The Outside World is Closing In.

I just got back from an awesome trip to L.A. a place I've never actually been to. After some initial hardships finding the fucking hotel I was staying in (it is honestly the most confusing driving experience I've ever encountered), the trip rocked.

I went out to see a band called the Playing Favorites at the Viper Room (apparantly a famous club?). It was their very first live performance, though the band is comprised of verteran musicians from many bands, most notably to me is the fact that Joey Cape is in the band. Their album was put out by Virgil at Suburban Home Records, an old college friend of mine. Awesome album, go buy it.

Anyway, the show was rad and best of all, I ended up drinking, eating tortilla chips and bullshitting with Joey in the kitchen of some random dude's house after the second show saturday night. I've already espoused my man-crush on this dude, and anyone who knows me knows I'm a fag for his music, but it's amazing what a normal guy just like any of you guys I would sit around with laughing and talking 'till all hours of the morning with. It was crazy hanging out with these guys, drinking, telling stupid stories, looking at bullshit on youtube...a fucking awesome time.

I'll prolly have more to say about it after I get some sleep and process the whole thing, but for now that's it.

end transmssion.

The Terrorists have already won, at video poker!

Check this out kids! I apologize for the crappy image quality, but I had to snap this picture all stealthy with my phone since I didn't want to get in trouble. I might get in trouble anyway, but it's funny enough to risk.


Also there is an unexpected fat girl doing a superman pose in the background.

end transmission.

Yeah, that's the way things go some days...

Fucking christ! I can't even go to a bar a 2 in the morning after work to enjoy a free beer without stepping knee deep in bullshit!
There I was sitting at the bar playing, playing nickel poker, enjoying my Guinness, contemplating the how I was going to make rape funny in a story that has been keeping me awake, when POOF! Here comes some asshole from LA. Well he's actually from Vegas, but he's back! He knows the bartender and they start talking. the asshole pulls out an Iphone and starts showing everyone pictures of his newborn son.
Wow, a biological miracle to be sure!
Well, it turns out this kid has a serious birth defect. He has Spina bifida (which due to my insomnia coupled with an uncomfortable curiousity for fucked up illnesses, and the fact that I have been watching 3 episodes of House MD a day, which is an awesome show, I highly recommend..I digress, I know a little about this disease), basically the spinal column doesn't completely form around the spinal cord. It can be mild, or super shitty, but it is never good, and the most sketchy points in the disease are right after birth.
This guy kept alternating between "he's totally healthy" and "He's got this really scary disorder" followed by, "he's gonna be fine, we have the 4th best surgeon in all of california."
Something told me a assistant PA in LA was not really on the A list for doctors. I kept my mouth shut. But I thought, "If your new born son is in this kinda turmoil, why are you in Vegas at 2 in the AM drinking budlight with a waitress from PT's. Are you an asshole? or just a complete douchebag lier?
It turns out he was just an asshole, his "baby's mama" was taking care of it for the weekend, he needed to get away.
Wow.
I fucking hate children, and I wouldn't leave that hospital if my dick and balls were on fire and the only estinguisher in all the world was in Angelena Jolie's pussy, which was in the hospital parking lot, prepped and ready ( well maybe then...but my point is easy to see anyway).
Was this guy in denial? Then why did he keep bringing the kid up? Did he just not give a shit? I just don't know, never hving concieved a child with a potentially terminal disease. I can only think that the frailty of every day life both terrifies and intrigues me.
and though I truly hope that child is ok, I got the distinct impression that his dad hoped the kid would die quickly and save him a lifetime of trouble.

end transmssion.

There's a coldest day in every year.

