Thursday, November 30, 2006

Religious Myth #1

Recently, I began reading Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion. I haven't finished yet, but so far I'm very impressed. My only complaint is that, like all other books of this kind, many of the arguments are too advanced and intelligent for your average religious person to understand. However, in this case, Dawkins explicitly states that he is aiming for the middle of the road people- those who are unsure or thought they had no other choice but to follow religion. What I really like about the book is that Dawkins is not only an athiest, but he actually seeks to rally other athiests together and convert fence-sitters.

I feel that this is something which we desperately need. If you look at the world, and this country especially, it reeks of being run by religious morons. A huge percentage of the issues that are all tied up in politics are really just thinly veiled religious issues. Prayer in school, Roe v. Wade, gay marriage- those are all religious battles. As a society, we have much more pressing problems to attend to.

Dawkins estimates that there are 10-15 million athiests worldwide. That's more than the total number of Jews worldwide. Properly organized, we can make a difference.

In Dawkins' crusading spirit, I will use this space to dispel certain religious myths and today I will start with the the #1 myth, that principle upon which nearly all religious thought is based: the idea that things will get better after you die.

Just think about that for a moment. Pretty stupid, isn't it? It's easy to understand why we adopted this belief in the early days of civilization; life was short and brutal. We didn't yet understand the world around us and we needed this promise of a better tomorrow to keep us going. But things are different now. Now, we finally do understand our world. But that's thanks to science, which has given us everything.

Ever flown on an airplane or driven in a car or even used a fridge? That's all science. Conversely, religion has given us nothing over the years. Its sole contributions have been wars and destruction. Yet the vast majority of this country, and this world, pays it far more respect than it does science.

People are well aware that science has an explanation for how life on earth began, but they decide to go with the religious answer instead. Science has literally built the world around them, yet they still devote themselves to an ancient belief. Why? Because they have faith. 'Faith' means that you will believe something even if there is zero evidence. Not even a shred of evidence- you don't need it- you've got Faith! Well, that pretty much means you're stupid, and I might have some handsome cream and some millionaire pills that I want to sell you.
So why do you have this strong, unwavering, unquestioning faith? Well, because your parents told you to, and so did that creep down at the church, and the rest of the assholes you grew up with. But who told them? Their parents did. So, who told their parents? Their parents before them. Ok- going all the way back, who told the first people? Well, I guess some asshole came down from a mountain about 3 thousand years ago with some rules carved into rocks and said he talked to a voice in the sky. Oh...I can see why you would have unwavering faith in that.

Listen up, retards- things are not gonna get better after you die. BECAUSE YOU'LL BE FUCKING DEAD! This should be laughably obvious. After you die, your bones turn to dust and your flesh rots. Your brain will probably be eaten by maggots. This might be fairly unpleasant to think about, but it's the TRUTH.

If there's one thing I learned from Thanksgiving break, it's that there's too many goddamn people on this planet, and the vast majority of them are complete idiots. But I think I have the perfect solution. If you are religious, if you really believe that a better life is waiting for you after your life ends, then please do the world a huge favor and kill yourself right now. Why wait? Go outside, give a homeless man a nickel (a final good deed to ensure your place in heaven), place the barrel of a gun directly in your mouth, and blow your stupid, worthless brains out. Everybody wins! You get to go to heaven, and we get to enjoy a planet unspoiled by the infantile, idiotic ideals which you try to force down our throats.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Raynok in DC/Britney's Vagina

The details as I remember them:
Junior year of college, 2001. I was in DC to visit Quazar and Terry. I had flown up from Atlanta and Johnny drove down from Jersey. At the time, I was very into a certain Charles Manson mp3. The audio file contained several different quotes from Manson at his parole hearing. I found this file immensely entertaining and couldn't get enough of it. For those of you who haven't heard it, I'll reproduce the dialogue here, but be forewarned- this is no substitute for hearing the original. The vocal inflections of this delightfully insane man give the recording an added burst of hilarity. Manson:

"Remorse for what? You people have done everything in the world to me- doesn't that give me equal right? I can do anything I want to you people at anytime I want to- because that's what you've done to me. If you spit in my face and smack me in the mouth and throw me in solitary confinement for nothing, what do you think's gonna happen when I get outta here? Maybe I haven't done enough, I might be ashamed of that. For not doing enough. For not giving enough. For not being more perceptive. For not being aware enough. For not understanding. For, uh, being stupid. Maybe I should've killed, four or five hundred people, then I would've felt better. Then I would've felt like I really offered society something. (tone changes, he becomes angry) You've got it stuck in your brain that I murdered somebody. What do you wanna call me a murderer for?! I've never killed anyone! I dont need to kill anyone- I think it! I have it here! (indicating his mind) Uh, this dream is my world. (calming down)I don't, uh, I don't pretend to go uptown and be anything fancy. I can, but i find more real (knocks on the table) in the world that I am in, than I do the tinsel; and the real world is the one I have to deal with everyday, you know? (in a very sinister voice) Believe me- if I started murdering people, there'd be none of you left."

Anyway, the point is, instead of listening to music to get pumped up for the night, I was listening to the musings of a raving lunatic. The effects would become evident in my subsequent behavior.

