Monday, October 30, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Miami- Phase I, Part II

I was somewhat excited to begin work at Nordstrom. For the first 10 days, my responsibilities, along with the other employees, were simply to get the store ready for the grand opening.

I met my boss, Denise, and her two underlings, Gina and Jason. Denise and Gina were best friends from college in Colorado. They were a couple of timid milquetoasts, and I could tell from the on-set that they were not cut out for giving orders. Jason, on the other hand, was a fiery little man. Sporting a Texas high school education and a severe Napoleon complex, he took great pride in his job, making sure the employees under his control adhered to the letter of the Nordstrom code.

There were about a dozen salespeople in our department, and though nothing blew me away, there was some decent talent around. All in all, I was just happy to be out of the house and meeting new people. This feeling all but disappeared when Denise broke the news: all men in the shoe departments were required to wear suits. This was a crushing blow to me. I didn't even own a fucking suit.

At the same time, my older cousin, Brad, moved into the house, infusing the situation with new blood and good cheer. Brad was a few years older than me and had always been like an older brother to me. He had already finished law school and passed the bar, so he was job searching. The addition of Brad was great news for Striker and I, as we were now a trio instead of a duo, which is much better for going out. Moreover, it was comforting to have a family member around. It was Brad who took me to the world renowned Men's Wearhouse to help me buy those cursed suits, and he even tied my ties for the first few weeks. The bad news was that our house turned into something of a boys' club, further alienating Krissy.

When things started to get bad with Krissy, they got really bad, really quickly. The first thing that came to light was that Krissy was a full-blown, Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas level alcoholic. The girl was literally never without a cocktail in hand. But it wasn't even the amount of booze that struck me- it was her penchant for imbibing literally any concoction of alcohol. If we were out of mixer, she'd mix beer with her vodka- how else would she get through her lunchtime shift at Friday's? In addition, things were getting more strained between her and Striker. The four of us still went out together on occasion, and we tended to meet up with other law students since we had shit else to do.

On one such night, Krissy was chatting up a law student named Sloren, and casually mentioned that she and Striker were dating. It just so happened that Sloren was Striker's main target, and he did not take kindly to Krissy fucking things up. That would be the last time the four of us went out together, but the vibe in the house remained civil, though fragile as a house of cards.

Meanwhile, on the work front, we were still setting up and learning the policies and culture of the store. Our managers imparted the usual pearls of wisdom- don't rape your coworkers, for instance. I found most of this training to be annoying and slightly insulting, but nothing would prove to be more oppressive than the Rule of Four Pairs.

The Rule of Four Pairs, which would become the bane of my existence, explicitly states that no matter what, you are required to present four different pairs of shoes to the customer. Even if the customer specifically states she wants to see only one pair, even if she is in a rush, even if you have a line of angry women waiting for you to serve them, you still bring out four pairs.
Now, the storeroom is absolutely enormous, occupying two full stories. There are hundreds of different styles of shoes in different sizes and colors. Finding even one specific pair in the cavernous storeroom was difficult. Finding four was a huge pain in the asshole. Compounding the complication of locating the shoes was the enormous pressure from the customers. These were women were mean. Really mean. Consider the following scenario:

You are dressed in a cheap Men's Wearhouse suit. You have been literally running around the backroom to find the right shoes in time. You have already sweat through your undershirt and dress shirt, as you feel the moisture seeping into the suit jacket which you are not allowed to remove. You have been toiling over stretched skin, collagen injected, silicon-bursting Miami demons with logo pocketbooks and designer jeans, wearing their trashy see-through J.Lo sunglasses indoors. These women will not so much as look you in the face, let alone end their cellphone call to speak with you like a human being. And while you are kneeling over the gnarled talons of this sun-scaled succubus, sweating, humbling yourself as you present the sacred Four Pairs, you sit in silence, careful not to disturb the demon's important phonecall. Her speech is limited to words of scorn if you happen to bring the wrong pair or color, or if god forbid you are out of her size. Other vultures begin to gather around, squawking and poking at you, demanding that you bring them shoes as well. And so you leave the hellcat to make her decision, hoping she'll remember your name if she purchases the shoes so that you can earn your feeble commission, but the sale ends up going to, Scott, that greasy fat fuck.

Pretty much all of the employees in my department were cool, except for Scott. Scott was a fat, barrell chested slob, with a slicked back Michael Douglas hair-do, rosy cheeks, and glasses. He was an excellent women's shoe salesman. His loud booming voice and Guy Smiley attitude seemed to somehow melt the icy defenses of the demons. Scott was actually brought in from the Boca store to help get our department on its feet- he was that good. This wouldn't have bothered me, except that this corpulent kiss-ass masqueraded as everyone's best friend. He would lay his heavy, fleshy meathook on my shoulder and try to talk shop with me about womens' shoes, which was dreadfully unpleasant. Then, with his next breath, he'd be telling on us to Jason, Gina or Denise.

Because of the grand opening of the store, I had been working something like 10 days in a row. 10 straight days of that torture. I had been dreaming about my day off. All I wanted to do was get some relief from that sweet sweet cheeba, lay on the beach and look at some boobies. I woke up in early afternoon on my day off, searched around for my keys, but they were gone. I looked outside to see my car was gone as well. Though Krissy was absent, her car was conspicuously parked right outside the house. I called her to ask if she borrowed my car, and she confirmed my suspicisions. I was irritated, but just wanted to get to the beach. I asked where her car keys were, but she had them with her. I was stranded, and furious.

A few days later, I went out of town. When I returned, there were clear signs that Krissy had been using my car, even after I forbade her to use it without permission. Her fingerprints were all over the place- her techno music blaring on the radio while the backseat was littered with empty bottles and cups with booze residue. As it turned out, Striker was also missing his Ritalin. He had a full bottle of pills, and now only a few remained. Though Krissy had denied taking them, we were well passed the point of believing her. After she went to work, Striker, Brad and I went into her room to search for the contraband. It was scary, like rifling through Dracula's shit, fearing that he might return at any moment to catch you in the act. We only found a small amount of pills, but it was enough to confirm the fact that she'd stolen from Striker. The room was a complete mess, as you'd expect from someone who hadn't been sober in years. Laxatives littered the floor*. On her bedside table was the most damning (and frightening) evidence of all. She had created a handwritten list of every person in Striker's phone, with their phone number and a few identifying comments next to each name. Striker couldn't even think of a time when his phone was out of his hands long enough for her to do such a thing. It was very, very creepy. At this point, Krissy became known solely as the Lunatic.

The next day, the 3 of us got locks for our bedroom doors. The house was extremely divided and uncomfortable to live in. Lunatic's drunken antics were becoming more and more pronounced and disturbingly frequent. The common rooms of the house were like war-torn hot zones. If you left something out- money, drugs, carkeys, food, anything - the lunatic would usurp it.

By this time, the store had been open for a few weeks, and business had died down significantly. This was somewhat better since it meant alot less rushing around, but it did mean the managers paid more attention to your actions and gave you more menial tasks to complete. At the same time, less business meant less money, but it was a tradeoff I was willing to make. From my experience at the pet store, I was good at disappearing. I had a little hiding place on the 2nd floor stock room, right next to an air-conditioning vent, overlooking the shipping area. The guys in shipping used to always listen to Fleetwood Mac for some reason. I used to sit up there for 30 minutes at a time, dreaming of days past, as the maudlin sounds of Fleetwood Mac's Gypsy carried me away to better times.

I was not a happy man. My work life was shit, my home life was shit, and the only pussy I got was when I got used as a revenge fuck by a completely insane alcoholic. A bigger problem was that I didn't know how to deal with any of it. Lunatic was becoming increasingly difficult to communicate with, and I knew we'd be saddled with her presence for a while longer. Plus, as much as I hated living with her, my rent would increase significantly if we didn't replace her. I was earning dogshit at Nordstrom, but again, as much as I hated it there, I had no idea where else to work, since I had never even given my career a thought until I was already living in Miami.

However, on a positive note, it wasn't long before I lost all semblance of caring at work. Think of Ron Livingston in Office Space. On weekends, I would show up late, stinking of booze with 4 days of beard growth on my face.
Two of my coworkers, Chris and Lindsey, would often have painkillers or xanax with them, which we would dose at work, idly walking the floor like contented zombies.
Lindsey was a decent looking UM student. She was a straight 5 when she kept her weight in check, and was a major stoner. It was a definite plus to be scheduled with her. And Chris actually became a pretty good drug hookup for me. He was a short, stocky Hispanic gang-banger dude, with sleeves of tattoos covered by his dress shirt and jacket. He was a former steroid user, and would often complain to me about the lingering effects of the drug on his body.
Another of my favorite people to work with was Amanda. She was a pretty hot black chick, about my age with a young son. She was great to work with because she clearly hated the job as much as, if not more than I did. Together with Chris, Amanda and I were the most outwardly indignant employees in the entire shoe department. We were always riling up the other workers and creating dissent with out constant bitching and poor behavior.

Back at home, things continued to escalate with the Lunatic. We noticed that vast quanitites of sauce would go missing around the house. Honey mustard, barbecque, ranch- even mayonnaise. We sooned learned the Lunatic had been subsisting on these liquid flavor nectars as her sole form of nutrition. If you watched her closely, you could even catch her in the act. One night while I was watching TV, I heard some rustling in the kitchen. Lunatic was there in the dark, spooning Miracle Whip into her mouth, hunched over the light of the fridge like a common animal. It was pretty sad to see this poor bastard, all boozed up, feeding on sauce. But her actions the next night would replace my empathy with fear.

Brad and Striker were in the TV room. I was in the kitchen fixing a drink, trying to chip some ice from a huge block. All of a sudden, Lunatic whirled into the house like a tornado. She was in the kitchen, standing behind me. I could smell the stink of stale booze, and feel her heavy breaths on my neck. "Don't do it like that!," she screeched, gesturing toward the ice. She brushed me out of the way, lifting the whole block over her head. "DO IT LIKE THIS!," she screamed, bashing the ice repeatedly on the counter like a madman. Bits of ice were flying everywhere as her maniacal laughter filled the house. I slowly backed away and took cover in the TV room, hoping for safety in numbers. She slammed the kitchen door shut, and the 3 of us could hear rattling, shaking and pounding. It sounded like a grizzly bear was loose in there. Brad, Striker, and I exchanged horrified glances and immediately sprinted for the safety of our own rooms, where we would remain til morning, hoping that sleep would finally befall the great beast.

