If you could hear the dreams I've had my dear....

They would give you nightmares for a week.

Writing this stupid thing everyday is all but impossible, but I must try, if this Blog drops below 60 words per day, the bomb goes off and we all die. I am an F--B--I agent, dude!

For now I can only say go out and buy Jawbreaker, "Dear You." I don't know why it has come back to the top of my list recently, but I forgot how good it really was/is. Indeed.

So, I forgot where I left off last, but let's see...I met a girl today that works at EL Rancho in Evergreen. She thought I was lying when I told her I knew where/what that was, and she freaked out when she found out I wasn't full of shit. She kissed me on the neck, told me I was cute, and then puked on the bar. I called security, got her phone number, and she was escorted out of the Casino.

Speaking of puke, I also saw a transvestite's balls as he mounted a bar stool in a less than lady like fashion in a skirt that was very short. His hair was in pigtails. I saw his balls because he had no panties on.

End Transmission.

The scene was less gay when it was all dudes.

When did everyone get so fucking gay? Ian and I went to a show last night, and saw some things that disturbed me greatly. I knew the kids were moving towards this, but I didn't know it had become so bad. Dudes with a shit ton of eyes make-up, skin tight (girls') jeans, and yes the triumphant return of the fingerless gloves. And the fucking hair cuts...it looks like they cut their hair in the dark, drunk, with a dull pocket knife. Then, they dye it black, or leopard spots, or whatever. Though on the bright side it looks like hard core no longer espouses the pussy straight edge shit, now they just dress like girls and don't wear any underwear. One guy even had on a (wo)man fur! It's like the Cure and Pantera had a baby, then aborted it in a drunken lip piercing accident. Then the fetus was eaten by an eighty pund coke slut and vomited into a plate of drunk reality unconcerned with anything other than looking as cool as possible.

The mohawk punks still hate these guys at least, and its funny to see them make fun of them. They mock them to their faces, and it's really quite humorous. Imitating their dancing and such.
The girls, on the other hand...wow. It's amazing how hot girls flock to this shit now, and not just the punk ones that look like their male counterparts (it's almost impossible to tell the dudes from the chicks when viewed from behind, same hair, same bodies...it's an androgonous nightmare) but super hot sorostitute types as well, it's mind boggling. Though to be fair many of them are lesbians trying hard to look tough. But if you've ever seen an 90 pound girl try to mosh with a group of bury 200lb guys, you should go somewhere and watch it. It's like a human pinball game. Two of these girls came and talked to me an Ian. One was a blonde girl, who could not have had a single fat cell on her entire 5'2" frame, I've had turds that weighed more than this chick, her jeans were almost torn off her body, and her shirt was barely more than a wash cloth. Her friend, though I can't remember much about her because her friend was such a captivating conversationalist, was a little more healthy looking, though sulky. Here's a quick snipit of what we talked about..

Girl: Hi.
US: What's going on.
Girl: Not much, I was jkjio jjkfhnfi feeshshkj . But this whorekl;jkll kfpirm. I just wanna hump the shit out of her (begins to leg hump friend) but shekl;l'k';kkjn gh.
US: Really.
Girl: I jkstkujhkkjjhjkhlkhldfsgjhdkghuhruehoiegokldgld.
US(Ian): Can I bum a cigarette?
Girl: Sure, but you hav ekjjoijngg;gjerjgpl;lk.
Ian: Ok.
Girl: I thinkdfshjlkjldsfj. You know?kffhkghdgio.

You get the picture, both these girls were so high on who knows what that it was facinating to me that they were even able to walk. The less talkative girl had spent the concert getting to second base with herself and fucking with her phone while sitting on the stage.

The band was ok, Screamo generic shit, but descent music. The lead singer made a girl cry because he pointed to her (I don't know what she did) and said, "You. you are that girl. The drunk chick that everyone makes fun of later, you're her, there's always one, and you are her. Now shut up." I laughed hartily.

I have officially become a curmudgeonly old bastard. Damn Kids and their music.

What else, oh yeah, got my invite to my 10 year high school reunion. I'm torn between a horribly morbid curiousity and a complete lack of interest.

End Transmission.

I might have jumped, but you jumped first.

Well, things have cleared up and life has regained the dingy focus that I have come to expect.

I met a Vietnam vet last night that told me all about why we are losing the war in Iraq. It went something like this;

"We can't win in Iraq 'cause we got all this slacker faggots joining the marines. DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR, DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR! you know what I mean. These giys now don't have the balls to shoot who needs to be shot, hey and what's with women nowadays, they're all stuck up bitches, you know, DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR. You're cool though, Dib? Is that how you say your name, Derb? I killed an old lady 'cause she had a grenade in her bra. You're cool though..."

