Jalapeno Vagina

This morning at work, one of my coworkers brought me a gift: Mexican candy. How sweet, I thought. How fucken wrong I was.

Has anyone on this list ever had Mexican candy before? I've had Australian candy, Austrian candy, Brazilian candy, British candy, Canadian candy, Chinese candy, French candy, German candy, Italian candy, Nigerian candy, Swazi candy, Swiss candy, and Taiwanese candy. Some I liked (Swiss chocolate...mmmmm), some I wasn't particularly fond of (toffee is...ehhh), but all was easily identifiable as candy. The four objects that were presented to me as Mexican candy was a textural and flavorful affront to God.

I don't know what the hard chunk of rock in the center of my "candy" was, but it was covered in a squishy layer of CHILE POWDER. Let me repeat, the "candy" that I was given was covered, not in sweet sugar or whatever it is that makes sour worms sour, but CHILE FUCKEN POWDER.

It would be rude of me to spit out the candy I was given as a gift, however, as the gift giver was quick to point out, my eyes were watering. I was also on the brink of puking. Seriously, I haven't gagged that hard since I blew the hippie with the nine incher and the gallon of patchouli he used in lieu of showering.

"Why does everyone gag on my candy?" She asked. "Is good, no?"

No. Is not good. Is very very bad. And the mango lollipop that she gave me should have been good. I love mango. Candied mango is one of my favorite snacks in the world, but candied mango is covered in sugar, while this...lollipop?...was covered in...yeup, Chili fucken powder.

The flavor was so intensely awful that I started to hallucinate. I envisioned a troop of hot Mexican men that I'd wronged handcuffing me, and forcing me to give cunnilingus to a stank woman with a chili powder covered vagina.

It took a whole gallon of Cherry Coke, and a few hours of intense therapy to get the flavor out of my mouth.

E-Balls To You, Dingleberry

I believe the term "I don't give a shit" comes from the way hate constipates people. I've written at least seven different journal entries tonight that I couldn't finish because I was writing from a place of anger. Each word popping the pimple of the huge ass that incited this seething.

No, that's not right. I like asses, and this person is definitely not something I like. He's not an ass, he's not a cock, he's not even a douchebag or a skidmark, he's a dingleberry: that little piece of lint and shit that sticks in a crack of what may otherwise be a nice piece of ass. Who cares about some scenester hanger-on-er who wants to instigate worthless confrontation? I shouldn't let something so insignificant piss me off. The next time someone mentions said dingleberry and what that dingleberry may or may not have said about me, I will smile and nod and busy myself thinking of something worthier of my time: amateur curling, the dietary habits of banana slugs, collecting Pez dispensers. Every time I have the urge to make a retort about what a talentless waste of sperm said dingleberry is I shall say only: Penguin Lust.

Everyone has their foils: Brain has his Snowball; sarchal has his Tony, The Idiot; cyns has his goths. Mine is a goth, as well. The sort of Goth who not only wears all black, but owns a scorpion, several pacifiers, and glow sticks. He lives for misguided confrontation. He's got the Livejournal full of stories about how the government is all mean and shadowy, and how he should be running the country. But really, he's just a coke addict from a rich family who has delusions of grandeur, and we already have one of those in the White House.

I'm sorry, what I meant to say was Penguin Lust.

I'm tired of reading things written by people with e-balls. The people who, a generation ago, wrote angry letters to the editor about how the kids these days don't understand the importance of seatbelt safety. These days, every one of these ultracrepidarianistic dingleberries has their own blog that they use to vent their frustration, and they take every "attaboy" directed their way by another delusional dingleberry as justification that they're right thinking, and.... Why are you all looking at me like that?

Penguin Lust.

I should be flattered that that dingleberry called me an asshole. I think assholes are hot. And maybe I am an asshole. After all, you are what you eat.

Penguin Lust.

Tomorrow afternoon, while said dingleberry is at his high paying, but admittedly high-stress job, getting frustrated because his life is just sooooooo hard, I'll be smiling and passing espressos to the same people that piss him the hell off. People who are angry at life, who don't know how to perform simple tasks so they take out their frustration on customer service people like me and the dingleberry.

But, you know what, they don't take out their frustration on me, because I'm not some ball of rage looking for any excuse in the world to have an argument, or write some shitty "poem" about how corporations are baaaaaad, or Dick Cheney is eeeeeeevil. Yawn.

People are generally nice to me because I've finally reached the Zen of Not Caring What Dingleberries Think. Non-dingleberries can tell that I'm not just smiling at them, but with them. And dingleberries know that while they can get my adrenaline rushing for a minute or two, in the end, I'll just laugh them off because...Penguin Lust.

I've wasted too much time on this. While I wrote this snarky entry, I could have been doing something more enjoyable like clipping my toenails, or writing a musical about foosball rage, based on the wit and wisdom of Anne Coultier. I shall devote no more time to this.