I woke up Friday morning, after five or six hours of turning inmy bed, thinking about everything. I had a dentist appointment at 2:00, so I had planned on getting up at noon. That would give me plenty of time to fuck around and jerk off or whatever I was going to do.
I woke up at 1:15 and ended up going to get some food at Taco Bell. In front of me in line at Taco Bell was a Mexican couple. The girl was petite, attractive, and pregnant. She had a child in her arms, and her "man" was some kid barely 20 years old, with an ECW t-shirt. He had a sweet mullet, and looked like he was one chromosome away from being retarded.
Why is this important? Because after my dentist appointement, I went to Wal-Mart to purchase a notebook, underwear and check the prices on electric toothbrushes. ANd guess who was there?...the smae fucking mexican couple, right there, shopping for tortillas or whatever. Strange, to be sure, but whatever.
After I went to Wal-MArt I went to 7-11 to put some air in the back right tire on my Jeep (it has a slow leak somewhere) I then went inside to buy a slurpee. The mexican couple was not there, but there wa sa guy who asked me for change. I told him no, and he insisted that my entrance into heaven was predicated on my charity. I told him I was terrified at the prospect of eternity in Hell, but I had limited funds and my immidiate frozen sugar needs took precident over my afterlife concerns.
I ran a number of other mundane errands, and ended up at Autozone to buy some new windshield wipers and a new gas cap. I shit you not, the Mexican couple was there, the same family, buying...whatever.
So I ran into these fucks a few times in the same day...I remarked on it, but did not think any more on it, until I went to food for less later that night (8:30) to get vodka, soda, and peanuts.
Those fuckers were there renting a movie from a vending machine! Are these fuckers following me? Am I following them? Are they inept CIA agents passively tailing me? Fuck, how is my life and theirs so similar that we're at the same places at the same time all fucking day long? What the fuck was going on?
I got over it quietly and went about my business. I went out for some drinks at about 11:30, and met up with a girl I had met about a week before. We hung out 'till about 2:00, and as we were leaving, I saw the mexican dude in the bar! Same ECW tshirt, it was him!
I apparantly have a parallel life with a young mexican family, and all I could think about was wether or not they noticed me, running into them all day long.

end transmssion.

If you could hear the dreams I've had my dear, they would give you nightmares for a week.

Something I've been running into constantly lately is the idea that the the same actions produce the same results, or the idea that if you do the same shit, the same shit will happen to you.

That seems logical, and it is an appealing philosophy for change. But what can I change? What is it about what I do (that has caused an outcome I do not enjoy) that I can alter? The problem is not in me, and if it is it is so intrinsic that to aliviate it would destroy me. So what is the njkl;h5tare4uiorfjlk

in the infinite hours between 6PM and 2am.

This is the first blog I have written at work. There are days at this job when I have absolutely nothing to do and so I am left alone, walking in circles, with only my thoughts. My mind Is a twisted and terrible enough place to visit, and to be sentanced to hours within its confines with no distraction is a horror beyond words.

Usually, this type of situation is what leads me to write. Somehow there is catharsis in removing ideas from the aether of my troubled head and chisling them into reality. Without this release, the ideas and arguements bounce around my skull like a handfull of rubber balls thrown into a bathtub, costantly increasing in both velocity and quantity, until I feel like I'm going mad.

It is the focus of the composition that allows me to mute my conflicted musings to a dull roar, and thus stave off a complete mental meltdown for a few more hours.

This silent desperation for distraction in leu of my favored method of management has led to some of the most asinine conversations with some of lamest people on earth.

Just minutes ago I literally had a conversation about dust! Fucking dust! I have rarely had the opportunity to be involved in such an intellectual treatise on, what is truly one of the most fascinating issues facing us today!

Never before have I been so engrossed by the topic of comparative weather conditions; ie in Ontario it is apparantly already getting really cold, but here in Vegas the temperature is quite pleasent!

Currently there are no boobs to oggle at, so I am consumed with the desire to find an ugly old lady so that I may debate the pros and cons of coin operated slot machines, certainly a topic that remains interesting even after exploring its nuances hundreds of times.

End transmission.

Bowling Racecar Driver

When I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and a more than slight mad-on for the human race, I would have never guessed the day would turn out so awesome.

I was wondering around, 7 hours deep into my shift, wallowing in my usual reverie of self disgust (I went to college so I could end up pushing in chairs and giving directions to the bathroom?) and loathing for people the world over precipitated by dealing with the constant, unyielding stream of stupidity and asinine behavior.

Then I see a very small man at an atm. Not really noteworthy in itself, until he turned around. He had a fuck off black beard, and holy shit! It's fucking Joey Cape...I think. I kinda orbited around, slowly convincing myself that, yes, that is the man responsible for some of the greatest music made in the past 15 years.

Fuck it, I thought, and I walked over to him.
"hey man, I don't wanna bother you, but are you Joey Cape?"