We were pregaming in Quaze's room. I assume we were drinking various kinds of liquor, but most importantly, we were drinking Jagermeister. I was pretty sauced when our hosts announced we had to leave. I looked at the Jager bottle, and quite a bit of the viscous black liquid remained. "We can't leave until it's finished", I proclaimed. A challenge was issued that I could not finish the bottle by myself, and I readily accepted. I removed my shirt and poured the Jager into 6 shot glasses, taking them down one by one, stopping only to roar and flex in between.

By the time we arrived at the club (I believe it was called The Saint), I was smashed. I was loudly quoting Manson and laughing while in the line, frightening many innocent patrons. To further accentuate the spectacle of the Eggman, I was very underdressed for the club. I was wearing jeans, sneakers, a super-tight white and blue checkered button-down and an obnoxious red leather jacket (a la Fight Club). Don't forget, I was still a young eagle-face, only 20 years old with a completely clean shave. Everyone else had their nice black pants and fancy shoes.

Upon entering the club, someone handed me a drink which I downed and then dropped on the ground. I approached a woman and started dancing with her. She seemed to be enjoying it and I think we may have even engaged in some light frenching. I ramped it up by doing extremely crude and outwardly sexual moves. The final straw was when I did a particularly tasteless ball-rubbing move, holding my hands over my head and smearing my genitals on her leg, reminiscent of the move John Malkovich made after winning a hand of poker in the movie Rounders. The girl promptly walked away, and I drank a bunch more.

As the night wore on, I became drunker and drunker. Quazar and Terry had invited many of their friends and fraternity brothers, so I had a solid 15 allies. As anyone who has partied with me knows, when my chances of getting beat up go down, my bad behavior goes exponentially up. I felt that I knew enough people at the bar to do whatever I wanted. Little did I know, some of my actions were so over the top that by the end of the night, many of these 'allies' wanted to kick my ass themselves.

I began to approach various men around the club, yelling in their ear, "Do you have any idea who I am, Fuckface?!" Soon after, I took to extending my middle finger and holding it about an inch away from strangers' faces. When these guys would try to walk away from me, I would simply follow them around, constantly keeping my middle finger at the same close proximity to their faces. Shockingly, nobody did anything. My only guess is that people thought I was actually a certified maniac and were frightened that I might tear their skin off or chew on their eyeballs if they started a fight with me. I accosted nearly every single patron in the club in the manner described above, and still- nothing happened.

This, of course, gave me a feeling of invincibility, and I pressed on with the mayhem. I was dancing more, drinking more. My shirt was held on by a single button. To make matters worse, I had Terry and Johnny in my ear, encouraging my debauchery. Rather than a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, I had a devil on one shoulder and an even worse devil on the other.

A bunch of us were dancing on the stage. My shirt was completely open at this point. Surely you can imagine the kind of wild-armed crotch-based moves I was making up there. I looked down and saw a couple close dancing and kissing. In a bold Raynok move, I jumped down, ripped the couple apart and started frenching the girl myself. The man disappeared. It was incredible. I was like Genghis Khan.

More drinking. At the bar I see a pretty girl, and rip open my pants and expose myself to her. "Look at it!," I screamed with maniacal laughter.

I think the bar was starting clear out at this point as a direct result of my actions.

It gets a little fuzzy here, but finally my friends got me outside. I was very drunk and weary at this point, and confused. Many of Quazar's friends were angry at me, but I couldn't understand why. One of their larger friends, Nick, wanted to fight me, so I took the lit cigarette from his mouth, put it out on my tongue, and ate it. Somehow, that seemed to diffuse the situation a bit. I believe I punched Quazar right in the stomach. Faithful Christian Joe Values tried to help me in the cab, so I punched him in the arm as hard as I could. I was beyond rampaging at this point. I had become a powerful demon force wholeheartedly committed to evil.

I arrived at Quazar's dorm, but no one was home yet and his door was locked. So I waited in the stairwell like an animal. Finally, Johnny and Terry arrived home. I was angry from having waited for so long, and somehow the anger wound up directed toward Quaze. Somehow or another, I came to push his monitor over and smear cream cheese on it. His computer was his most prized posession.

I found an eighth of his weed. I laid on the floor, on my back and poured the entire bag onto my chest. I packed the pipe full and smoked it while alternately lighting the weed on my chest, creating a mystical Jim Morrison-like air to my behavior. I began to sing "You Got the Touch" (from Boogie Nights) and passed out*. The great beast was laid finally to rest.


Britney's Vagina

Thanks to Ramon for sending me this link:

The pictures are not really good for masturbating, unless you're a huge Britney fan, or you feel like jacking off to how easy it is to one-night some ok-looking drunken fat girl.

*Sorry about all that, Qz

Monday, November 27, 2006

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

Soon after Creature departed, we got our new roommate- a 23 year old (female) virgin by the name of Gail. Gail was a friend of Striker's from college. She was kind and good-natured, but pretty much a loser. Blonde and crunchy (from Vermont), she had a hollow crypt-keeper face and her best friend was an aging horse named Bear. This girl really loved animals and seemed to relate to them far better than to humans. In fact, part of the reason for her relocation to Miami was to work at a nearby aquarium.

