full of idiots, and New York City, being the Mecca of America, is the Dream Team of morons... but I think we can handle this without this tax.

Tell ya what, NYC.  If this tax does in fact go through, you need to grant me some allowance as I am not morbidly obese and seldom , if ever, drink soda.  I state now, that Michael Bloomberg, residing Mayor of Manhattan, should allow me to cannibalize.

Hear me out.

Since A.) this tax is designed to sway fatties from furthering their fatness by neglecting sugary drinks and pizza because they do not want to overpay it, and since B.) I am at a healthy weight, I'm therefore being unfairly taxed I should be granted the right to:

• Drink the sugary, delicious blood that runs through the large, Big-Gulf sized bodies of these fat folks.
• Eat the section of the body underneath the top layer of epidermis of obese people, which is a surplus of cheese and a cache of a carbohydrate-y like goodness.

Meet me halfway here.

It's a sound that is unmistakable.

Click.

Clang.

Cling.

Cling.

Clang.

Yep, the sound of a blind man's pole banging into anything and everything as he makes his way from one end of the train to the other... the other, of course, is where I am sitting.  As he nears, it becomes apparent he is homeless and begging for money.

For Christ's sake, why does this always happen to me.  I'm too good of a person to resist these people in their plight to stick needles in their arms.  Luckily, in this case at least, I may be in the clear.  How it usually goes down is I mistakenly make eye contact and that seals my doom.  They immediately lock in on me and being the weak little piece of shit I am, I submit and hand over whatever change I have on my person.

This time, I was feeling generous and well, awful at the same time.  He hit EVERY pole on the way towards me.  EV-ER-RY POLE.  It was beautiful... too bad he wasn't there to see it.

Anyway, I pulled out a buck and waited for him to make his way 50ft, which was roughly 5minutes.  Of course, being the crazy homeless man that he is, he was rambling about some armageddon or how he lost his job and family or some whacky story.  I waited patiently.  Dollar firmly in my hand, arm stretched out wide, a gaping smile on my face, a black stare on his.  BOOM!  A perfect handoff...

Shit, he didn't know I put anything in his can.  He didn't recognize my donation and therefore, in the game of life, it doesn't count.  I won't get that much need 'God bless you' from a homeless man that I constantly crave to get through my day.

So I reach back up to try and touch his hand so gently just to give him the impression I did just put something in the can; he'll then reach down and feel the bill and all will be right in the universe.  Perfect plan...

He pulls away as if I was trying to take his riches and dares to give an ugly look in my direction.. which is basically left.  He was partially correct in his direction, though, because along with half the train car, I was also to his left.  He then stumbled back down to the other end of the train.

What a blind asshole.  I give you the crispest dollar bill I have and you give me an attitude.  My Irish eyes are not smiling and you sir, your eyes are not working.

Me - 1.

Blind Asshole - 0 or O, he doesn't know the difference.

Why do parents sign their kids up for karate?  What a horseshit activity.

Oh, but it teaches the kids discipline.

Blow it out your ass.  Put a little league bat in his/her hands or soccer ball at their feet.  I hate hearing that shit about how it teaches your kid discipline.  Why don't you discipline them yourself?  Why do they have to roll around on a gym mat in a stupid outfit.

Even more, stop making them walk home in their gi's, bring a change of clothes for god's sake.  They look like minature assholes in their yellow belts.  They aren't going to stick with it, I guarantee it.  If they had, they would, or at least should, be black belts by age 15... and I don't know too many 15yr olds that could kick my ass. Stop giving the parenting responsibility to these dojo masters.  Get off your ass and smack the kid if he acts up.

I could beat your kid up.  No?  Ten bucks!  Let's do this!

The only reason he begs you to sign up for these horseshit karate courses is to tell his friends he does it.  In less than a year, it will be another activity.  After that, another one to obsess over.  Get over it and turn him onto a real after school activity like pee wee football or little league, something that will last and if fortunate enough, might make your kid rich and he'll buy you a home.

Moral: Your kid stinks.

Not much out of me tonight, I'm pretty busy but I just bought an audio book and 4 x 5HR Energy drinks... so I should be dead by sun up.

As a fat person, I found myself yet again at the grocery store.  These empoyees know me by name.  Of course, none of which speak English, so I'm not sure what name they know me by, but they say it every time I walk in.

"THE FAT RED MAN!"

Anyway, I was loading up on some energy drinks, but for some reason, this store manager or stockboy decided that they still live in Africa with 7ft tall lion hunting Massai men.  How the hell am I supposed to reach this shit?  I look goddamn ridiculous standing on my tippy toes, sweating and grunting like a fuckin' elk.  I can barely touch the bottle with the very tip of my middle finger and have to do that gentle fingering motion to slightly move it closer to the edge inch by inch.  What kind of place is this?  I am the epitome of America:  short and fat and Latin tempered, goddamnit!  Meet our needs for Christ's sake.

I feel like those miniature creatures on TLC that live in a big world... well in this establishment, I too, live in a big world.  If they lived in my neighborhood, those midgets would have to eat one another's teeny little bits because they'd starve.  They could never shop at the local supermarket.

Holy shit.  I know exactly how they feel... with their itty bitty fingers. Ha.