He kinda looked at me, surprised that maybe I recognized him.
"Yeah, I am."

"I'm Kris (I always introduce myself thus, explaining Tom? Bob? No, Daub, is very frustrating), and I think your music is the shit."

"Thanks dude." And we shook hands. He accepted my praise with humble appreciation and a smile.

We talked for a little while about some work he's doing with a mutual Friend at Suburban Home, Virgil, and some other bullshit.
Now for those of you who don't know, Joey is the lead singer/song writer for Lagwagon (arguably the most awesome band ever), as well as the Guitar player in Me First and the Gimme Gimmies, and the creative force behind Bad Astronaut.

This guy is like a god to me, I can't really remember a day of my life since I was a junior in High School that I haven't listened to at least one of his songs, and here he is randomly crossing paths with me on a "normal" day at work. It was surreal, I still feel like it was some kind of boredom inspired hallucination.

But it really happened, I shook hands with one of my heroes today.



end transmission.

The Note From Which the Chord is Built.

Speaking of AIDS....

I got my test results from the Doctor today. My cholestoral level is perfect, my thyroid is good, and I don't have herpes, hepititis or AIDS. In fact I am in perfect health and there are no sores on my asshole or genitalia. That bump thing on my cock turned out to be an ingrown hair, which I've had hundreds of before, but usually on my face, occaisionally on my leg or arm. Anyone up for some unprotected sex?

end transmission.

Look into the future, all I can see...the next generation looking back with pity on me.

Alright, today (well yesterday for all you people that live like a normal human being) is the 4th of July. The celebration of our country's birthday. There is a lot of YEAH AMERICA! shitting around this time of year, and it got me thinking about nations, nationality, and the world as a whole.

Obviously, back when you were lucky if you went 20 miles away from where you were born in your lifetime, the commradery necessitated by locality was important. There was a lot of scary shit out there, and it all wanted to eat your food and rape your family.
This concept gradually expanded to the scale of a nation, loosely bound by common language and common foes. Them and Us. You are like me, and we must protect what we have from those who are different than us because, well, how could I trust some dirty fuck who doesn't speak my language, much less love my god?

But today, at least in the US, I don't feel like an American. I don't really agree with 95% of the things my government does, I don't agree with most of the opinions of the majority of my fellow citzens, and I sure as fuck don't feel like I want to. I'm embarassed to be labeled an "American."
I feel more like a tenant, who must pay a monthly rent to live and drive and breathe in the borders of the complex. The US government is just a landlord that, for some reason, is allowed to take my money away, whether I want what their selling or not, and I get something in return, though I don't really get a say in what it is (voting is for suckers, don't think for a second your voice counts, but that's another rant) and they take a nother taste if I buy something I do want, and then they take a cut of my shit when I die.

To make a long story short, the world is so interconnected, finacially as well as culturally, it seems so stupid to base your most highly regarded affiliations on something so trivial as geographic similarities. The Nation-State paradigm is foolish, and more to the point, dangerous.

Terrorists have learned this, or perhaps they were the first to figure it out a long time ago. Who do retaliate against, when violence is perpetrated by a few, acting not out of patriotism, but in their own self interest? You can't go to war with a country just because a few of it "citizens" blew up some of your shit. Why hold entire populations of people responsible for the work of a few, just 'cause they live in the same town? Why think they think the same way?

But we have, and I say "we" because my taxes paid for those tanks, and bombs, and bullets. My money, though pratically stolen from me, paid for these things, and I AM responsible and there is nothing I can do about it. All because I was born here instead of Japan.

end transmission.

The agony of De-Feet.

A 13 year old girl's feet got fucking cut off on the Superman ride! Some cable snapped and chopped them right off above the ankle. Wow. What a shitty vacation. It kinda makes me want to get a job at an amusment park, I mena, shit, hooker fights and drunk tourists are amusing, but no one ever gets any of their limbs violently removed right in front of me. That's fucking terrible and fascinating to behold, I reckin'.

"But Daub? What about the poor little girl who got hurt? Have you no compassion?"

In a word, no. She got hurt voluntarily doing something fun. Fun things are often dangerous. I mean, come on, it's a ride that you strap into and then it drops you 200 ft at 55mph! You could get the same thrill jumping off a building, though argueably the Superman ride has a lower fatality rate than that alternative.