As soon as she arrived, Gail immediately began to make the house cleaner, better and nicer. She painted some of the walls and set up this cool chalkboard on the wall. After working at her job for a little while, she befriended a group of horrible girls that came to be known as the Wack Pack. It is theorized that this is the worst group of human females ever assembled. The most attractive of the group was also a slut of biblical proportions. She was known for banging every available man at her previous job (including the Mexican busboys). I believe Striker laid her the first night he met her. There was also a tiny, hideous mutant that we called Ratface. She was small and blonde with a truly awful face and braces to boot. Although she was (miraculously) engaged, I believe Striker got a handjob from her while holding a bag of steaming hot Taco Bell. The group also included a very small and kind-of cute girl that exclusively banged huge black men. There were other demons and lepers in the group, but none of them worth mentioning.

The real problem was not the way this group acted, which was loud and annoying, but the way the group looked. I can't stress this point enough: everything is about appearances in Miami. And this appearance of this group was bad. Being seen with them in public could definitely hurt your chances of getting laid, and so I did my best to avoid them completely. But overall, the addition of Gail to house was a very good thing, certainly far better than the reign of Creature. Of course, this peaceful interlude would not last, as the house eventually plummetted back into a hollow 3rd world shitstorm, but I admit that transition was almost completely my fault.

But for the time being, things were great. I had my confidence back, and Brad, Striker and I were getting into a groove with going out. I was becoming a mysterious figure among the UM law students. At nearly every event or group gathering that contained alcohol, you can bet Raynok was there. Many of the kids actually thought I was in law school with them. We started to become better friends with Vic Scungioli, too, and we would hang out with him often. It was around this time that I started to really use the close proximity of UM to my advantage. They have a lovely pool on campus and a state of the art gym, both of which I used on a daily basis by borrowing either Vic or Striker's school ID cards. This added to the illusion that I was an actual UM student, rather than a malignant drain on the school's resources.

My drug dealing venture began to pick up as well, as I added a few law students to my client list. Gerry continued to be a top-notch supplier. I was selling enough to smoke as much as I wanted for free, but I wasn't yet making money. Unfortunately, I was still very paranoid and anxious about what course my life would take. I was no closer to finding a career path, and so with no day job to anchor my vices, my boozing and smoking ran wild. Because I was so uncertain of my future, I was very tight with my money. I truly despised working and wanted to avoid it for as long as possible, which meant that I had to make the money last as long as possible. I tried to limit the amount of money I spent on frivolous things like food or health insurance, instead concentrating on necessities like booze and videogames.

Vice City came out around this time, but much to my chagrin, it was only for the PS2. I literally could not wait until it came out on the XBOX (which I already owned), so I actually bought a PS2 and the game, which killed hours upon hours for me. As an unemployed man, I really needed this. I spent much of my days alone in the house with no one to hang out with (everyone I knew was at work or school). Without videogames, the time could pass very slowly.

By this time, I had a basic routine for my weekdays. I would wake up whenever I felt like it, and head over to the UM gym. After that, I would usually go home to eat something, get supremely blazed, and lay in the sun for a while. That was pretty much it. I would find myself aimlessly wandering around the house or checking the mailbox 10-15 times per day. At night, my mind would wander about my uncertain future and I was unable to sleep. This made me more and more dependent on alcohol, but especially weed. I began to develop an almost romantic love for my bong that I still retain to this day. Never clogging, always smooth and reliable, she got me through many hard days and nights.

I was doing odd jobs on the side to supplement my income. I would often drive people to the airport in exchange for a sandwich. I would smoke people out, and they would pay me back with a cocktail. I was briefly associated with some sort of (presumably illegal) free-lance Russian moving company, where I reported to a man named Vlad over the phone. I only did one moving stint for this guy, but it turned out well; as it happened, the girl and her mother tipped me in weed and smoked me out after the move.

It was at this point in Phase II (somewhere around February of '03 I believe) that two important events took place. These two things would hurtle me forward into the bedlam of Phase III and my eventual departure from Miami.

The first event- Brad got a puppy, Mandy. She was beautiful black lab mix, and an adorable puppy. All of us (including the sexy babes upstairs) were very excited about this, and things were great while Mandy was a puppy. But then Mandy started to get bigger. We did not live in a very big house, and none of us knew how to train a puppy. Despite Brad and Gail's best efforts to keep the house clean, it was nearly impossible. Our house slowly descended back into the abyss of filth, but it would not reach its true nadir of putrescence until Phase III when I truly did not care about one thing.