The next morning when I woke up, I checked out the kitchen. The damage was considerable. There was a bowl of unholy slop which had apparently been consumed in a great hurry, splashes and splatters of it covering the kitchen floor and counter. It seemed to be some kind of soup, the prime ingredient being ranch dressing, with a few bits of cold spaghetti and croutons thrown in for good measure. Brad and I were discussing the events of the previous night and making plans to get the hell out of the house when Lunatic's door opened. She emerged, in her typical house outfit of boxers and t-shirt, and sat down right next to me on my bed. She was giggly and shrill, still clearly out of her mind. She absolutely reeked of rancid ranch dressing. I could smell it on her breath and seeping out of her pores. It was enough to make a weaker man vomit. Again, Brad and I were frightened, not knowing what to do. We stayed quiet, being sure not to make any sudden moves that might startle or incite this creature, and before too long it departed to fix another drink. Brad and I scrambled to grab a couple towels, lock our rooms, and get the hell out of the house before it could terrorize us again.

From this point on, the Lunatic became known only as the Creature.

*As an alternative to bulimia or anorexia, some girls use laxatives for their eating disorder needs.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Miami- Phase I, Part I

The house on Ponce was a no frills type place. A set of large double doors opened to reveal a small foyer with a set of stairs and two more doors, one at the top, one on the ground floor. Striker, Krissy and I lived on the bottom, while the four sorority girls were above us. The house was shaped like a long hallway, with the kitchen, tv room, and spare room off to the left, and the bedrooms down the hall to the right.

When I first arrived in late August, I felt like I was interrupting Camelot. Striker had been living at the place with Krissy for two weeks, and they'd been fucking like jackrabbits. She'd been cooking him dinner every night, and neither of them had started school yet, so during the days they'd explore the city or go to the beautiful beaches. And then I arrived.

It was only then that I learned that Striker felt Krissy was suffocating him. He enjoyed fucking her of course, but she was trying to make things way too domestic. Afterall, he had just arrived in Miami, and wanted to get some blood in the water.

This was the first time that I had met Krissy. She was about 5'10 with long blonde hair, real nice long legs and a small hawk face. Overall, she was goodlooking and pretty sexy, though I wouldn't say hot. Krissy was working as a waitress at Friday's and taking classes in criminal forensics or some shit like that, so she wasn't around all that much. In the past, Striker would have to wait around for her to go out- he had no choice since he didn't know anyboy yet. Now that I was in town, he had a wingman. My job didn't start for a couple weeks, so we were going out all the time. Without Krissy. It was then that Krissy began to realize that the relationship she had imagined was dissolving before her eyes, as her partner considered it to be nothing more than friendly fucking.

It was during these early nights of going out that I realized the harsh nature of Miami. Cities are the modern form of jungles or deserts for animals; they are the most dangerous habitats. Life exists on a tensile line and success is elusive. I soon learned that Miami was one of the more formidable habitats in the country*. I was coming off of a pretty succesfful run with women at college, and I guess I expected my progress to continue uninterupted right on into Miami. I was sorely mistaken.

I experienced a huge dropoff, I was getting nothing. Granted, I had only been there for a week, but I had gone out every one of those nights. It was enough to grasp the personality of the city. The personality is basically this: Imagine a man- an ugly man, dressed in a loud, garish, absurdly expensive suit. He is adorned in diamonds and platinum, writhing to the music as he rubs handfuls of cash on his body and smears it on his face. As he does this, hordes of extremely hot trashy looking women are groping and petting him. In the background, the less beautiful and less rich clamor just for the chance to be in the vicinity of this scene.

The essence of money hangs over the city like thick fog. And here I was, a brand new resident with a job at Nordstrom- selling women's shoes, of all things. The Al Bundy allusion had'nt even occurred to met yet (that wouldn't happen until I started work and experienced the horrors firsthand). It was during these first few months that I realized that you gotta have a decent status qualifier, or some good plumage, if you want to succeed with women. However, saying you're in college (or grad school) gives you a free pass. Especially if you're in a good college- that shows the potential for acquisition of wealth, and so you can still get an at-bat.

And this matters, big time, in Miami. The 'what do you do?' question comes nearly instantaneously upon initiating conversation with a woman. When you say, "Well, I just graduated, and I wanted to move down here, so I took a job at Nordstrom. I figure I'll take it easy for a while, so I can figure out what I really want to do..." -the woman's mind stops listening right around Nordstrom. It just clicks off, like an FBI wiretap does if the right words aren't mentioned within forty seconds. If she doesn't hear 'lawyer', 'doctor', or, most commonly, 'idiot son of a millionaire', you're out of the running. Later (around Phase II), I would realize it's not just the words, it's the confidence behind them that matters. If you have to explain yourself, you're fucked. You have to say something that will get them asking you questions, instead of the other way around. But I was young and naive, and faced a mountain of rejection. I was feeling pretty low about it.

So what's all this leading up to? The fact that I fucked Krissy, within the first 11 days. Like I mentioned before, she was really into Striker. He had basically ignored her since I had gotten there, except for the times they banged eachother in a completely destroyed, near blacked out state- which was every single night.

Krissy was visibly pissed off around the house, constantly appearing drunk, rattling her ice and slamming doors. I had been told of her slutty behavior, having allegedly bedded over 40 men. And so, on the night of our tryst, I suspected something was in the air. Even though I knew it was probably a bad idea, I was anticipating her advances. Striker had to attend some sort of event for law school, and would be gone all evening. As soon as he was gone, Krissy came into the TV room and chirped, "let's make margaritas!". That's when I knew it was on. We drove to the liquor store and picked up some tequila and proceeded to get drunk. After a couple hours, we had a real strong buzz working. At one point in the kitchen she hugged me and started sobbing about Striker, which completely killed my desire to bang her. Her cries and feelings were annoying me, so after a little while, I told her I was going to sleep and retreated to my room.

About an hour later, my door opened. I was in my bed with the lights off, but I could see from the light in the hallway that it was Lucy, one of the girls from upstairs. "Hey," she whispered, as she came in and sat down on my bed. Lucy and I had met a few nights prior, when Striker and I drunkenly knocked on the upstairs door after coming back from the bars. She was a beautiful girl, if you could look past her terrifying anorexia (which, at the time, I could). I could hear loud talking in the common rooms, especially Krissy's loud cackle. I surmised that she had continued to drink and gone upstairs to see if anyone was partying up there. Lucy told me that we had to hang out sometime soon, and I agreed, sitting up in bed. The mood was right, as the pale light illuminated her skeleton face. But suddenly, she said, "Krissy said you guys call me the anorexic that true?".
"No, of course not!", I said, stunned. I callied Krissy a liar and said we should go join the others. At this point I was angry at Krissy. She was purposely trying to destroy Striker's other options for pussy. And his options were my options, which were being destroyed as well, since we knew the same 6 people. This was one of the first attacks in what would become the war for Ponce.

I pulled on some shorts and Lucy and I found the rest of the people in the kitchen. Krissy was there, pouring margaritas for Lisa, another one of the upstairs girls, and a skinny douchebag guy wearing all black. We all drank and hung out for a while, and Striker came home. He hung out for a only a little while before heading to bed. He had some school obligations to deal with the next day. It wasn't long before our upstairs neighbors left as well, leaving just Krissy and me on the couch.

She laid down on the couch with her head in my lap. She was facing away from me rather than towards me, as she started playing with my fingers and sucking on them, taking my other hand and placing it on her left boobie. I started rubbing it a little bit, and then told her I was going to bed. I got up and went into my room, but left the door ajar, where it would normally be closed. Not a minute later, Krissy came into my room holding four condoms (which seemed pretty damn ambitious) and shut the door. As it turned out, we didn't end up using any of the condoms. But, yeah, I banged her.

It wasn't this event, but rather Striker's apathy** regarding this event, that would begin to unravel Krissy's poorly disguised exterior to reveal the lunatic underneath.

The day after our rendezvous, two other things happened which would change the dynamic of the house. My cousin moved into the 4th bedroom, and I started work at Nordstrom.

*If you're a man, that is. Being a woman is pretty fucking easy in Miami, unless you're a complete hog or a torn up mutant face.

**In truth, Striker was more amused than apathetic, marveling at her boorish tactics. We both had a good laugh when we realized she employed the finger suck technique with both of us.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Miami Prelude

In Spring of 2002, I was finishing up my senior year of college. While most of my peers were looking ahead to post-graduate studies or securing their career path, I was just trying to survive.

The problems I was dealing with at that time could easily consitute a whole new post, and so I'll save the details for another time. But to sum things up, my house was robbed, my roommate was in jail for rape, and I got caught cheating on my girlfriend with a girl who had a boyfriend of 4 years. The girl's boyfriend also found out about our indiscretions, and every night I went out during the last 2 months of college, 10 to 12 men would try to kick my ass. On top of that, I got caught cheating in class, and had to stay for a summer session (with my pissed off girlfriend) to make up the credits. Suffice it to say, I was under alot of stress, and all I could think about was getting the hell out of Atlanta.

But it wasn't all bad. During the summer, I became much closer with Striker. I knew Striker through Lolly, one of my best friends in college (the two had attended high school together). Striker was living in Atlanta, biding his time until he would begin law school at the University of Miami in the Fall. Neither Lolly or I had plans, so we agreed that we we'd move down to Miami with Striker. We figured we'd get some low-key jobs and take it easy down there for a while.

My summer session ended and I headed back home to New Jersey. Nordstrom was having a big sale and they needed extra cashiers. My mother told me it would be a great to way to make some quick money. So I did it. It wasn't bad at all. King and a bunch of other local kids that I knew were working there also. All I had to do with stand behind a counter and ring things up. I didn't even have to tuck my shirt in. As for as jobs go, this wasn't too bad.

Summer was already halfway over by the time I got to NJ, and it was quickly winding down. Striker was already in Miami, and found a house for us in a great location. It was right on Ponce de Leon, literally a 5 minute walk from UM. Unfortunately, Lolly backed out. We needed a new roommate, and fast.