That's about when security came and took him away. He was very and truly drunk. Which made me think about the bullshit I talk about when I'm drunk. I never get to say cool shit like, "I killed an ald lady (insert why)" and if I did it wouldn't be as believable/discountable due to insanity.

Maybe I can capitalize on people's lack of historical knowledge and allege that I am a veteran of the Crimean War (you know, The Charge of the Light Brigade). Technically the war that started in the 1850's (52? I can't remember) when Russia sent troops to defend Christians in the Ottoman Empire. This pissed off Britain, France and Austria, understandably not wanting Russia to get any bigger. It was in this war that I slaughtered many old women, their bra's contents notwithstanding.

Eh? Eh?

Fuck it, I'll just stick to conversations about poop.

End Transmission.

Bowling Race Care Driver.

So a lot of cool shit has happened since last I scribed here. Unfortunately I can't write about any of it because it has become impossible for me to focus on anything other than the enormous zit in the middle of my back.

There it sits, even now, taunting me in it's unreachable location, itching and hurting, growing larger, yet refusing to pop and leave me in peace! I have cracked every joint in my wrists and elbows, shoulders and back, all in a vain attempt to rid myself of this teribble scourge.

Christ! Even now I can barely resist trying to contort my body into the final yaga position that will allow victory. Even worse is the terrible pain that will ensue when it does finally decide its inhumane torture of my body and soul has reached its zenith. It's like a fucking golf ball just to the left of my spine, well maybe a jellybean, but larger by far is it's evil.

I fear it may even be a coalition of multiple pimples, united to give me unending despondency and in such vexation ruin my life and all that I am and ever will be.

End Transmission.

Don't Look Back.

I have been vomiting all day. All fucking day. I ran out of stuff in my stomach on the second barrage, so after a few hours of painful dry heaves, I decided to chug tap water and hurl it back into the toilet in order to puke up something. Whatever the fuck I did to myself, my stomach wanted me to know, in no uncertain and certainly painful terms, not to do it again.

Last night Ian and I were drinking, as is our custom, and we met this dude who was eerily familiar. Every other sentance that came out of his mouth started with, "My girlfriend....." The other half started with "It's like I was telling my girlfriend...." The more he talked about her, the more she sounded like Katie, this girl Ian hooked up with last week, turns out, it was the Katie he spoke of. We talked for about two hours about shit, the whole time knowing that this guy was in for some hurt pretty soon.

The uncomfortable-o-meter hit the red when he told us he wanted to walk home with us, since his house was near ours. He got a ride from Scoty from Scotland, instead.

I kept my mouth shut, for once, I don't know how. It's only a matter of time before Ian and I, well Ian mostly, have our first enemy in Las Vegas.

End Transmission

I won't stick any of you unless and until I can stick all of you.

Nothing to report today, personally, but something happened to a co-worker and her husband the other day that must be shared, I think you'll enjoy it as much as I did.

So this Lady, we'll call her Mary, and her husband, Stan, found themselves with a day off so they decided to do some long put off tasks. Stan, apparantly is a big guy, but he wears a size Large jacket. He had recieved not one but three size XL jackets over the years. What the hell was he going to do with three jackets that were the wrong size? Keep them in the closet, apparantly. Mary had been on him to take them back, but he had "just never got around to it." Stan is such a lazy guy, that Mary sometimes thinks he wouldn't breathe without her continued reminders to do so. The jackets still had the tags on them, never been worn, so they took them to the local Dillard's to try and exchange them. Imagine their surprise when the clerk said "no problem," and allowed him to exchange them all! They were so appreciative of the man's eagerness to help that Stan also purchased a hat.

End Transmission.

Always writing against this truth...

I had some really good insights for the blog today, but due to (or perhaps in spite of) an explosive and wholly unexpected anal discharge, I was unable to focus enough to post them.

Plus nothing of note happened today. Though this weekend (Tuesday and Wednesday in this fucked up place) had some intersting events...

I desperately need clean underwear and T-Shirts, but I can't use any of the washers due to the fact that an obese Mexican lady has been ruling the laudramat with an iron burrito. She brought her laundry with a shopping cart, and it took multiple trips. I pleaded with her to allow me the use of just one washer, for just one load, enough resources to get me through the week.

There was, of course, a small language barrier that led to some interesting Sherades-esque interplay. I thought showing her the skid marks would do the trick. It only served to infuriate her more.

End Transmission.

Don't be a pussy all your life.

I just realized that this stupid blog thingy published chronologically, so this Part II of the "Day that made me think if there is a God, he's probably an asshole, and hates Me," will appear before part I. Well no matter.