The second event that transpired was that I began to date Violet. Violet was a striking 5'10 drop-dead gorgeous blonde whom I had no business even talking to. I originally met her through a friend of a friend one night in the Grove, and after seeing her once or twice more, I asked for her number. I thought I had zero chance with this girl, so instead of being calculating or capricious, I just casually went for it, assuming I would fail. On our first 'date', I was supposed to meet her at Sandbar, a regular bar of ours in the Grove. Before our evening meeting, I went to Monty's for happy hour (as is the tradition on Friday afternoons for UM students) with Brad and Striker. There we picked up 2 other girls and brought them with us to Sandbar. Being a drunken idiot, I thought I would have plenty of time to get rid of the trashy girls we had just acquired before Violet arrived. As it happened, Violet walked into the bar while I had my arm around this other girl and was whispering in her ear. Better yet, Violet knew these girls from school (Violet was a senior at UM). However, I quickly relinquished my grip on the new girl and displayed my allegiance to the vastly superior Violet. During this first meeting, each surrounded by our own friends, Violet and I learned that we had absolutely nothing in common. She was a hardworking, moral and sensitive girl who didn't drink and absolutely would not touch a drug (scarcely even ibuprofen). I was an obnoxious, unemployed, hard-boozing dirtbag who was leeching off the very school which she was paying for. But as we all know from the old Paula Abdul song, sometimes opposites attract.

Striker contiuned to carry the torch of womanizing for our house, he himself hitting his stride just as I was settling down with Violet. Violet and I dated for 8 months, and we broke up around summertime, just before my little sister arrived as a freshman at the University of Miami. No sooner than I was single, Striker got himself a girlfriend. The two of us would not be single at the same time again until my last 6 months in town. During that time, our Golden Age, there was scarcely a living human girl in our neighborhood that hadn't been frenched, felt-up, fingered or fucked by one of us as I lived out my last Miami days in a blaze of glory.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Employment Update: 11/14

Another week has come and gone. I'm realizing that work really makes the week fly by. But I am still really enjoying myself, as far as jobs go. Friday and Saturday night are pretty rough, but Wednesday and Sunday are nice and relaxed. While working over the weekend, I was told I resemble Borat, Howard Stern, Abbie Hoffman (the civil rights leader, is portrayed in Forrest Gump as the man in the American flag shirt giving a speech in DC), and a basketball player from the 1970's. I had my ass grabbed by a very overweight black woman, I was told I was hot by a gay man, and two separate women made drunken attempts to bang me as a last resort.

Many of you have expressed interest in seeing what I look like these days. Below, I have posted the most recent picture taken of me, dressed as Uma Thurman's Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill. You might note that the costume was meant for an 11 year old girl, and was stretched to the breaking point on my body. The demon next to me is a stranger, but has one of the best costumes I have ever seen.

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

This new phase of my life in Miami was markedly better, but it all built slowly. Brad, Striker and I had finally carved out a bit of a niche for ourselves. We basically hung out at one bar all the time. The bar was Moe's in Coconut Grove. The three of us went so often that we got to know the entire staff. This would prove useful on Thursday nights when the place became ridiculously packed with scorching hot UM girls- we often got to cut the line. During the night, one thing I would always try to accomplish, besides getting lusciously smashed, was to put time in with May, one of the bartenders.

May was a cute UM student, probably a Junior or Senior at the time. Brad, Striker and I had an informal competition to see who could bang her first. On the surface, it seemed pretty even. But what none of us knew, including me, was that I was putting in secret time with May. Let me clarify this- I was getting ridiculously blacked out everytime I went out, which was probably 4 times a week. It was easy for us to hit on May on the slow nights, but on the super-packed Thursdays, when she worked the beer tub, it was assumed that we would go for other, easier, women. Though I did plenty of that, I would also have hours long blacked out conversations with her, just standing with her behind the beertub, making her laugh and listening to whatever the hell she was saying, only to wake up the next and have no idea it had happened. May, meanwhile, was sober the whole time, and remembered everything.

I still worked at Nordstrom, but my confidence was starting to build back up, based on a few notable events. One night at Moe's I ran into one of my coworkers, Jamie. She was ok looking with a real sexy body. Her face was pretty stupid and she had this Gwen Stefani-worship thing but she was very fuckable. I engaged in a very long frenching session with her in one of the booths but couldn't get her to come home with me. I would later find out that the bizarre and filthy musings I was whispering in her ear had turned her off.

Weeks later, I scored with a pretty hot girl, a Rollins student. Striker and I had taken a weekend vacation to Orlando and I met this girl at an Irish bar near campus. I took her back to a friend's parents' house and nailed her all over the guest room. It was only when I woke up in the morning that I was pleasantly surprised to learn she was black. I had been righteously smashed the night before and somehow didn't realize. As you might imagine, I remembered nothing about her and so we shared an awkward car ride as I drove her back to her dorm room. It would be the first of many conquests in Orlando, as Striker and I found that since we were prepared for the heartless wretches of Miami, the Orlando girls were digging us hard. They were impressed that we weren't wearing shorts or baseball hats, and even had adult haircuts, unlike most of the other dudes at the bars there.

Things at work were tolerable, but getting bleaker- business continued to slow down, and our department continued to shrink. The worst employees were getting cut first, and believe it or not, I actually had a decent cushion of guys who were worse than me. I sort of pretended to make an effort, while some of the guys just outwardly didn't give a shit. But still, the threat was there.