Besides, the cable could have just as easily severed her head.

end transmission.

If you don't remind me, I won't forget you.

If you don't already know, "Dear You" by Jawbreaker, it will kill you. It's the most powerful album I've ever heard.

Aside from that, I guess I don't have a lot to say. "I m jet black, I am stone cold."



end transmission.

If what you seek aint free, then fucking steal it.

First of all, I might be the last person who has heard of the BBC documentary "Planet Earth." If I am indeed, next to last, and you are the last one, let me tell you, it is fucking incredible. Run, don't walk, to the internet and buy it. The great white jumping out of the water in slo-mo....jesus it's fucking incredible, the whole thing looks like it's CGI, it's such an odd perspective on wildlife footage, I guess it took 5 years to make...anyway it's awesome. If you know how to use torrents, you can watch it for free, if you don't know how to use torrents, you are an archaic relic, and are falling so far behind the herd that that you deserve to be eaten. Seriously, you're like that old lady who is wasting everyone's time trying to pay with a check, and you left your driver's license at home, ad you demand that you be trusted due to the fact you've been shopping here for 40 years. Get with it!

What was I going to say...fuck?

I was late for work today. You all know how punctual I am, how could this have happened? Did I oversleep? Did I take to long jerking off in the shower? Whas there a traffic accident? All viable reasons...but alas, no.

I was feeling a little sluggish, so I stopped at a gas station for a Sugar free, So-Be energy boost. I grabbed the can out of the fridge, and went to pay for it. There was only one person in front of me, some scraggly looking dude buying a 12 pack of MGD. The cashier rang it up, and asked for the $12.37 needed to purchase such an august item. The dude had only a ten dollar bill.

A dilemma to be certain. So what does this asshole do? He turns, and looks at me, and says, "Can I borrow a couple bucks? I'm a little short."

You can imagine my response.

He said, "hold on," and went, slowly, out to his car. I told the cashier, who I have seen on more than one occasion, due to the gas station's prominent location on my route to work, "Here's the 2 bucks for mine (the beverage was technically $1.99 with tax)."

She told me she had to ring it up first, and she couldn't do that until she cleared this guy's order. My rage gauge was in the red, I looked at my watch and debated whether I needed the energy drink that bad. At this point, the guy comes back, somehow he had acquired $1.34. Now he had $11.34, which was not enough, but he was hopeful he could barter the beer's price down to this level.

I am now purple with rage. I look at the people behind me in line, they seem to be content to wait. I slapped a dollar on the counter, took 3 pennies from the little bin, and said..."Ok, come on. I gotta go."

The dude smiled, told me thanks. He grabbed for the 12 pack, but before he could grab it, I tore open the top, took one of the cans out, and put it in my pocket. HE looked mad, but stifled his protest and left.

end transmission.

Daub's a decent guy, until he drinks, and then his liquid mind takes over how he thinks.

Well, fuck me. I forgot I still had more story to tell. I got off on a tangent writing a story about cannibalism, and I just forgot about it. Anyway.

Grandpa had found his brother in Mexico, and found that he was very paranoid about who he would and would not meet in person. The lovely girl with the gun was Robert's 17 year old daughter. She eventually led them to Robert and there was general merriment at the reunion. Garner and Robert when off to get drunk and catch up, and Grandma and the girls were set to preparing the feast for the celebration, in fact, a pig was to be slaughtered for the occasion!

So while my kinda prissy grandma helped kill and gut a giant hog, Robert caught Garner up on what he was doing hiding in Mexico. It turned out that Robert had started to make a quite a large amount of money running guns from California to Mexico (and onward to where ever, apparently getting them out of the U.S, is the hard part), trading them for drugs and cash and then bringing the drugs back to the U.S.

He did this largely by boat, but used planes sometimes. This went on for years, and Robert amassed a shit ton of money, laundered through an few legit businesses in the States. No one noticed that a pet shop, a home improvement store, and bar were making tens of millions of dollars a year, until the bar was failed it's liquor license recertification for serving underage drinkers. This, in itself, was not a big deal, until it came time to file the tax returns, and a bar that was supposedly shut down for the last 8 months posted record profits.