Previously on DaubvonDaub:
We just found out that Tommy, George's child hood friend and partner of ten years on the NYPD, was taking money from an Iranian terrorist in order to facilitate the safe arrival of terrorists in to New York. Tommy thought it was just drugs from Cuba. Trying to set things right, Tommy went after his benefactor in order to bring him in. George followed him, but arrived too late. Tommy was already tied to a chair, drenched in gasoline, seconds from burning alive....with no backup, and nowhere to turn George must save his friend from certain death, without killing them both! We also found out that Tommy was fucking George's daughter. She is 12, and likes ponies.

So, I get to work. Things seem to be nominal. A normal Sunday night/Monday morning. Bored to tears, hearing stories about the cute things people's children do, "He can't say 'noodles' so he calls everything 'sgetti!'" I laugh and feel warm inside, and a little sad that I will never know the joys of reering a child.

I notice on my peripheral radar that an enormous albino man (later I would find that he was simply a pale red head) has entered the casino, on what I have named the "Avoirdupois Chariot." You may call them a scooter, or some such, but you know what they are. They are a conveyance for people who have become incapable of bipedal locomotion, for any reason, be it age, or laziness. This guy happened to be tha largest non-aquatic mammal I have ever witnessed.

He also had the entire cast of the Flinstones tattooed on his legs, that were bare to the knee and could have easily been used to show an Imax film. He attempted to play black jack and I put him out of my mind, with a forklift! HA!

I work in a small, shitty casino, and there is not a lot of space. I came around a corner and saw this dude at one of the slot banks. He looked confused, like arnold Swzarzenager(sp) at a spelling bee, perhaps. I walked passed him, trying not to attract his substantial gaze.

I made it by him, and then I heard the one thing no slot attendant ever wants to hear.

"Sir! Excuse me sir!"

I walked a step.

"Sir!"

I walked another.

"Sir, Excuse me!"

I stopped and turned around. The bastard had been yelling the other direction, he hadn't even turned around. I walked up to the land-leviathan and managed my best "What can I do for you?" smile, that usually comes out as a "What the fuck do you want...asshole?" smirk.

"I would like to play one of theses slot machines, this one actually," he pointed at a machine with an arm bigger than a howitzer.

"Ok," I said, nodding my head.
Awkward silence.
"Do you want me to move the stools?" I asked helpfully, my arms spread in mock helpfulness.

"No, I need your help getting off my (I shit you not) rover."

He called it his ROVER! Like the thing we send to other planets to pick up scientific samples of alien shit.

"Your rover?" I said.

This is when I really notice that his "rover" loks like a tricycle under his immense bulk, and he is spilling over it in every possible place. He is absolutely wedged into this thing. So I told him what I tell any "guest" when they want me to do something unpleasent.

"I don't think so. I'm not allowed to do that."

"Why not?" he was almost petulant.

"Well, uh..if one of us were to get hurt..or if you fell on m...I'll call securtiy."

Which I did and promptly fled the scene. It took three security guy to get this guy onto a stool. He looked like a melting scoop of ice cream on top of a four legged toothpick.

Then he got bored and wanted to change machines. Though, i tried, I couldn't avoid him (the casino is very small) and he wanted to cash out. His machine ran out of coins, and I had to open it and look. He was so immense that opening the machine would be impossible, so I told him he needed to move. There was much protest and grunting, sweat and tears, but he finally got onto another stool, but he was so fucking big he was still in the way. I told him to hold on and ran.

It was my lunch so I left and the problem became someone else's.

Enter the homeless deaf guy.
Long Story Short...35 minutes later, I still don't know sign language, and now he's mad. But it was the end of my shift, so I told one of the philipenos that the guy needed some help. Revenge, since I can never tell waht he's saying either.

Another day in paradise. Scoreboard: Drunk Strippers-1 Crazy Drunks of every description and dissability- 109

End Transmission

The Asylum of the Grave.

Well, where to fucking start. Indeed the past 10 hours have been full of oddities, almost as if an omnipotent power is fucking with me. That's right the past night has made me doubt my stalwart atheism! I even used an exclamation point! Twice! Well, now three times.

Chronological order seems appropriate, though it may not build to a climax. Sort of like cumming and then getting a boner afterward, losing the erection and then having sex. Something like that.

The Daub-Mobile has a leak somewhere in it's cooling system, a "radiator" I beleive it is called. I have to fill it with water every time I drive it, lest it overheat and leave me stranded, forcing me to take it up the ass from drunk frat guys in the back of a Hummer Limo, just to get to work. This may also lead to me being sold into the international sex-slave trade, but I digress.

It is aprroximately 12:30am, I am in my monkey suit, white collared shirt, Ill-fitting vest (apparantly anyone as tall as me must also be fat so they had a team of crazy, loud, asian ladies try to alter it. They needed a fucking step ladder to take the measurements...that's another rant), and cheap polyester black dress pants. I have the hood of my car open and I'm pouring water out of an old vodka bottle into my "radiator." I have three such bottles, sitting on the curb.
Who should come upon me, but a dark stranger.