It was around this time that the seeds were planted for what would be bloom into the greatest job I've ever had and ever will. Striker and I came to know one Vic Scungioli, a fellow law student and loud-mouthed, stereotypical Italian New Yorker, Brooklyn to the bone, but also hilarious to boot, and a great guy. He was the type of guy who spoke well, but with slang so new you didn't even know what it meant yet. He always knew the promoter of the club or where the party was or most importantly, where to get the drugs. It was Scungioli that introduced me to my pot supplier, Gerry.

T'was mere thrift which motivated my first purchase of an ounce; I knew I'd be smoking alot, and I got the best value at the ounce level, for $300. Around the same time, I also purchased a digital scale at a nearby head shop. It was a quality model, for about $100. I didn't know anyone I could sell it to, but I wanted it in case the opportunity presented itself.


It was December, and the weather was finally cooling down. It was Brad's birthday, and he and I went to a Dolphins game. On the way to the game, after bong rips and a cocktail or two, we grabbed a 12 pack for the ride. The traffic on the way to the game (it was a Monday night) was a nightmare, so we actually finished all 12 beers. We had to go to ridiculous lengths to find a way to piss.
After the game, we headed back to our house and got changed. We were going to the famed BED nightclub. We were guaranteed entrance since the head bouncer at Moe's, whom we befriended, also worked the door for BED Mondays, which was the club's biggest night. I invited my coworker Lindsey to come with us, so she came over and we all got even more shitfaced before I drove us to the club.

I don't remember much of the night in the club, but I do remember the ride home. I was frenching and 2nd basing Lindsey while drunk driving home, with Brad peeking over the seat and laughing in the back seat. You're pretty much allowed to drunk drive in Miami, or least that's what we assumed. I brought her back and banged her in my room for a little while before she said she had to stop- she had a boyfriend back in California, and she started to feel bad. She offered to knob me instead, as if that was somehow less of an act of cheating, but I refused. I had a wobbly drunkman's boner, it would've taken hours. I went to go play Halo with Striker while she passed out on my lap. She was gone in the morning; our relationship was a little weird after that.

A few days later, I sensed I was on the chopping block at work (coincidentally). A couple more employees had been let go the day before, and I was the worst one left. I spoke to Denise at the end of my shift and I quit, asking if it was ok if I skipped the two weeks notice. Denise said that would be ok, and I was finally freed from the shackles of that job, though its scars would still stifle me socially.

And then something great happened- my cousin Sphinx called me. He told me that his buddy from high school, JJ, went to UM law as well. Sphinx told me that JJ needed weed and asked if I had any or could get any. And so JJ became my first customer in Miami. He would prove to be one of my steadiest customers throughout my tenure in Miami, and we became friends as well. Things picked up very, very slowly over the next fews months, but I could count on JJ as a weekly customer through those hard times.

At first, I was very concerned about money. I didn't know what I wanted to do for a job. I truly had no idea. I did have a small chunk of money in my savings account, money from the pet store, my bar mitzvah, graduations and other things of that nature. My uncle suggested I take it easy for a while and enjoy the money. My rent was cheap and my car payment was low- why not relax a while? To paraphrase my uncle, who cares about a few thousand dollars when you're 75 years old? The good times are worth more than money. He was right.

So I wrote myself a check and spent a little money. I made my room look better. I got a nice tapestry and a rug from Urban Outfitters. I bought myself a nice big TV for my room. I got a poster of a beach with beautiful turquoise water and the word 'RELAX' printed underneath. I bought some speakers for my computer, and some new videogames. And I didn't have to go to that awful job anymore. Things were looking up.

As for the house situation, it had gotten better, too. The creature rarely surfaced from its den, and when it did, its anctics were usually brief and hilarious. Also, Striker had told it to move out, and even got it to sign a contract agreeing to do so. Plus Brad and I were home most of the day anyway, so we could watch our stuff.

Around this time, we got new next door neighbors, the Tropical Records guys. This bunch was a motley crew if I ever I saw one. At first there were only 3 of them- Mike, Tony, and AC, but Rick later moved in. They became loyal customers of mine as well.

But socially, I still wasn't pleased. We had gotten to know the upstairs babes decently well, but none of us seemed to have a shot with them. The anorexic girl was getting help and starting to fill out and get prettier. Unfortunately, some douchebag had already made the tradeoff. He was willing to put his time in with a skeleton to eventually wind up with an actual hot girl. The guy was a short little rich prick whom she completley used, but he wasn't all that bad of a guy.
The upstairs girls were actually very nice. We had Lucy and Andy in our aparment to get high once, but the results proved disastrous. Andy was a very goodlooking blonde with a face reminiscent of Garfield and a great body. She acted like she was a real experienced big shot about drugs, but when she hit the bong, she didn't realize what she was doing. She kept the slide in and sucked on that mother real hard, as the glass became opaque white. I pulled the slide out and the smoke exploded into her lungs and head. I think I even saw it come out of her eyeballs. She ran to the bathroom and Lucy followed her in. She puked for like 10 minutes and then they went back upstairs.
What sucked was that everything remained very strictly neighborly. We had gotten to know their friends, who were exclusively other girls in their sorority. Many of them were scorching hot, and they were pretty cordial, but we could tell we had no chance. Those girls were only permitted to choose men from a certain elite class, and we were not up to par. Some of them were real cunts. One of them used to call me 'shoe guy', after I had waited on her and friends at Nordstrom. She continued to call me that, months after I stopped working there, which greatly angered me.