An audit ensued, and Robert abandoned ship, left his wife in CA, clueless as to where he disappeared to and even less informed of her husband's actual profession. (Garner said that Robert had always hated this woman, but because a divorce might reveal his secret monies, had to endure her. So when he bailed, he left her with nothing, since all his assets were confiscated, fuck you hag!) He had set up this safe house in Mexico years before, and so there he was for the past 7 years, hiding from the FBI. He got married again to some mexican chick (I think she was his housekeeper at one time) he had knocked up years before, and just kinda drank and hung out. He covered his tracks pretty good, since the U.S. Government had yet to find him, but the fact that Garner's P.I. was successful was a miracle.

So Garner told him about his twin sons in Germany, and Robert (who had apparently wanted to marry his german nurse, but was not allowed to by the state department) decided they would leave for Germany as soon as possible, his hiding be damned.

If I was making up this story it would end with the twins being an FBI sting and Robert would have fought his way out of the trap, kinda like in Scarface, but alas no. This story has a pretty happy ending. They stayed in Germany for a few months, getting to know his long lost progeny. Unfortunately, Robert's nurse had died five years previous, but had always spoken kindly of him.


end transmission

We want to not know you, to better know you.

So where was I...

Oh yeah, well my Grandfather's 2nd eldest brother (my step-great-uncle? I dunno.) was shot three times by the surprised Nazi's in the foxhole he mistakenly charged, a flesh wound on his left leg, and two shots in his right arm/shoulder. He made it back to his unit and was med-evac-ed back to a hospital somewhere in Alsace, France which for those of you who don't know is on the German/French border, and is super fertile land. Almost every war those two countries fought were over this small strip of land, and everyone that lives there are as much German as they are French.

Anyway, he spent the rest of the war sitting there with a shattered collarbone and a broken arm.

Now we fast forward 28 years. My grandfather, Garner, is just sitting around doing whatever, and he gets a call. It is from a young man, stationed in Canada. A german soldier on some kind of training stint. The boy says he is trying to find his father. The lad's investigations could not reveal the location of anyone else in the family, and Garner was the only person related to his father he could track down.

Garner flies to Canada and meets the boy, who it turns out is a twin. Moreover, he is the son of Garner's brother (I guess I should start referring to him as "Robert," since that is his name) their mother was a nurse in the hospital where he recovered.

Robert knocked up this nurse (good work, dude!) and was shipped out of the country before he found out she was pregnant. She was unable to get word to him, obviously there was a little animosity toward the Germans in 1945. Garner told the kid he would like to help him, but Garner had not seen Robert in almost 13 years, he could have been anywhere, but Garner promised to do his best to find him and tell him he had twin sons in Germany.

The last Garner knew his brother was somewhere in California, but all his old addresses were all abandoned, and no one seemed to know where he was. Garner hired a private investigator to find his brother, and just waited.

It took the guy almost 7 months to track Robert down. Garner got a call; "Your brother's somewhere in Mexico, I need more money to go find him." Garner paid the man and waited again.

2 months later he gets a call. "I found Robert, if you want to see him I know where he is." So, Garner grabs my grandmother and heads down to Mexico. It's funny imagining a woman who doesn't even know how to pump her own gas going on this adventure...but it happened.

They flew into Mexico City and then drove in some shitty bus north to Guadalajara. At this point Garner is a little suspicious, he's not sure what the fuck is going on, and the PI won't say shit. The PI gets them a "cab" (some asshole with an old VW bug), and tells them this is as far as he goes. So it's Garner and Grandma alone in Fuck Off MExico, alone and headed out of town.

About 5 miles out of the city they come to a huge complex, i guess you would call it. A house surrounded by 15 foot walls. The cab drops them off, and leaves them at the front gate.

Neither of them speak Spanish, and Garner walks up to the gate and basically just keeps repeating "Robert Payne?" over and over to everyone he can see. Finally a guy let's them in, and not too gently walks them into the main house. Apparently the estate was massive, all kinds of side houses, stables and such.

They are brought to patio where a Mexican woman is sitting in a wheelchair, a blanket over her legs. She smiles at them and says (in broken English) "You are looking for Robert?"

Garner says, "Yes, he's my brother. I've been looking for him for a while."

The woman is skeptical, "If you are his brother...prove it."