Luckily, Krissy, a girl from their high school, was moving to Miami as well. Striker hadn't spoken with her much since their high school days, but he was sure she'd be a good fit in the house. He explained that she was a hot, blonde, hard partying slut. My only qualm was that Striker and Krissy would be alone together in the Ponce house for 2 weeks before I arrived. Striker was the best womanizer that I knew, so my chances of banging her before he could stuff his cock in were slim to none. As it would happen, he fucked her on the second night, after a friendly roommate game of strip poker.

Meahwhile, back in NJ, I found out that Nordstrom was opening a brand new store less than a mile away from the Ponce house. What a fortuitous coincidence! At the Jersey store, I was a cashier in the Women's Active department. However, when I applied for a transfer to the new Coral Gables store, I went for the shoe department. I was told that I'd make a decent amount of money, since the sales associates made commission in addition to the $9 hourly wage. I had a quick interview over the phone and I got the job! I'd be a sales associate in the women's shoes department. Little did I know, but this would turn out to be one of the most psychologically damaging decisions I've ever made.

But at the time, I was happy as a clam. A few days before I drove down there, I got a call from Striker. He explained that the Ponce house was a duplex, and he had finally seen our upstairs housemates. They were four hot UM sorority girls. I was utterly shocked. I truly could not have dreamed up a better scenario. All I could think about was heading out to that tropical paradise where I'd be surrounded by beautiful women. I would soon learn that, like the city of Miami itself, my hopes were naught but a glossy shell which would soon crack to reveal a dark, maggot-covered underbelly.

I was far too young and naive to predict it, but my two year stint in Miami would become a period of both towering highs and crushing lows; far and away the most booze-soaked, drug-addled, and sexually irresponsible time of my life.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

You're An Animal

I've often been told, "You're a complete animal". Well, it's true. I am an animal. But, so are you, asshole. We all are.

It is a widely held human opinion that we are different from animals; that we are somehow better. It is this foolish perspective that has gotten us into the trouble that we are in today. The lies that we convince ourselves of serve no purpose but to complicate things and make it more difficult to tackle the real problems that plague our society.
Why do we deny our true nature? I understand why we needed this type of thinking at the dawn of our civilization- in order to get started we had to set some ground rules; cities wouldn't work if everybody ran around raping each other and taking shits on the floor. But we're past that point by now. It's time to really look in the mirror instead of being lying little pussies.

The most glaring problem is our denial of sexuality. I'm not speaking from the perspective of some fat fuck on the man show, complaining that getting women is hard and football rules. I'm saying that sex is paramount to everyone (who is sexually viable). Men and women. It is important to each gender in a different way, of course; which is completely obvious, yet some people still don't get it. I'm sick and tired of hearing about that old double standard- that if a man sleeps with alot of women he's a stud, but if a woman sleeps with alot of men, she's a slut. Well, yeah, that's true.

Think about it from an evolutionary perspective. The human baby is extremely vulnerable. That shrieking little bag of skin is completely incapable of sustaining itself, let alone protecting itself, until it's at least 6 or 7 years old, and that's only if it's been well trained by an older human being. In addition, these little fragile creatures are not easy to propagate. Sometimes it can be very difficult for a woman to become pregnant, and when she finally is knocked up, it takes 9 months before it's born. Because our offspring are so frail and precious, it makes sense that, in order for our species to become viable, we had to do alot of fucking- this was the only way for us to succeed.
As a man, if you fuck one girl, you have a relatively small chance of passing on your genetic material. If you fuck 10 girls, there's a much better shot that your genes will live on. That is why, as I'm sure you've noticed, men want to fuck all the time.

By the same token, it is the role of the female to care for the child. And for the record, this has nothing to do with social constructs or gender roles- this is the natural order of things. You women have the tits, which produce the milk to feed the baby. You have the loving, sensitive and caring nature to nurture our young. Moreover, men are clearly much stronger and better equipped to procure food, and protect the women and children*. And so it follows, that yes, successful male humans should be promiscuous; they are genetically imprinted to do so. However, successful females should not. They are imprinted to find one mate and hold on to him, for the safety of herself and her offspring. If you're always out at the clubs looking for some cock, chances are you won't have much time to devote to being a good mother.

That's not to say that I'm against sluts. I've certainly had my share of good times with them, and I think they're an integral part of our society. But sluts should realize that they are not behaving in the normal manner of successful human females; they should not be surprised to be labeled accordingly. As I'm sure you women know, you'll be in a much better position to have offspring with a successful male if you pick and chose the number of cocks you fuck wisely. Which is not to say that sluts can't land a decent man, but they will land a man who doesn't mind being made fun of for dating a slut, which of course means he's a pussy, and therefore not an alpha male.

I've been using the term 'successful' quite a bit, so I'll clarify what I mean by that. It has nothing to do with fame, money or power. I am using the term at its most basic- as it relates to our species. In other words, a successful human being is one that procreates. Nothing more, nothing less. Those humans which do not procreate are, thereby, unsuccessful. Think about this for a moment. Let's say a man is wildly prosperous. He has 50 Ferraris, a gorgeous 16 year old girlfriend, 9 houses, 2 spaceships and a football stadium named after him. If he doesn't produce an heir, it's all worth nothing. When he dies, he's dead. Finished. The bloodline ends there. All the genes that combined to make him such a 'successful' man (in terms of our society) have been destroyed. By the same token, imagine a woman who's a brilliant scholar and accomplished artist. Her life has influenced society in many profound ways. But like the other guy, if she doesn't pass on her genes, it doesn't mean shit. Why? Because if every human being was like these two, our entire species would be EXTINCT. Don't you know about the fucking pandas? If a species doesn't procreate, it dies. And how do we procreate? How do we continue our species? That's right. Fucking. It's not just a fun way to kill time. But it blows my mind how often we seem to forget this.
And how does our society treat our sexual urges, our very lifeblood? It tries to make us feel ashamed. It tries to make us feel dirty. Just look at how sex is treated on television. We clumsily eschew it in favor of violence. Network TV is filled with violent images. All those goddamn CSI shows with their battered, ravaged corpses. Those are disturbing images. Those are the types of thing we ought to be protecting our children from. But we allow this, instead outlawing nudity and sexually provocative images. It's cool for a kid to see horrifically gory violence, but god forbid he see a tit! The little fucker had a tit in his mouth on a regular basis as an infant, but now we must shield its innocent eyes and protect it from such a terrible image. The nation lost its mind when Janet Jackson showed her fat tit at the Superbowl, yet they air the commercial for SAW III in the middle of day and no one bats an eyelash. Now, the SAW franchise, the very premise of which and images contained within terrify even me, is wildly popular. Yet porn is still looked down on. Blows my mind.

There is another facet of our mind-boggling TV censorship laws that seems to be straight up racist. The rule apparently stipulates that nudity can be shown as long as you cannot jack off to it. For example, we are allowed to see a National Geographic type show which films tribes of naked African people. The women are often very dark, bald and naked as jaybirds with very low hanging titties. I am quite sure that if National Geographic did a program about the indigenous women of South Beach, who often tan topless, that a different standard would be applied; their breasts would surely be censored. That seems wrong to me. If one group of women's tits can be shown, then all women's tits should be shown. It's really not fair. If I were from Kenya or something, I would be in heaven when those shows about Africans came on. It must be like Girls Gone Wild to those guys. But at the same time, it's a pretty big insult, as our government is telling you that your women don't look good enough to jack off to.

Furthermore, why are they so against us jacking off? If primetime TV were very sexual and salacious, I think it'd be great for America. Everyone would go to bed earlier cause they'd be so tired from jacking off (or, for cooler people, actual fucking). Maybe then everyone wouldn't be so frustrated, hopped up, and violent. We'd probably be alot more productive the next day. But alas, the government tells us sex is bad and violence is ok, and so we must accept.

Another thing, which the government is about to tell us, is that online gambling is bad. Consequently, they're not gonna let us do it anymore. Now I don't follow the news, so I don't know the exact details, but Quazar tells me that the good ol' gov't is putting a stop to internet gambling. This infuriates me. Gambling is something that humans enjoy. It is something that they are going to do, whether you like it or not. The most absurd part, is that we are told gambling is NOT ok- unless of course you're in Nevada, AC or a handful of other places. Why punish the people who don't live there, can't afford the trip, or just plain think those places suck? It's an outrage! Well, I've had to close out my online gambling account. I've had a very successful run betting on football games. Now, I guess I'll just have to seek out some asshole who works for the mob or something so I can still bet. Instead of pointing and clicking, I'll get to meet with some thug asshole by the docks on a weekly basis. Surely that won't end in violence. Fucking stupid government.

And speaking of football, the beer commercials that air during the game bring me to my next grievance about our denial of true human nature: our outlook on alcohol. Alcohol is made for getting drunk, that's it. It's not refreshing, it certainly doesn't taste good, and one's ability to distinguish between different varieties (ie. wine or scotch enthusiasts) says nothing about refinement. It simply means you're a rich fuck with a lot of time on your hands.
But we like to pretend something different. Cold beer is refreshing! Wine tastes great with a good meal! Those are lies. Wine may enhance the taste of certain dishes, but if it didn't give you that warm buzz in your belly and a slight wave of euphoria, I guarantee, people wouldn't be drinking it. And as for beer, the only thing that pisswater refreshes you from is a pissed off mood. It certainly doesn't quench your thirst.
But getting drunk is great fun- we all know this. There is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of if you like to get drunk. But we humans don't like to publicly admit this.

And back to beer and football games, what is the connection, if not getting drunk? Is watching the game so tiring that we need refreshment from ICE COLD beer rather than water or gatorade? And for that matter, why does every large gathering of human beings require alcohol? The answer is quite simple. Our society is so restrictive and oppressive that we must use this artificial substance to loosen us up. We are so used to being these castrated automatons that we need some booze to remind us of our true nature; to uncover our aggression and sexuality- the very things that make us human (i.e. animal).