In contrast, things with May were heating up. As previously stated, I continued to have long blacked out talks with her, and one night, before the bar really got busy, I walked over to her section to say hello. She looked at me all sexy and said, "guess what?". I told her I didn't know. "I had a dream about you last night," she says. "I dreamt we were fucking on the bar over there?". "Really?," I said. "What time do you get off?". Of course, I banged her that night. I had to wait at the bar until about 6 AM when she got off. That would be the first of many times that I banged her, but things eventually ended in a hostile manner.*

The important thing is, banging May was a bit of a social stepping stone for me. Lots of people at the bar were aware that I had something going on with May. Having people know you're banging someone in their social pool legitimizes you. You officially become an option for the other women in the group. Banging May hurtled me forward socially, and I enjoyed a small renaissance of getting pussy in those early winter months.

As for the Creature, her departure was uneventful. However, I do have the story of events that have befallen it since it relinquished its nest in our house. First, there were two minor automobile related incidents. Creature was drunk and sideswiped some lady at about 35 mph. There was damage to the bodies of the car, but nothing too bad. The woman went to call the police and the creature panicked and grabbed the phone from her and got in her car, speeding away. I don't actually know what ended up happening with that, but I did see Creature's white car all dented in with big scrapes of yellow paint on it.
Months later, Creature was on its way to a date with a man, boozing it up in the car, big-time, as usual. The car ran out of gas, so she pulls over, and she's so drunk that she decides to take a nap in the backseat without turning the car off. A cop pulls up, and since the car was on, she got charged with a DUI. Don't know how that turned out either.

But the last and best story I do know the ending to- Creature's family was at her apartment in Orlando, where she now lives. She lived on the 5th story of an apartment building. She had a cat which was on the balcony. Creature was so boozed up, that it tripped backwards over the cat and fell off the balcony into the parking lot. She broke her back and was sent to rehab. How do I know this story? Because a buddy of mine from Orlando worked at a liquor store around the time all of this took place. Creature came in at 11 AM to buy a handle of vodka on the day she got out of rehab and she told him the whole story.

During the next part of Phase II, things became great for me, but underneath it all, I was still very troubled by the nagging idea that eventually I would have to start working again.

*Why thing ended with May:
1) She realized I had no intention of taking things further with her since I refused to see her during daylight hours for a civilized meal.
2) The one night she got me to come back to her place instead of mine, her dog took a shit on her bed and I laughed hysterically.
3) One of the times I banged her after her shift at the bar, I was extremely annihilated and exhausted. It was close to 7AM, afterall. Right after blowing my load, I rolled over, laying on my back, and closed my eyes. I felt great, and very relaxed and all of sudden I ripped off a huge thundering blast of a fart, forgetting that I had company. May was insulted and disgusted, and left.
After all that bullshit, she was still somewhat interested in pursuing things with me until she saw me and my soon-to-be-girlfriend, Violet frenching it up like the ship was going down, right in front of her, while she was working. She threw a lime at me and never really spoke to me again. However, Striker manipulated her anger for me into free booze for him by fake-griping about me with her. She gave him a free drink every time.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Lohan's Vagina Looks Gross

The other day, I came across this picture while masturbating:* As you can plainly see, it's a paparazzi picture of Lohan's vagina. It's not at all what I expected it to look like. The picture is a strange paradox, as Lohan looks so young, but her vagina looks like that of an 85 year old woman. It is puckered, wrinkly and eroded, like a barren, unforgiving desert. It looks pale, white and dead, much like Dracula's vagina. You'll also notice that she is violently coughing, which certainly doesn't enhance the already low masturbatory aptitude of this picture. Maybe this is a doctored fake, and that's not what her vagina looks like at all. But if that's the case, then whoever created that image is a true artist, because the workmanship is amazing.

On the other hand, if you click this link: you'll see another apparent lohan vagina paparazzi picture. However, in this picture the vagina looks markedly healthier- almost vibrant, and it has a nice pinkish hue. Could this be the same vagina? If I had to guess, I'd say this was the doctored photo; if you double click on it and look at it close up, there seems to be a rather abrupt color change where the left leg meets her sealed vagina mound.

At any rate, Lohan has to be commended for her perpetually escalating stream of public nudity (by way of awesomely whorish outfits). I don't think it's entirely accidental that two new Lohan vagina shots have surfaced around the same time, especially now that Ashlee Simpson looks so ferociously hot. It appears that she's showing more and more skin in order to keep remain in the news. If her career continues to be a wet fart, by this time next year we could be seeing paparazzi pictures of her spreading her asshole down the red carpet.

King- I'm doing a Sopranos episode as a spec script (writing sample). I'll post it here when I finish.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

About My Job-

First, let me apologize for the recent lack of posts. For the first time in months I can reasonably be described as 'busy'. I'm working on a project that has to be finished by the 15th, on top of my newfound work and social obligations. As soon as I finish this project (a script), I will return to my regular schedule of posting, but until then, I will still do my best to update whenver I can. But without further ado, let me tell you about my job.