"That's a waste of good drinking vodka, man," the stranger tells me.

Now, before I go on, I must emphasis the fact that it's pitch black dark outside, and this guy must have had some ninja training, cause he moved without a sound, despite his obvios homelessness.

After I arrest my heartrate somewhat, I look at him incredulously, and say waht anyone might say, "What?" I ask.

"Why...in the hell...are you pourin' Vodka into your car, dude?"

This is when he vomits on the grass behind me. It is the worst smelling puke I have ever encountered. The smell hit me on my next breath and I almost tossed my breakfast. THe first bottle emptied and I grabbed the second, wanting to leave but, with my task as yet unfinished, was unable.

The guy finished wretching out the rotten eggs he had for dinner (marinated in diaharrea surely, man I just realized I don't know how to spell ...liquid shit), and he stood up. THe violence of his episode made me think he had gone to his knees, but he had mearly bent over slightly. He wiped his mouth, and proceeded with or conversation.

Second bottle...half empty....

"Wow, dude, are you alright?" I asked, clearly uninterested in the answer, but I had know idea what to do.

"Whh...why are you wasting that vodka...ka...vodka. You're car can't get drunk, caaaaan it?"

Bottle empty, exit strategy approved, proceed to escapr point bravo.

I reached up, closed the hood, and then picked up the third bottle, full of water.

"You want this, man, my car...has had enough, I guess," I said.

The man lit up, "Suuure, I'll take it..."

I threw the bottle a little behind the bum and darted for my door. The last I saw of him was in my headlights to the soundtrack of the Bad Astonaut song, "Single." He was smiling and holding the bottle aloft, giving me the thumbs up.

Then I got to work. My anal virginity intact, though curious.

To be Continued.....

End Transmission.

Don't let it be said I am deaf to the voices in my head.

I have recieved numerous emails detailing how boring my life is, and that no one wants to read about my shaving debacles, or how often I do or do not score with the ladies (the latter obviously less exciting than the later, though more numerous). No one cares how much I can bench press, or how drunk I can get. I was not aware of it but 15% of my blogs include pregnancy in some form. Sorry.

I hear you. I feel like none of you have given me the chance I rightly deserve. This is my first blog, and I'm doing my best. In the future I will have guest bloggers, scientists and politicians, even a celebrity or two. Maybe that will hold your interest, or maybe it won't. Each blog will come with a gram of coke and a bottle of whiskey! Two big tittied strippers for each of you. I haven't forgotten you ladies, you can have two...pectorially endowed strippers....but keep their wangs small, I want to remain the biggest dick on this blog.

End Transmission.

Some girls are hot when they are pregnant.

A 20-year-old man in Ocoee, Fla., was charged with murder after he confessed to pouring gasoline over his ex-girlfriend and then setting her on fire because she may have been pregnant, police told Local 6 News.

I remember when you just punched the girl in the stomach, or pushed her down the stairs, what the fuck is with kids these days?! My girlfriend might be pregenant. My stupid religion (or hers, or both) says no abortions, I don't want the kid...what to do...?....hmmm.....not too many options, don't want the kid, duct tape, gasoline...a plan is forming....got it! I'll set myself on fire in order to avoid the consequences of my actions. No...that won't work.

It's gonna be hard for this guy to get laid again, I think. Personal ads won't be very useful:
S(I can't tell what race he is by the picture)M seeks girl to spend time with, possible LTR.
Must use birth control, or be inflammable. Must like italian food. No fatties.

And the kicker....she wasn't even remotely pregnant, the coroner found out after she was burned alive, to death.

Remember to take your pills ladies, make him wear a rubber, and don't follow him out to a romantic. secluded, make out spot without checking the trunk for incindiaries and duct tape.

For the full Story:
http://www.local6.com/news/7634418/detail.html

End Transmission.

Searching for a Former Clarity

Wow. What a night, and on a tuesday, or wednesday..I don't know working a graveyard shift warps your sense of time. Anyway, my and Ian met some girls, at thijs punk bar called the "emergency room." Hit it off, they are, of course, 23ish. My target demographic. They loved me, and we're going out drinkin' tommarrow. Blonde girls from CA...? I touched her boob. She was living with /dating/ some loser who could smell how much his girl liked someone else almost instantly, though, he was unable to pry himself away from his poker to do anything. Well, that is untill he madea drunk foo of himself...

We'lll see.

Sam is coming into town tonight...Ian's psyched so am i, I haven't seen her for a while. Hopefully that wll lead to me writing something more interesting than the usual bullshit.

End Transmission.