I'm sitting on my comfortable bed, listening to the soothing sounds of a cat being raped by a carpenter's belt full of nails on chalkboards. It's snowing outside, but I feel warmer than I ever felt when I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. I want to go outside and roll in the snow, bask in the glow of Penguin Lust.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/101765.html

I'm Just Crazy About This Entry

Now, don't get me wrong, I obviously have a thing for crazy guys. Crazy people are often the best lovers full contact contortionists in the world. Sure, sometimes you wake up with your face covered in Saran Wrap while your significant other the person you should have filed a restraining order against pours gasoline over your genitals and starts giving you an intense handjob, but sometimes they order pizza for you and spend six hours bleaching your bathroom; you've got to learn to take the bad with the good.

For example, I have this friend former roommate, who, for his anonymity's sake, we will call Crazy Fucken Florencio. When he wasn't drinking all my alcohol, stealing change out of my pants pockets, running up an $800 phone bill to Brazil, and "accidentally" smashing the dining room table in half, he was a fun guy to have around (anyone making a mushroom joke will have their nipples burned off with patchouli scented incense sticks).

On one occasion, one of the ex-girlfriends who hadn't accused him of rape was hanging out at our house, swapping Florencio stories with us. At this point, Florencio's body had yet to be discovered hog tied, naked, and ass-end up a Church basement in Mission Hill.

Ex-girlfriend had mentioned what an amazing lay fuck Florencio was (he certainly didn't do the laying thing). Apparently he had a huge cock, and the stamina of hummingbird on Cocaine and Espresso enhanced Jolt Cola. He was the best she had ever had. So why did they break up?

At three a.m. on some random ass day, ex-girlfriend woke up to find Florencio, wearing nothing but wide eyes and a bandanna over his nose and mouth, with a samurai sword, a REAL fucken samurai sword inches away from her throat. Somehow, she managed to talk him into putting the sword down so they could fuck. Once the sword was down, she kicked him square in the nuts, ran to the bathroom and called 911.

Of course, she STILL hangs out with him, so I don't know what that says about her (except, perhaps that she likes church basements).

File him under The Sort of Crazy I Won't Stick My Dick In. Harvard guy falls in that category, too. After he was done lecturing me on slam poetry (because, you know, I don't know anything about it myself, having only been in the slam poetry scene for seven years now), and trying to impress me by aligning himself with trendy authors who I don't read, he proceeded to have an awkward confrontation with the door man at the venue I frequent.

The doorman accused him of trying to sneak in. Apparently, last week, Harvard had gone in without paying, and the doorman had tracked him down, and he'd paid. This week, Harvard came in and started talking to me at the bar while the doorman was taking someone else's money. When the doorman came over and asked for the money, Harvard explained that didn't plan on staying, that he just wanted to talk to me for a few minutes. The doormen said that was okay, but in the future, he had to pay as soon as he came in. THEN, probably because he noticed that I seemed fairly embarrassed, and had started trying to make eye contact with any of my friends who were busy trying to give me and Mr. Harvard alone time, he changed his tune. He was going to stay, and he had every intention of paying, but the doorman hadn't made it clear that he was the doorman, and...well, Harvard could have made an honest mistake, and thought that, because the doorman had gone around to him and asked him for money the previous week, that the doorman always collected the money that way. BUT, Harvard spent over ten minutes arguing with doorman about how doorman didn't understand where he was coming from, and trying to connect with him on an "I used to have a crappy job too" level. All I could think of was "Shut the fuck up, pay him the five bucks and move on. Or, go home."

I need to find the right balance of crazy in a man. Someone who doesn't feel the need for people to "identify with them". Someone who will wear their idiosynchricities like a bad toupee, who owns more faults than self-help books. Someone who realizes the "You never forget the people you hurt when you're high" ad campaign is funny because the more drugs you do, the more apt you are to forget ever having hurt anyone to begin with. Someone who is crazy for me.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/101139.html

Doo Doooo D'Doo Doo

The radio where I work is really adept at playing static. Pop static, bluegrass static, math rock static, it runs the gambit. I'd prefer to keep the damned thing off, and rock out to the music in my head, but this week, The Catchiest Song in The World has been stuck in my head.

If you're not old enough to remember the old Muppets sketch (which is not the original time The Muppets sang that song...it goes back past the Red Skelton era...which is waaaay before my time), you've probably seen the Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper Commercial. Damn that song.

All day long at work, people word order Banana Nut Muffins, and since "Banana Nut" has the same rhythm as "Manamana", I'd sing "doo doooo d'doo doo/Banana nut!/Doo doo doo dooo/Banana Nut!" until I was forced to pour scalding hot espresso down my pants and slam my head in a cabinet. Still, the song would not go away. It got to the point where I actually hid the muffins to avoid people saying "Banana nut". Naturally, this plan didn't work.

Random customer: "Where are your banana nut--"
Me: "Doo doooo d'doo doo"
Random customer: "--muffins? Are you ok? Why are you slamming your head in a cabinet?"
Me: "Banana nut!"

I shall be fired before the end of next week.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/100392.html