I am part of the security team for a large bar on Mill Avenue in Tempe. Mill Ave. is home to the main strip of bars that ASU kids go to. Unfortunately, I can't wear the cool vest that King suggests, since we have designated attire. We have to wear these beige shortsleeve Dickies workshirts, like the ones Dre and Snoop used to wear in the 90's, except that these have "SECURITY" and the bar's logo emblazoned on the left breast pocket and on the back of the shirt. We have to wear the shirt, but the cool thing is, that's pretty much the only rule. Besides that, we can wear jeans, shorts, whatever.
The only real responsibility I have is to stand. The head of security, who's a laid back dude, tells you where to start standing. Then, every half hour, we rotate, and stand in a new, pre-designated spot. Some spots, of course, are better than others. In my opinion, the best spot is outside the Side Patio. There is a good ledge and light pole which you can lean on, and there are two TVs you can watch.
The most interesting spot to stand is on the stage. It's a strange place to be since you are in placed into the thick of the drunkest and wildest people. Everyone is moving around gyrating on eachother, and you just stand there in your beige shirt, staring blankly ahead, expressionless. On Saturday night, I was leaning on the railing of the stage. On the other side was a man dry-fucking the shit out of some fat girl right against the rail, bumping me back and forth to the rythm of the music. Moments later, another (semi) fat girl whispered to me, "I don't want to dance with anyone". "That's ok," I told her, puzzled.
Being sober around all these booze-bags has been a strange (and new) experience for me. One thing it made me realize was that being sober anywhere near me when I'm wasted must be pretty horrible.
Most of the things that patrons of the bar say to me are pretty standard. Pretty much everyone wants to know how long I've been growing the beard. The truth is, I have no idea. I've been telling people four months, which sort of seems right, but who knows. Besides the typical inquiries about the beard, I've found that I'm most often compared to Terrorists, Stoners, and religious figures (usually Jesus) pretty much in equal measure. One of my coworkers, Juggernaut, often calls me Hachmed or Muhammed. He relayed this two police officers on Saturday night, who then looked at me and said "Yeah, he does sorta look like a terrorist". "I think it's a California thing", the other cop replied.
Also, on Saturday night, I was standing at the side patio post near a table of 2 black men, who were very drunk, and 3 overweight Hispanic girls. One of the girls kept turning toward me, barking 'Jesus' and then quickly turning her head away and laughing. The rest of the group found this very funny also. One of the guys kept saying, "He walk past your drink, and it part like pshhoooo..." as he demonstrated the action of the drink parting with his hands. He said this 5 or 6 times. I didn't react, staring straight ahead like a palace guard. I had already learned not to engage drunk people. They are much louder and everything they do is exaggerated. Matching that level of intensity (in smalltalk) with a drunk stranger is a wholly unpleasant experience. Especially when 100% of every conversation centers on one single topic: my appearance. It seems to be the only thing anyone likes to talk to me about.

But it doesn't really bother me- it kinda comes with the territory when you choose to look this way. I know that a year ago, if I was all wasted in a bar and saw some asshole who looks like I do now, I would've acted the same way*. Plus, the fringe benefits of being a universally recognizable stoner have been great.
A few of the bartenders have already talked to me about getting high and were very nice and welcoming. And on Sunday night, I was standing on the front terrace when the cook, who I'd been introduced to moments earlier, opened his hand to reveal a packed bowl and a lighter. "You want this?," he asked. He showed me the dumpster where he and the other employees had just gotten high, and gave me a cigarrette to mask the smell. It was great, I just cruised through the last couple hours of work. "I was pretty sure you were down," the cook later remarked.
But getting high on the job is not something I'll do when I work on the weekends. The bar becomes a jam-packed mad house, and being stoned would not be a wise decision in case I actually have to break up a fight. Booze would be great for dealing with those swaying drunks, but I don't think I'll be fucking with that on the job anytime soon. The risk is too great, and the reward too little, at this point at least.
Another strange aspect to the job are the hours. By the time I get off, which is around 3 AM, Tempe is a complete ghost town. There's barely anyone on the major roads that I take to get back to North Scottsdale, and there's barely anyone I know who's even awake. Some of the other dudes don't seem to mind, having become fully nocturnal beasts. This became evident at our weekly Saturday night meeting.
After we clear everybody out, the whole security team meets out back, and our manager tells us what we need to work on. The two major things we need to work on this week are: 1. we can't smoke cigarettes on the front and back patio; we can only smoke out by the dumpster and 2. we can only dip in certain locations (like by the tree or behind the back patio) where the customers can't see us spitting into dip cups every 10 seconds. But this meeting took a full 10 minutes. Why? Because most of the dudes were all hopped up, cracking jokes and shit, high school style. Me and a couple of the other guys were tired and just wanted to go home, but these guys were talking about heading to house parties and kept interrupting eachother. All I wanted was a bong rip and a meatball sandwich.