The problem is, these are not revelations by any means. I truly believe that every sane person is aware of these facts, but, like lemmings, we all go along with the lies. People don't realize that our continued acceptance of these bold-faced lies are a slippery slope, and I truly believe that someday soon, we will all pay the price. The more we accept lies, the more we will be lied to. Even in this technologically advanced modern era, we still scurry back to the puritanical views from our nation's infancy. No one wants to stand up and say, "I love sex and I love getting drunk", because people are afraid some other asshole will call them an alcoholic and a pervert. And the masses, those cowards, will always back the side that labels. Why? Because they don't want to be singled out and labeled themselves- what if their boss or their mother found out?! And no one can point that finger at you if you point at them first, right? We'll I'll tell you, I'd much rather be an alcoholic pervert than a lying delusional pussy**.

*Which is why no one gives a shit about women's sports.

**Much of this thinking is borne from religion, by far the stupidest and most dangerous institution in society. Religion is the boiling cauldron which breeds this type of thinking: if you're not with us, you're against us and if you're against us, you're evil and wrong.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

The Threesome

It was early December back in 2004. I had been working for the mortgage company since May. I was doing terrible, dead last in my office, but I was still new enough that I could get away with it. I was told I had to go up to Hartford for some additional training, which was for certification in the builder program. Lucky for me, the builder program was taught by Big Len.

Len was an affable, good-natured family man in his mid-forties. He looked like a circus bear. I had partied with him at company events a bunch of times. He liked to drink alot and talk about getting laid, plus he was a closet stoner. Len offered to drive me to Hartford with another guy from our office, Ping. Ping was the number one producer in the entire company- by a wide margin. He was famous; all the other loan officers knew who he was, and he was constantly being recruited. In the world of mortgages, this guy was a big deal. Unfortunately for Len and I, among the people in our office, he was famous for his habit of cutting loud farts with no regard.

It was a Monday afternoon when we left. For a guy going on a business trip to Hartford, CT with two married guys, I was pretty excited. You must remember I was living with my parents. I was just happy to be able to masturbate at will and get high indoors. Plus it was kind of cool to have my own hotel room like a real grownup. The drive took about 3 hours. It was evening when we arrived, and the thick coat of December darkness had already enveloped the city. It had been a frosty winter and a recent snow blanketed the landscape.

Len told me to meet him up in his room for a quick burn before dinner. All he had was some hash, so he rolled it up into a little pin joint. It gave me a nice dull toasting. We met Ping downstairs and set off for the celebrated Macaroni Grill.

Ping had arranged this whole dinner as a thank you to some of his processing staff, who had to deal with his remarkably prolific output. Most of our loans were processed in Hartford, an office that boasted more than a hundred employees, of which maybe 4 were men. Len, Ping and I arrived first. I didn't have high hopes for dinner. I despised talking about mortgages, and that hatred was compounded by my embarrassment at doing such a poor job. I chose a seat next to Big Len near the end of the table, ensuring that I'd be sectioned off from the conversation at the center of the table. As the women began to arrive, I was pleasantly surprised. Of the 7 women, 2 were legitamately attractive- and young, too. They appeared to be around my age.

Still, I didn't expect much. Afterall, it was a Monday night and the town was basically snowed in. It'd be real tough to convince these girls to stay out after dinner, plus I'd have to step to them in front of Len, Ping and 5 other judgemental birds that I didn't know. To further thwart my chances, I was basically hiding in the corner. I was a silent, removed Raynok, only speaking in asides to Len or answering politely when I was engaged.

I was taking down Maker's Mark at a slightly inappropriate rate, but not enough for anyone to take note. Dinner ended, and most of the women left. All that remained were the two young babes and a middle aged woman. Everyone was a little buzzed and loosened up since the bulk of the group had departed. I was urged to move more toward the center and join the conversation and so I complied.
I was now sitting across from Cindy, one of the babes. Cindy had long blonde hair, big fat tits and a round but attractive face. She looked like a hotter, more voluptuous version of Janice, the guitarist in that muppets rock band*. To her left was Sandy, the other babe. Sandy had light brown hair, a less cute, but still quite pleasant face, and a more athletic build. I found myself most attracted to her. To the left of Sandy was Len, and to my right was Ping. Next to Ping, at the head of the table, was the older lady.

The young girls were asking me alot of questions, but they were mostly work related. Both of them, it seemed, had aspirations to ascend beyond the realm of the common processing staff to become loan officers themselves. It was during this time that Sandy casually mentioned her boyfriend, quickly dashing my hopes. But soon another round was ordered, the middle aged lady left, and things began to get strange.

At first I thought it was a mistake. Peoples legs become entangled under tables all the time. I drew my leg back slightly, and then it was unmistakable: Cindy was rubbing my ankle with her foot. I was in utter disbelief. I had seen this kind of behavior all of the time on TV and movies, but, come on!, I thought, women don't act like this! As it would happen, I was dead wrong.

Cindy started to lock eyes with me and would refuse to look away. I couldn't believe the others weren't noticing. As she stepped it up with the eye contact, she continued her two pronged attack, moving her foot all the way up my leg, near my knee and the inside of my thigh. I ordered another Maker's.
After a good 10 minutes of this absurd behavior, she caught me in one of her siren glances and darted her eyes across the restaurant to the bathroom, quickly looking back at me to keep me locked in her salacious gaze. I inched my chair back slightly to give my surging boner some air to deflate, then quickly got up and marched over to the bathroom.
I walked into the men's room and looked in the mirror. Was this really happening? I looked at my appearance- still a birdman. Could all this be in my head? As I exited the restroom, I gave my head a good shake to clear the cobwebs. I waited in the recessed cove where both bathrooms were located. I was getting nervous.
Suddenly, Cindy appeared. I didn't know how to act. I didn't know this person and had barely spoken to her. Should I just make a bold move, relying on my often poor judgement?
I nearly walked right past her, but as we approached each other, hands awkwardly at our sides we began lightly touching. This light touching soon turned into ferocious, tongue-swirling, 8th grade style frenching. She took my hands and pawed her roomy tits with them. We moved briefly into the mens room. I had her ass pressed up against the sink. We both seemed to realize the need to slow down. "We should wait," Cindy wisely noted. I went back to the table and Cindy joined us about 30 seconds later.

Sandy suggested that we all move to a new bar. Unaware of what had happened near the toliets, Len and Ping were quick to agree. This was where things started to unravel. When we got to the 2nd bar, Sandy had to field a phonecall from her boyfriend. It turned out her boyfriend was a cop and they needed to switch cars for some reason I didn't really pay attention to. She left but assured us that she'd be back. I was busy trying to keep up a conversation with Ping while Cindy was shoving my hand down the back of her pants. We were sitting on those high bar chairs, so, while everyone else in the place could see me carressing this stranger's asscrack, Ping was oblivious.

Ping went to the bar, and Cindy went to the bathroom so I told Len what was going down. I knew he'd cover for me and push to stay out later if it came down to it. It was getting late, and the night was winding down. Cindy was drunk and making little-to-no effort to hide the fact that we were about to fuck. At that point, Sandy came back to the bar. She seemed more drunk, and, all of a sudden, determined. "Do you know what they call you in the office?," she asked. I did not know. As I explained to both of the girls, I had only been to the office a few times and had barely a conversation with anyone who worked there. Cindy was trying to silence Sandy, and seemed embarrassed. "They call you the hot loan officer," Sandy squealed. This shit was getting ridiculous.

I think it's important to note that women do not usually behave this way around the Eggman. It almost seemed like some sick asshole was playing a joke on me. Granted, most of the loan officers I'd met looked sacks of shit bursting out of cheap button-downs, but the idea of an island of dozens of women pining for me from 3 states away was shocking.

Sandy continued to turn up the flirting, right in front of Len and Ping. At this point, it was an open competition between the two girls. I started holding hands with Sandy to let her know that, yes, Raynok like make fuck with you. I openly suggested that the 3 of us go back to my hotel room and they accepted.
Len and Ping got into the car, and the 2 girls and I followed closely behind in their car. Len went upstairs to his room, but Ping and I were on the same floor. This guy had to walk down the hall with the 3 of us and watched stunned as the two girls scurried into my room. A fairly recent Chinese immigrant, he'd never seen anything like this.

Inside the room, the girls were the man, stripping me down as they quickly disrobed themselves. The largest portion of the sex act consisted of the two girls kneeling down knobbing me while I sat on the bed. I was embarrassingly bendy for the first couple minutes, not because of the booze, but because I was nervous. Cindy went down on me solo for a while as Sandy sat on my face. Logistically, this didn't work all that well. I threw both of them down on the bed. I wanted Sandy more, not only because she was less slutty-seeming but also because she had a (cop) boyfriend; she was a challenge. I took out a ratty, withered condom which I carried with me as a prop. The idea was to make women think I was a decent guy since I was offering to use the condom, which would make them more likely to let me in there raw once they realized the poor condition of said prophylactic.

And so there I was, kneeling over the two naked girls with a raging boner. Let me tell you, that's one of the best sights a man can see. I really tried to drink that in. I moved towards Sandy and held up the shabby condom wrapper. She denied me. I quickly pointed the boner towards Cindy, who was more than willing to oblige. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on my dick, she pulled me right inside as I flipped the 'dom onto the floor. She was soaking wet. Inches away, Sandy started to masturbate. I pulled out and exploded all over the seedy hotel comforter in less than 2 minutes.

I was initially embarrassed- I hadn't come close to getting either of them off. But I soon realized that they were sated nonetheless; they had gotten what they came for. As the three of us lay on the bed, and the semen began to dry, an interesting truth came out. Sandy and Cindy barely knew eachother outside of work. They had never gone out, never gotten drunk together, and yet on this night they saw eachother fully nude as they found themselves staring down the barrel of a stranger's cock.

I believe this is a testament, not to Raynok, but to the nature of Hartford, that blue-collar doodytown. These girls were groupies for anyone who seemed to have a better life. Since Derek Jeter and Tommy Lee don't come around Hartford too much, these girls settled for a underachieving stoner who their middle-aged coworkers think is hot**. In fact, all they asked of me was that I come into their department the next to day to say hello to them in front of all their colleagues. I gladly obliged.

On the way back to Jersey, as I was recounting the story to my coworkers, Len made an offhand comment about Cindy's ring. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me that Cindy was married and had a big rock on her finger. "She have baby 10 months ago," Ping added.
I can't say I was completely surprised- I've never looked at a girl's hand to see if she's available. If the vibes are there, they're there; it's her problem to worry about the cheating aspect. In the end, the fact that both of these girls cheated on serious relationships meant little to me, except to confirm the animal nature of man and my belief that most relationships are a sham.

Cindy emailed me a few times in later weeks and said that she and Sandy were going to come to Jersey to visit, but it never happened, and we all went back to our normal lives, never to speak again.

*'that muppets rock band' is called Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.

**In light of this behavior, I have to recommend that if you are seeking a 3some, don't go for some Spring Break destination. Head for some depressed industrial town or a 3rd world country. Communist Russia would be an ideal spot.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Arizona Update

Greetings, all. A status update for those who are interested: I am still unemployed, and still living at my girlfriend's. My top priority is getting a job; even if I could find suitable shelter, I don't have the money to pay for it. Sadly the job quest has been mostly uneventful and unencouraging.

I responded to an ad on craigslist that was seeking a bartender. The ad boasted very high earnings and was looking for someone to work primarily day shifts. It also said no experience was necessary; the bar was more than willing to train- perfect for the Eggman! But there was one strange part- all applicants must apply in person. The ad was quite clear on that. The proprietors wanted no emails, no resumes. Just show up on Monday, Thursday or Saturday between noon and 3pm, and ask for Cousin Al. The Eggman was excited. I woke up (fairly) early on Thursday morning for the interview. I Flossed and brushed my teeth and mapquested the address. I patted and molded my voluminous afro and smoothed my bristly beard to minimize the initial shock of seeing Raynok for the first time. I even picked out a nice shirt with a collar. It took about 30 minutes to arrive. I noticed I wasn't in a great part of town. From what I could deduce, it was a lower class Mexican-dominated area. The bar was an unremarkable, dimly lit pool hall in a largely vacant strip mall. I strode in cofidently, chest-out, still hopeful. At the bar, I told the toothless gentleman that I was there about the ad and hoped to speak with Cousin Al. The gentleman (sort of) apologized and explained that they were looking for strictly female bartenders, since the daytime clientele was entirely comprised of males. He revealed that they would have simply stated that on the ad, but feared legal repercussions.
For my second attempt at a job, I used 'networking'. My girlfriend's friend's boyfriend is a bartender at an ASU watering hole in Tempe. I've met him a few times and he's a cool dude, so I had no problem asking him for help. He told me to come in and fill out an application, which I did on Sunday night. It had been a while since I did something like that; I had almost forgotten how dehumanizing it is. I'm not embarrassed by the choices I've made, and I don't have any regrets, but I gotta say, when I condense my life down into those little boxes, it doesn't look good.
The application worksheets always require you to put your 3 most recent jobs. Due to my spotty work history, I'm forced to get a little creative, patching up the blank spots to make for a somewhat congruous picture of employment. Filling out crappy xeroxed applications is not where I saw myself at 26, but of course I've got no one to blame but myself, and I'm still far happier than I've ever been while wearing a tie around my neck.
I'm supposed to meet with the bar manager on Thursday, and my contact tells me that I will more than likely get the job. If so, I'll be starting out as security. Still, I'm keeping my expectations low; the last time I was actually hired for a job was a solid 3 years ago (not including the time my dad hired me) and I fear that my very presence carries the stench of the unhirable.
The third job I applied for came about quite unexpectedly. It began with a phone call from Johnny on Sunday morning. He had experimented the previous night with a drug called Salvia. Salvia is some sort of plant matter which is sold legally in this country. You can find it all over the internet or in your friendly neighborhood head shop. I was largely unfamiliar with this substance, but John highly recommended it. He told me it was more intense (though shorter lasting) than pot and had hallucinogenic properties. I scoured the internet for a local shop that carried it, and found one before long.
I immediately felt right at home upon walking into this lovely drug haven. There were glorious shiny treasures lining the walls of this spacious and inviting paradise. The employees seemed genuinely happy and enthused to be there. A younger gentleman with a handsome beard was quick to offer assistance. He advised that I choose the highest strength of salvia, proclaiming, "If you're gonna do it, you might as well go all out". Wise words. He sold me. We exchanged knowing glances and smiled the smiles that only drug abusing, thick-bearded men understand. At the register, while deciding whether or not to spring for whippets (I of course sprung), it occurred to me that this drug store would be an ideal place to work. As it happened, they were hiring, and they gave me the address of their warehouse where they take applications.
So yesterday morning I drove to the outskirts of town and found their warehouse right where they described it, behind the adult bookstore. I walked in and found myself in a rather small vestibule. A large woman behind a glass window (think bank teller) photocopied my ID and handed me an application. It was 3 pages long and substantially more in-depth than the no frills tavern application which I had completed the day before. This worksheet asked many questions, most of which were designed to determine two things: that the applicant does not plan on stealing and that the applicant is not a cop. No problem there. There was also some simple arithmetic which I'm confident I aced. Apparently I won't hear back for one to two weeks (they do a background check), but I'm feeling confident about this job. Aside from lumberjacking, head shop employee is probably the only job where my appearance actually gives me a leg up on the competition.
As for the salvia- I haven't formed an opinion just yet. To correctly administer it, you are supposed to take a small hit and hold it in your lungs for as long as possible. Then, lie down- preferably in a dark room with zero stimuli. It's supposed to take you on a quest within your own mind; it's some Native American shit. Mostly it just made me feel scared. But fear not, I'm going to experiment with it some more before I form my final assessment.

Concerning my employment, I suppose I'll just have to wait and see, but I certainly think that as either a bouncer in a college bar or a bong salesman I'll accrue some interesting stories. Only time will tell. Or, in the words of The Killers, "Can we climb this mountain? I don't know".

Friday, October 13, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Volume 2

I quit the pet store during the middle of my senior year. I had already been accepted to college through early decision and decided I wanted to commit myself full-time to drinking and partying. I couldn't avoid getting a summer job though, and so I chose lifeguarding. Barry and I took the classes for a couple weeks after school to get certified. The course was largely uneventful, with the notable exception of the day we learned how to care for spine injuries. Barry and I had Michelle Mendez (one of the sexiest babes in school) in our group and we had to strap her onto the backboard. As she lay supine on the board, her huge natural breasts were heaving under the straps, the water gently swaying her nubile body back and forth. I got a ferocious rock hard glass-cutting boner and was forced to swim backward with my knees raised to conceal it.
Barry and I both lifeguarded for a company called Sparkling Pools. It wasn't bad work at all. We pretty much just got to sit there and get tan. Our boss was a guy named Cowboy Andy who bore a striking resemblance to Jon from Real World Los Angeles*. Sometimes we even got to work with legendary North Brunswick dirtbag Peter Palmer, the presence of whom made everything more entertaining.

Though I did enjoy lifeguarding, I never bothered to get re-certified and was forced to consider other options for the following summer. This decision brought me face to face with one of the worst moments of my life: working as a donut. The human donut stands firmly as my 2nd worst job of all time, right behind women's shoe salesman. I had taken a job at a marketing company called Good Stuff, Inc. They promoted companies like Dunkin' Donuts and Pepsi. I was told about the job by Nick Vegas, who worked at this company as well. It was my first day on the job, and we had to drive to a town in upstate NY to represent Dunkin' Donuts in a parade. I was chosen to be the donut. It was a thick, humid 90 degrees outside. I was dressed as a chocolate frosted donut with rainbow sprinkles. The costume was a good 20 degrees hotter than the outside air. It completely enveloped my head, torso and most of my legs. Immediately, I was saturated with sweat. Since my head was completely obscured, there was a small black mesh screen through which I could breathe and presumably see. My vision was spotty at best as I lumbered about, tripping on my oversize donut shoes. Near the end of the parade, I was blindsided by a vicious onslaught of tiny fists. I soon realized that the assailants were a wild pack of pre-teen girls who were delighting in pushing and jeering me. I was barely able to remain on my feet. It was among the most humiliating moments of my life. I quit Good Stuff the next day.

For the rest of the summer, I ended up working at Mathematica, a small company that specialized in admistering surveys. This job was notable for two reasons. The first being that my old friend Ramon worked there and he was absolutely despised by the office. The second was the punch-in/punch-out mechanism. Rather than the standard timecards and machine which automatically stamped the correct time, Mathematica employed something of an honor system, which I fully took advantage of. There was a computer terminal with a spreadsheet and you were expected to input the time you arrived and the time you left. I started slowly, fudging the times by 15 minutes at first and working my way up to larger and larger margins of deception. By the end of the summer I would come in at 11:30, take a 2 hour lunch with Ramon and leave by 3:30, all while being paid for a full 8 hours.

The next summer, preceding my junior year of college, was my most prolific and turbulent period of employment to date. During that summer, I had no less than 5 jobs and was fired or quit from each and every one. These were jobs as diverse as a human guinea pig, indentured servant to Sandy Balls, camp counselor, bicycle store employee, and thief.

It was early in the summer, and Terry and I needed money. My mother had seen an ad in the paper for a study that needed human test subjects. The study was called Scarification. The research facility was a small unremarkable office building near a Toys R Us. Once inside, we were told we would be compensated $80 for our troubles. Terry and I both consented, and if I remember correctly, we even signed some sort of release form. Then they brought out the needles. They carved two hatch marks on the underside of our forearms. The process was relatively painless but certainly unpleasant. They put a different type of band-aid on each of the hatch marks, which, apparently, was the experiment. They wanted to see how we would heal, and so we had to come back later in the week. My scars went away pretty quickly. Terry was not as lucky, experiencing redness and strange markings in the general area of the 'scarring'. Later, upon seeing the scars, his father famously remarked, "the next time you need $80 that badly, just ask me".