At this point (and it's only been 3 days) I can say that this job is easily in the running for Raynok's Best Job Ever (not counting the unequivocal pot dealer). Everyone is laid back and cool, loves boozing, and is completely open about getting high. Aside from that, the only rule about appearance is you must wear close-toed shoes- which is necessary anyway, due to the large amount of time spent standing. And best of all, I don't do anything. I just stand there. And until 10 PM Thursday, Friday and Saturday, I don't even have to do that. I just get to walk around and lean on shit or talk to the other employees, or even eat food. Tonight marks my first weeknight...

*Though I think the questions I would've asked would be better

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Raynok, working stiff

It looks like I spoke too soon with my last post. Hours after I published it, I received a phonecall from the bar. They wanted me to come in for a third interview. I went in and spoke with the head of security- and I got the job! I felt like a black guy in the 1950's, I was just so happy for the chance to work. But anyway, I got the job on Thursday afternoon, and was told I had to bounce Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night, effectively raping the life out of my weekend. I'm ok with this, since I needed the money very bad, but I must say, spending a Friday night in a bar dead sober is a strange experience. When I got there, I was very pleased to see that I'm not the weirdest looking guy working there. Not by a long shot. There's a dude there with a few hundred thousand tattoos and piercings on his face and body. Very cool guy, though. Overall, the staff seems cool. One bald, hulking juggernaut has already taken to continuously threatening to shave my beard (in a good natured way). And speaking of the beard, throughout the night, 15 to 20 (drunk) guys came up to me and introduced themselves, asking how long I've been growing it for and what I thought of their facial hair. Zero women commented. Anyway, I will give a more in depth report on this after the weekend, and don't forget to check back soon for the conclusion of the creature story.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Arizona Update II

As I'm sure you're all surprised to hear, I am still unemployed. I have not heard back from the head shop or the bar. While I haven't received a definitive 'no' yet, it seems likely that I'm out of the running for both, as it's been about 3 weeks since I applied. To be perfectly honest, I'm discouraged and disappointed. I knew that getting a career in writing off the ground would be difficult, but I never expected that landing a $10/hour job would be this tough. I graduated from a "top 25 university"* and I can't get a fucking job bouncing? My parents wasted close to $150,000 on that bullshit education. They might as well have thrown the money into the ocean. Granted, I didn't learn shit (except the inner workings of a soulless corporation masquerading as a college) but I did graduate. I have the diploma, or rather receipt, to prove it.

So why am I so unhirable? How could this be? I spoke well and enthusiastically at the interviews. I even wore clean clothes. Is it all a result of my unconventional appearance, as Ramon suggests? Well, the jury's still out on that one.

But if that is the case, if I remain jobless because I have long hair and a beard, then it's a very sad day for mankind. I look around and see all kinds of people walking around with their mutilations. Metal piercings through their face and lips, gaudy tattoos adorning their limbs. These assholes have jobs, how can it be that I am singled out? Perhaps if I molded my hair into a gay little mohawk and trimmed my beard like finely manicured pussy hairs, I'd have better luck. But I guess I'll never know, since I have no plans to modify my appearance- and if I ever do, it sure as hell won't be so that I can 'fit in' to get some soulcrushing job.

Maybe it all goes back to the human tradition of denying our animal nature. Perhaps looking at me is like looking into a mirror at the true soul of the human animal, and seeing the feral beast inside themselves is too painful for the primped up pussies that populate our planet.

But, alas, one bright spot remains on this darkened shit-covered sphere, and that beacon of hope is none other than my friends and loved ones. I am extremely grateful for their continued support. In fact, the praise and appreciation I have received from you dirtbags who read this site has been a great source of inspiration for me. My parents have been incredibly understanding. My sister and my girlfriend have been extremely generous and kind. Johnny, King, Billy, Z-man, Meat-head, Mac and Noise have all been amazing with picking up the slack, helping me out when I couldn't afford booze, drugs or even food. Striker has been great with free legal advice. Noomin has been very benevolent, giving me money for completing simple tasks for him. Quaze, among countless other favors, has been paying for my gas, and is allowing me to pay down my debt to him by introducing him to women when we are out at the bars. And last but not least, there's Ramon.

Ramon, who was recently promoted to be a network executive, has incessantly hounded me for the $300 that I owed him. Good old Ramon, who is aware that I have zero money, was so adamant about receiving this petty (in regards to his own income) sum, that I actually had to ask my parents to pay him just to get him off my back. Thanks, buddy. And lastly, I'd like to thank Ramon for using my cell phone (after I had to leave the party early because my girlfriend was ill) to leave highly offensive, threatening, curse-laden, racial slur-packed messages to nearly every number in my address book, all while impersonating me. If any of you received one of these messages on Saturday night and you'd like to return the favor to Ramon, please feel free to shoot me an email. I'll be happy to furnish both his cell and work numbers.

But in all seriousness, I am eternally grateful to all of you (sorry if I forgot to mention you by name) and offer my sincere thanks for putting up with my unemployed hijinks. I will do my best to pay all of you back when I can, but in the meantime, I will press on against this backward society. Fear not, for I will continue to scrap for success on my own terms as I fight for your right to look and act like a true human being, to simply be yourself in this gilded world full of lies.

*Admittedly from the heavily flawed U.S. News and World Report rankings.