The summer was still young, so the King and I started working for one our parents' friends, a thin dirtbag named Sandy Balls. Balls was a closet maker by trade, but for some reason he had a ton of knock-down desks in a warehouse near the swim club. King and I assumed they had fallen off the back of a truck. The agreement was we'd get $10 for every small desk we built and $20 for every large desk. We had a good time doing this. We listened to alot of Led Zeppelin and ate sub sandwiches. Balls wasn't around that much, dropping by once a day to make a humorous quip at his wife's expense. He really didn't seem to do anything except play golf. I was pretty terrible at building desks, so King handled the lion's share while I climbed on things and explored the warehouse. One day, while we were checking out Balls' golf videos, we found a hidden gem: a video labeled Rear Access. When we inserted the tape into the VCR, we were treated to a closeup view of Ron Jeremy's hirsute asscrack and balls, as he dug his mammoth cock into a shrieking woman's asshole. You can tell alot about a man from where his porn is stopped, for that is the point immediately after he has blown his load. In this case, we learned that Balls likes anal.
After about 2.5 weeks, Terry took over for me since, in terms of building desks, I was by and large worthless. It had been a month, and the desks were finally completed. We had built close to 80 of them and were eagerly awaiting our pay day. The three of us sat in Balls' office as he looked over the desks and did some quick calculations on a pad. Then he handed us four hundred dollars- for the three of us, for a month of work. We looked at eachother, speechless. Terry, King and I are by no means shrinking violets but we simply couldn’t believe that this fast-talking, slender asshole was fleecing us. I mean, this guy was our parents’ friend. But none of us said a word, exchanging only incredulous glances. My parents were so embarrassed that they paid me what I was owed out of their own pocket**.

The summer was far from over, so King, Quazar and I applied to Lake-Vu, the local day camp. Quaze got a job there as a lifeguard and King had some sort of weird auxiliary position that seemed to involve walking around alot. I was a counselor. We had a good time working there and soon met a group of East Brunswick babes that we hung out with. We named them Bug's Life, Battlefield Earth, Cousin Frankie and Burt Reynolds. They of course had no knowledge of these nicknames. A few weeks into camp, we had a small party at Johnny's. We all ended up getting very smashed and so we decided that we'd all skip camp the next day. It was about 4AM when we called in sick. King, Quazar, and I each left separate consecutive slurred messages (from the same phone number) informing the camp that we wouldn't be able to make it the following day. Somone working at camp must've been a genius- despite our rigorous precautions, they saw right through our clever ruse. They called each of us and demanded that we show up immediately. Quazar went in and was able to keep his job. King and I didn't like being pushed around. I told Wasserman, the pervert director, that we were allowed to have sick days and I was indeed sick; it didn't matter what had befallen the previous night. Well he didn't agree. I was promptly fired over the phone. They made King come in the next day and fired him in person. He demanded a quarter day's pay for showing up, which they actually gave him (which is a great example of a characteristically amazing King move).

For my fourth job of the summer, I worked in my Uncle's bike store. I pretty much stood around and sometimes worked the register; I didn't know shit about bikes. I was fired after about 5 days***.

And so I only had one option left: stealing. All this stealing was done with King, a smooth and accomplished thief. Though it wasn't through stealing alone that we profited; we had to return the stolen items to get cash. Nordstrom's flexible return policy was integral to our malfeasance. For the unitiated- Nordstrom lets you return anything that's ever been sold at their store, no matter the condition, lack of tags or length of time since purchase.
A young woman made the mistake of leaving her Kate Spade bag in the King's room. To be fair, it had been in King's room for months and she had never mentioned it or come to look for it. To the King and me, that meant she obviously didn't want it anymore. What else could two resourceful guys do besides turn it into cash? We got about $120 for the bag at Nordstrom. It was too easy. We searched our closets for old shirts and returned those as well. But we needed to take it to the next level. I can't remember exactly who came up with it, but it wasn't long before we were planning our first 'Stealing Party'. The mark was Burt Reynolds (the girl from Lake Vu, not the actor). Her parents were away, so we convinced her to have people over. She invited the other girls that we knew from camp. We invited master thief Eddie and a few of our other friends as well. In the past, we had worked with Ed on a very successful venture to steal from Abercrombie and Fitch. He was an employee there, so we would bring piles of clothes to the register. He would remove all of the tags, place the clothes in a bag, and charge us for one T-shirt (there were no cameras). Needless to say, Eddie was very excited to steal in a new environment. About six of us piled into his van and headed into the neighboring town of East Brunswick. The objective was simple: steal as much as you can and don't get caught. Reynolds and her buddies were in the basement, so we kept a couple guys down there to distract them while the rest of us rifled through the house. The laundry list of items that we stole is staggering, including but not limited to: two bottles of champagne, a camera, an acoustic guitar, a Grateful Dead box set, and a wooden stool. At one point, Eddie began to steal a laptop and a PlayStation 2, but we all agreed that those items would be missed, so he begrudgingly replaced them in their original spots. Reynolds, nor her parents, never noticed, or, if they did, they never accused us. King and I returned the acoustic guitar to Sam Ash, earning us $60. We basically smashed or discarded most of the other items. That put our grand total well over $200, which we spent on a gram of albino, a bottle of Jager, and two tickets to an N'Sync concert at Madison Square Garden. To celebrate our deft piracy, we combined all three in an elegant fashion.

It was a storied summer to say the least, but the turmoil had soured me on the working life. As such, I would remain firmly entrenched in the joys of unemployment for two years.

*When I was looking up which season Jon was from I happened upon Wikipedia's Real World article ( If you have some time to kill, I highly recommend it.

** As anyone who has hung out with our group of friends knows, we use the word ball as a verb meaning to wrong and/or to disrespect in flagrant manner. Sandy Balls' brutish misdeed, and the Balls-like manner in which he conducted himself, is the etymology of this term; he Balled us.

***Technically, I was 'laid off', since I was terminated because of a lack of work to be done rather than poor performance on the job.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Oh, Piggins!

Oh, Piggins, when will you learn? You're quite a tenacious girl, aren't you, Piggins? I bet you're the type of kid who always tried super hard, but still ended up with that C+. But I guess I can't fault you for being stupid. Afterall, that's god's fault. He made you stupid. That's what you believe, isn't it, Piggins? Boy, what an asshole. What an awful, piece of shit god he must be to make you so very stupid. Here's the thing, Piggins- I think you might need a new lawyer. See- you can't sue someone for slander if they wrote something about you. That's actually called libel. I looked that up in 2 seconds, Piggins. Just went to Strange that your "attorney" wouldn't know that...

You know what I think, readers? I think Piggins just wants a little attention. Isn't that right, Piggins? I have an idea. Let's give Piggins all the attention she so desperately craves. I think we should make a holiday to honor Piggins, and all the people like her. Let's call it Piggins Abortion Day. I think we should have this holiday on December 25th (Jesus' Birthday).

Here's what you do on abortion day- you get an abortion. I'm gonna need a lot of help from you, readers- it's gonna take a lot of work, but I know that together we can make this day great for Piggins. Men, you need to start impregnating your girlfriends, or even friends- doesn't matter- that's the beauty of it! You're gonna kill that baby anyway, so you can just get ANYONE pregnant. Girls- you know that grungy gas station attendant or humble bus boy that you fantasized about? Now's your chance! Get fucked by him! Everyone gets a free pass for this holiday. If you're already pregnant with a baby you planned, you can still join in on the fun. You can always just make another baby; no big deal. Seriously, spread the word, we have to have as many people pregnant as possible before Abortion Day. We need the abortions to rain down from the sky and flood the streets, all for Piggins! As they overflow the dumpsters, the dead fetuses will coat the streets like a sea of melted red gummy bears and stick to our shoes as we all jump for joy! Hooray for Piggins! Hooray for Abortions!

Can't wait to hear back from you, Piggins!


(by the way, your comments drive more traffic to my site than anything, so you're actually helping my cause. just wanted to say thanks)

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Eggman's Employment History: Volume 1

Many of you have asked how Arizona is, and what I've been up to. Well, Arizona's been great. I'm very happy to be here. As for what I've been up to, well, I haven't been doing a whole lot. Granted, I've only been here for a week, and Mac just left Saturday, but I had hoped to be a bit more settled by this point. I'm still crashing at my girlfriend's house and haven't unpacked a single suitcase. Job? Living situation? Your guess is as good as mine. However, I checked out craigslist and was relieved to see a colossal amount of rooms for rent, many for a very reasonable price. But as for a job, well, that's always been a bit of a problem for me. As they say, 'before we look to the future, we first must look to the past'. So let's check out my employment history to see how I got here, and more importantly, what I'm qualified to do in the future. We'll start with my first and also longest-running job at the illustrious Petz, Petz, Petz in South Brunswick, NJ.

I was a young eagle face of only 14 years when I began my employment at the pet store. You see, I was quite fond of reptiles- lizards to be exact. I just couldn't get enough of those lizards. My poor parents found themselves taking several trips to the pet store every month just to satisfy my cravings. I would save up my allowance for weeks, always seeking to purchase new lizards and new lizard accessories. Then one day, during a chance encounter with the owner, I was offered a job. I was ecstatic. I'd get to hang out in the wondrous pet store and actually get paid for it. Most of my friends were busy after school with sports, but since I'm incapable of both throwing and catching, my schedule was wide open. I happily accepted the job and couldn't wait 'til my first day of work. The pet store was a full 20 minutes away from my house, and being 14 years old, I had to be driven by my mother. The after school shift was from 4-8PM. This meant that I had about 45 minutes to relax before going straight to work. My excitement and zeal for the job quickly evaporated once I was given my first assignment.

There were hundreds of animal cages in the back room. Not just lizards, but snakes, mice, rats, rabbits, and birds. My assignment? Clean the shit from every cage. I had to remove every animal, clean its shit, refill its food and water and then replace the animal. Some of these were big cages. Some of these cages contained 30 rats. It was not easy. I didn't know how to handle these animals. I had these loud jerk birds squawking in my ear, challenging me. I was miserable. Completing this task took my entire 4 hour shift. When my parents came to pick me up, they both thought I would quit. But to their shock and delight (and mine, too) I continued to work there. Each time, it got a little easier. The kids who'd been working there longer would sometimes have to work back there with me, splitting the workload and showing me the ropes. After a few months I was a pro. Lifting up those 30 rats like nobody's business. Handling those big dopey snakes or those loud screaming cockatoos. I also enjoyed working with the other kids there. They were these cool blue-collar South Brunswick dirtbags. I learned alot from them. Some of the employees were as old as 24, and they proved invaluable when it came to advice and the acquisition of drugs and alcohol. But aside from social and animal handling skills, I learned about "work". I learned about the concept of seniority.
I ended up working there for nearly four years and soon cage cleaning became a thing of the past for me. I got to delegate tasks. I got to stand at the register or 'walk the floor'. Walking the floor was the best possible task you could be assigned at the pet store. You just got to walk the aisles, asking people if they need help, fixing displays as you went along. I soon learned which aisles got the least amount of traffic or had a secret place to sit and hide. I used to linger in the train aisle (it was a hobby store as well as pet store) which was almost always deserted. I could sit on top of the rabbit cages and just lean back and listen to the radio. This avoidance-of-actual-work technique that I honed in the pet store would become the hallmark of all my subsequent ventures in employment.

Of course I got a discount on merchandise, and so I owned a great many lizards during these years, several lizards dying, the rest being traded back for other, better lizards. The goal was always to find the lizard that would get the biggest and looked or acted the most absurd. At one point, I had a desert tortoise. Those things grow to be over 200 pounds and live to 80. I truly regret trading that to my fellow employee, Jenny***.

As an added bonus, my parents put most of my checks into a savings account that I couldn't touch. Years later, it would be this same money which would help me to live in Miami for two years without working. And despite my long tenure, my list of injuries is short, having only been bitten by a hamster and an African Grey (a stupid bird) and pinched by a hermit crab.

The pet store taught me many things, but most of these skills, like picking up rats or swallowing live goldfish, are sadly of little demand in today's high speed business world. Regardless, I will always look fondly upon my tenderfoot days at what was, and probably always will be, the best job I've ever had.

***Interesting tangent regarding Jamie. About 2 years ago, while I was living in Jersey, I ran into Jenny's best friend Mara at a New Brunswick bar. Jenny was a year or two older than me, and Mara used to come to the pet store to visit her. I had always thought Mara was really cute, but never thought of myself as having a chance with her. But when I saw her at that filthy New Brunswick bar, it was a different situation. I was now a grown man, a strong confident Raynok, and she was all over me. Even though the bar was dark, I could tell the years had not been so kind to ol' Mara. She had put on a bit of weight and her face was rounder, less graceful than I had remembered. Lucky for her, I didn't give a shit. This was during my wild, nihilistic NJ days with Johnny, when neither of us cared if we lived or died. I was living with my parents and doing a piss poor job of selling mortgages. I would take anything I could get. Mara and I met out at bars 2 more times, and the second time she actually brought Jenny. Jenny looked the same as I had remebered her (bad) except her acne was gone. The two girls and I came back to Johnny's. We did the usual drill, going into the hot tub where I did a nice fingering job on Mara. John was frenchinig Jenny. Did I mention we were smashed? After the hot tub we railed white devil (which John and I had been doing all night) and added some vicodin to the mix, which we also decided to snort. I went upstairs with Mara, and much to my dismay, I had a bendy rubbery boner. I couldn't squeeze that bastard in there. Mara said something like, "Don't worry, this used to happen to my ex-boyfriend all the time, he was a drug addict". I fell asleep one second later. I woke back up around 6 or 7AM, woke her back up, and started fucking her with my sleep-refreshed boner. I threw my web in there, raw, like a total idiot, no more than 5 months after the events chronicled in 'My Dead Baby' occurred. We had to wake up fairly early the next morning since John and I had tickets to the Mets game (the tale of which is a whole other hilarious story). This was the first time I saw Mara in the light. She had a beard, man. It was gross. I had to introduce her to John's dad the next morning and everything. It was bad. Though she called me a few more times, I insisted that we simply be lovers for that one glorious night, never to speak again.

The Roadtrip Chronicles: Part 3, Goin' Out West

Well I'm goin' out west
Where the wind blows tall
Cause Tony Franciosa
Used to date my ma
They got some money out there
They're giving it away
I'm gonna do what I want
And I'm gonna get paid

I don't need no make up
I got real scars
I got hair on my chest
I look good without a shirt
Well I don't lose my composure
In a high speed chase
Well my friends think I'm ugly
I got a masculine face

I'm gonna drive all night
Take some speed
I'm gonna wait for the sun
To shine down on me
I cut a hole in my roof
In the shape of a heart
And I'm goin' out west
Where they'll appreciate me

From Goin' Out West by Tom Waits

We arrived in Austin a little before midnight. Our hosts, Ike and Brokaw were already drunk. It was, afterall, a Friday night. We declined the beers that they offered and instead asked for the bong, a handsome, ornate 3 footer. Mac and I had been on an absurd blunt regimen, so I didn't expect the bong to get us very high. I was dead wrong about that. We got walloped. We decided to go out and see the city. Even if we weren't 'going out' in the sense of getting smashed, literally going out seemed like a nice compromise. I had never been to Austin before, and being sky-high in this brand new environment was very disconcerting. I was a quiet, thoughtful high man just trying to observe. I soon realized that every other asshole on the street was drunk and racuous. People moving fast, laughing, shouting. Bright neon lights, blaring music. It was a lot to take in the for the gentled-down Raynok. At the same time, Ike and Brokaw were darting quickly through the crowds. Mac and I were very hungry and wanted nothing more than to sit down. Our state of mind was not meshing well with our boozed up hosts. Finally, we found oursevles in a place called The Jackalope, named after the legendary half-jackrabbit, half-antelope creature (feel free to look it up on my handy Google search bar at the top). At this point I think our hosts noticed our pensive, childlike demeanor and became very accommodating. They handled the simple tasks like acquring the menus, recommending popular dishes, and finally ordering the food for us. Although, to our credit, Mac and I did eat the food all by ourselves. A highlight was the fried pickles- nice juicy pickles deep fried and served with ranch. I noticed that the bar itself was really cool. They were playing really good music, strictly rock though. Alot of the people around were weirdos, so I felt pretty comfortable. In fact I saw a fellow there that looked strikingly like the Eggman himself. This guy was a little bit shorter and older but he had the same hair and eagle face with a much shorter, scruffy beard. He even had a similar fashion sense, wearing red leather pants and an American flag jean jacket. I really regret not getting a picture with him. I think I also saw that big moon-faced guy with blonde hair from Real World Philadelphia. After the food, we headed back to Ike's place to crash. I was still feeling below average but I was looking forward to Saturday night's party. Even from our short time downtown, I could tell Austin was a really cool city. The sleeping arrangements were pretty miserable- Ike's couch was about 4 feet long, and the only other option was the floor. Nevertheless, I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed enough to abuse my body. Mac and I drove into downtown to work out and get a daylight view of the city. We had our best workout since the beginning of the trip and I was feeling damn near 100%. There were a ridiculous amount of UT fans walking around. We briefly considered going to the tailgate, but ultimately decided to keep riding this wave of actually feeling good. Instead we went to a bbq place called Rudy's. If you are in Texas, I highly recommend you go here. They sell their barbecqued meat by the pound and they have a delicious sauce (which they call sause). The meat was so tender and lucious, the sause spicy and sweet. In short, this place was the stone cold tits. After gorging ourselves we reclined for a bit, watching college football, but before we knew it, it was 5 pm- time to start boozing. It was Ike's birthday, so we had to go big. We got to downtown around 8. Our dinner reservations were at 9:15 so we ducked into a bar. A few red bull vodkas to get us pumped for the meal, and we headed to the bar at Kinichi, the sushi place where we'd be eating. We were told it had the best talent in the city, but I wasn't too impressed. It was dinner time, so I ditched the red bull vodkas in favor of the more stately gin & tonic. I was drunk, man. I didn't even look at the menu, instead laughing it up with Mac. Whoever ordered for the table did a great job though, the food was delicious. After dinner we hit the bars. I loved it. Austin has a really cool rock'n'roll vibe to it. Live music everywhere, tons of weirdos, lots of college kids. But I have to say, I was expecting better talent. I really wasn't too impressed with the babes, especially since it was so built up as being a hotbed of sexy ladies. Another great thing about Austin was the plethora of late night food options. There were little hot trucks all over the place. Some had hot dogs, some had pizza, some had sausages- there was something for everbody. I got outlawed from having sausage though, cause the guy saw me pee on the back of the truck. Mac was destroyed. He had been physically bullying Brokaw (who was also destroyed) all night and this finally culminated in a wrestling match back at the apartment. The wrestling match soon morphed into Brokaw arm wrestling me lefty (he's lefty, I'm righty). It may have been the longest match of all time, but eventually the Eggman was victorious. Around this time, we started frying shit. These assholes actually have a deep fryer and I think it's the main way they cook things. They had a freezer full of things like french fries and jalapeno poppers. Ike put in a batch of poppers and I threw in a few soft pretzels for good measure. Fried soft pretzels get a definite 'Raynok recommends'- hot and crispy with a nice soft inside. Brokaw fell asleep on the porch for some reason, so I sang at the top of my lungs into his ear for a while. A video of this actually exists, and once I get a copy from Ike I'll post it here. Once I saw that Brokaw was down for the count I usurped his bed. We slept late that day, setting out for New Mexico around 2pm. This was our best day of driving. The speed limit through west Texas was actually 80, which was absurd. It's the first place I've ever been where I was thinking 'hey, this might be a little too fast for this road' but I was actually going the speed limit. The cruise control was left on for hours at a time. Many blunts were smoked. We tried Dairy Queen fast food. We had both only had their ice cream so we were skeptical, but this shit was really good. Delicious, quality burgers on nice potato rolls. I noticed that they only put mustard on burgers in Texas. Surprisingly, I didn't miss the ketchup. We had completely given up on trying to eat healthy, but it wasn't entirely our fault. There's not a lot of turkey sandwich stores in the dusty expanse of west Texas. In addition to DQ we ended up eating at Sonic that day- twice. The miles went down easy and we made it to Carlsbad, NM in time to catch the 2nd half of the Bears-Seahawks. Quazar liked Seahawks in that game so I took them +3.5. They were beaten by about 40 points. But I wasnt too upset. Mac and I each had our own bed in the spacious Best Western and the $8 gas station wine was sitting well in our bellies. We needed the rest of the blunts for our final day of driving, instead catching a buzz from my one-hitter. It felt good knowing that in 24 hours I'd get to see my beautiful desert flower and start the next chapter of my life. We woke up and headed straight for the Carlsbad Caverns, getting lightly toasted on the way. The caverns were amazing and beautiful, sitting 750 feet below the surface. We walked down the natural entrace, taking in the majestic beauty and serene peacefulness of the cave. Apparently it's 59 degrees in there at all times, no matter the season. It was dark and quiet, and the formations had a cool looking texture, like smoothed-out, hardened ice cream. The only drawback was that Mac and I were the youngest people there by about 60 years. Once we got into the main cave, we were at the mercy of these oldies, who movede very slowly. After the cave, we had a 9 hour drive to Scottsdale. This was the longest leg of our trip. We planned poorly and so we couldn't eat until we got to El Paso, which might be the worst American city I've ever seen. Like shit smeared on a burnt piece of toast, El Paso is spread thin and wide. It's basically like any crappy town that I've ever been to in Mexico, except there's no pretty water or nice hotels. It seems to be populated by 100% Mexicans and they employ the same lawless style of driving that I've seen in Mexico. It's only saving grace was the Whataburger where we got lunch. Man, that was a good fucking burger. Fresh jalapenos on there and everything. New Mexico marked the transition to the southwestern landscape that I knew well from my visits to Scottsdale. Mountains looming large in the distance as cacti began to appear. It was nightfall before we crossed the state line into Arizona. 2 hours from our destination we roasted the last blunt of the day and also the last blunt of the trip. As we passed Tucson, the city of Scottsdale could feel my earthly presence drawing ever nearer, inching closer with each beat of my mighty heart. Around 11 pm, we reached our destination and were welcomed with open arms. I had completed my journey, accomplishing the only portion of this life change that I had actually planned out. The only question that remained: What the hell do I do now?

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Open Letter to Piggins, My Unworthy Adversary

For those of you awaiting the exciting conclusion to the Roadtrip Chronicles, I'm sorry, but that post has been delayed. For those of you awaiting one of Raynok's good old fashioned fiery political diatribes, put your dick in your hand and grab the tissues- you're gonna enjoy this.

At this point, please click on my most polarizing blog to date, 'My Dead Baby'. Scroll to the end, click on 'comments' and read what some of my readers have to say. When you've finished there, please enjoy my completely unrelated open letter to a waste of life named Piggins, a fat bitch who runs a pro-life organization.

As an ardent pro-lifer, you are in the good company of Hitler, Stalin, and countless other nationalist dictators and tyrants (yeah, look it up, bitch) so, congratulations. Initially, I was shocked by your post. I wondered how you came upon my little website. This is a blog that I made to entertain myself and my friends, but everyone that I know sports a college degree and at least half a brain, so I'm confident that you're not associated with any of them. My guess? You have one of your underlings from your shadowy mutant organization scouring the web for any free speech that might be "profoundly harmful" to your cause.
So you "deeply resent" a story I told on my little blog? Well I deeply resent your attempt to intimidate me, you witless troglodyte. I am EXTREMEMLY RESENTFUL that you threaten me with legal action, you shit-splattered, puckered cunt. Do you wish to silence my free speech to say things like this as well? It's quite obvious that you don't understand the long-term effects and extreme dangers of censorship, but that's fodder for another blog at another time. The issue here, I suppose, is abortion.
As I'm sure you are aware, I support the Supreme Court's decision in Roe v. Wade. You'll notice I don't say I'm "pro-choice". That's because I don't want to ally myself with any of you fanatical jerkoffs. I have come to my own conclusions based on logic and reason, two concepts which are clearly beyond your grasp.
You believe that abortion is wrong because from the moment of conception the zygote is a human being? Well let me dispel that little myth for you. A fertilized egg is by no means a guarantee for the development of a human baby. In fact, most are miscarried spontaneously. Just like the sperm or egg separately, the fertilized egg is nothing more than a collection of cells, a potential human being. Should we save every potential human being, Piggins? Each of my cumshots contains millions of potential Raynoks. Does that mean that every time I jack off to the thought of your skull being raped off of your neck by an 800 pound silverback gorilla, I am committing mass murder? Of course it doesn't, you fucking idiot.
Listen, Piggins, I don't agree with late-pregnancy abortions either. When that thing is nearly a full baby, I agree that we shouldn't just vacuum the fucker out; it's wrong. I think that much is obvious. But seriously, be reasonable. There's no need to get ridiculous here. A tiny speck in a woman's uterus is by no means a human being and does not need your 'saving'.
So how do you define something as human, Piggins? Must it merely look human? Listen, if that's your gig, shouldn't you be out protecting blow-up dolls and puppets? Well, Piggins, I believe you're a bit smarter than that. I'd bet that your feeble mind even understands that the only thing separating human beings from the rest of the animal kingdom is our incredible capacity for thought. Well, human fetuses don't even begin what can VERY loosely be described as human brain activity until 6 months into the pregnancy at the absolute earliest. Coincidentally, this is the cut-off for legally sanctioned abortions in the United States.
But for some reason, this isn't good enough for you, Piggins. So where is all this anger coming from? For a start, I'll go out on a limb here and guess that you're religious, which means that either you're brainwashed or you're a coward and you're obviously really into other people telling you what you believe. But honestly, I think it's all about control with you, Piggins. It's funny because if you really cared about the murder of human beings, you'd probably be out protesting the death penalty. Do you know about the dozens of people who have been wrongfully convicted and sent to death by a jury of retards like yourself? What about war? Are you trying to subpoena everyone who speaks out in favor of war? Cause that definitely involves the murder of real, living, breathing human beings. Do you wear leather? I'm sure you've eaten bacon, you fat bitch. Well, both cows and pigs are leagues smarter than a human fetus, but you're not out protesting the slaughter of these animals, are you? The other strange thing is that you don't really want to prevent abortion either, do you? Because if you did, you'd be out lecturing at schools, promoting safe sex, birth control, abstinence, etc. The lack of birth control is by far the most common reason that abortions occur, so you must surely agree that responsible sexual activity is the best way to eliminate abortions. Why not focus on that instead of trying to punish the people who made mistakes. Try handing out condoms instead of lawsuits, you weak, misguided troll. But of course, most opponents of abortion are also opposed to birth control research and sex education. Which brings me back to my original point.
Like your pals, Hitler and Stalin, you seek to control. I'd go so far as to say that you are evil. You're the type of person who would've been burning young women alive a couple centuries ago in something called the 'witch trials'. This is why you are not pro-active about reducing the number of abortions. Instead you seek to silence people like me. Well, Piggins, it's never going to happen. I'd leave this rapidly rotting shit-sandwich of a country before I'd ever kowtow to the demands of a sniveling, slithering facist rat like yourself. I have tried to appeal to your sense of reason on this issue, but in case that didn't work, I will now try to appeal to your emotions. Maybe you haven't thought about the issues from the perspective of somebody who desperately wants and needs an abortion. Let me help you imagine:
It's early evening in Anytown, USA. You've had a hectic day of trying to silence people with opinions but you're in a great mood because one of your colleagues brutally murdered a couple of abortion doctors. All of a sudden, you get a phonecall: your severely retarded mutant father has escaped from his underground dungeon! Apparently, he gnawed right through his chains. You thank the dungeon master for the warning and begin to pick up your pace to head for the safety of your car. A stiff breeze whips past as you bundle up in your jacket and tighten your scarf. Ominous howls can be heard in the distance. Your heart is beating can feel his presence. All of a sudden you see his yellow eyes shining through the blackness of the night. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he bellows garbled retard roars in your ear. With his brown, jagged, rotting teeth he takes a large bite out of your face like Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear. You cry out for help from a fictional character you call god, but your god provides you no aid. Instead, when you open your eyes, you find that your worst fears are coming to fruition. Dear old Dad has his huge, scaly, sore-covered, pus-dripping purple cock out and he is furiously yanking at it like he's trying to start a fire. He's drooling a yellow-tinted syrupy liquid into your facial wound and it stings like needles. His breath smells like burning plastic. It sears your nostrils as his sandpaper tongue traces your face. Your father tears your clothes from your body with his petrified, gnarled claws and drags you by your hair to a clearing in a nearby park. He sets you down next to the rotting carcass of a stray dog. A homeless, AIDS infected degenerate is administering heroin, leaning against a biomedical waste dumpster. I'm sure you can guess what happens next. That's right- your father uses the blood encrusted heroin needle to scrape out one of your eyeballs while the homeless man covers you in the kind of thick buttery piss that only a severely dehydrated person can have. Dad tries to ram his demon cock inside you, but because you are only partially aroused, he cannot cram his full manhood in. While heroin Bob holds you down and has a chunky diarrhea explosion on your face, Daddy heads over to the biomedical waste dumpster and, uh-oh, what's he got there? Looks like he's picked up a few bags of creamy liposuctioned human fat and some dead bloody human fetuses. He's worked up a bit of a hunger so he chews up a couple of those fetuses and washes it down with the delicious lipid milkshake. He then deftly clears away the cobwebs from your vagina and covers you in the rancid fat and smeared baby goop. He crams the rotting dog carcass in your mouth to muffle your blood-curdling screams as he and his new friend go to town on your body, shoving their dicks in and out of any hole or crevice that can accomodate them, and even some holes that can't. Just as your father is reaching climax from ravaging your body, he feels a pain in his belly. He's got an upset stomach from eating all of that human waste. In a quick motion he is squatting on top of you as he squeezes out a huge helping of thick, brown, oily soft-serve shit onto your stomach. The stench is unbearable. This excites the two men, and they both jackoff into the brown semi-solid. Your father mixes up the shit and sperm with his clumsy paw, grabs a large handful and shoves his entire fist inside you, smearing your vaginal walls with this repugnant amalgam.
Fast forward to 5 months later. You are pregnant with the rape baby. You lie in a hospital bed and are slowly recovering from your injuries. You now have AIDS and so does your mutant child. You can feel him trying to claw his way out, his tiny hooves constantly kicking and scraping at your insides. But lucky for you, pro-lifers have overturned Roe v. Wade. Abortion is illegal again, hooray! You've denied millions of women the right to choose, including some who were the victims of rape and/or incest, effectively ruining their lives. But who cares about that; you've forced your irrational, infantile beliefs on the entire nation. Success!

I think you see my point here, Piggins. You don't like abortion? Then don't fucking have one. You don't like my blog? Then don't fucking read it. Your need to control, to tell others what they can do and read is sickening. That's called facism, Piggins, and it has absolutely nothing to do with this country or the principles it was founded on. To quote the King, "you red state idiots ruined our country".
Also, King- Arizona is great. I saw a coyote on Saturday night and scorpion last night.