Prove it? "Uh, I don't know. He's my brother," was all Garner could think to say.

The woman was unconvinced. Then Garner told her, "He has a big scar on the side of his face that he got from a farming accident in Wisconsin when we were kids, and he's also missing these fingers."

This seemed to convince the woman. She smiled. Then she pulled the blanket off her lap to reveal a double barreled, sawed off shotgun, aimed at them. "I think you are who you say," she told them.

I told you every one of Garner's 9 siblings were self made millionaires? Not all of them did it legally.

There's more.

end transmission.

All we know is failure, all we have is us.

I wrote a huge three page dissertation on life versus slavery, but I decided you wouldn't really enjoy it, so you get this instead.

I'm sure you all have met people that have changed your life, someone who has put something to you in a way you never really considered, or helped you through a tough patch....

My grandfather, on my mom's side. He had been married to my biological grandmother since before I was born, so he was pretty much my grandfather. He was a self made millionaire (one of 10 kids, all of which became very wealthy, I'm sure I will tell all their tales some day, but this about just two). My whole life he was very stand-offish, I wasn't his blood, and I was more than a disappointment. This was wholly justified, why would someone who brought himself from nothing to greatness have any pride in a chubby little idiot who had everything handed to him.

He may or may not have sexually abused my mom....I just don't know. I do know that when his death was imminent, we bonded. Not in any deep, emotional way...we just..understood each other, in the end. He knew he was dying, and I was the only competant aire to his legacy. Despite the man shady past, i found myself captivated by his stories, and it was my first real face to face with a man who never thought he would die, dying in front of me. Fuck what an evil, heartless man this was, he did what he needed to, prospered and now...it all came in the heap of shit that faces us all.

This was one of the stories he told me.

Garner's older brother, the second oldest of their brood, lived on the family farm in 1941. He was involved in a horrible accident with a piece of machinery, and escaped with only the loss of his right index finger, and half of the next two fingers. He also received massive scar from his hairline to his jaw.

Like many Americans at this time he enlisted in the war effort, but because of his injury (he had no trigger finger, and was thus unfit for combat duty) he was given desk work in England. When the Germans made their push in 1944 (later to be known as the battle of the bulge) the allies were desperate for warm bodies. This was his chance, they were taking all volunteers, blatantly needing warm bodies to catch bullets in the greatest German offensive of the war.

There he was, finally in combat. Anyone who knows anything about this time in WW2 knows it was luck and pubic hair that held the allied army together. My grandfather's brother found himself in a foxhole when the retreat was called. He was so scared and fucked up that he ran....

Straight into a German fox hole. He had retreated the wrong way and had charged the german lines! HE jumped, stupidly into a foxhole and started shooting. HE killed nazi 5 soldiers who were so surprised they could not react.

He realized what had happened and ran back to his comrades. He was awarded the Medal of Honor, and heralded as a hero.

This, is only the beginning of one of the most amazing stories I have ever heard.

end transmission.

You've got those moves and those eyes, I've got these shakes and bad breath.

A girl I have had sex with is dead.

As far as I know, she is the first to hold this dubious distiction. It was a a very long time ago, and I haven't spoken to her in close to a decade. I found out she was dead through the grapevine, as news of this kind will travel. She was nothing special, one of a tragic many from those days, a victim of my youthful indescretions and phobia of commitment.

The last time we spoke she was fucking my buddy Mikey (a marine who fucked just about every girl in Hallet Hall '96), vainly trying to make me jealous. I met her at a Face to Face show, and our combined love for that band is what led her to my bed, much more than my drunken charms, I think. We both had our lives changed by the same song. Girls in that scene were few and far between in those days, after all. Especially hot ones. She had the most amazing smile, and while I pretended to not not give a fuck about anythnig, I think she really didn't.

She used to write me poems, read them to me after we fucked, and then burn them. My psycho chic radar was on its max setting in those days, and if it wasn't for my constant 18 year old boy erection, I probably would have run sooner than I did. But she was fun, if not a little crazy. And she didn't smoke, I have always liked that in a girl.

She was interested in my writing, and I let her read it. She wrote in the margin of one of my stories (which I still have, oddly enough), "Good writitng is taking truth and recreating it, delicately painting it with a feather on a canvas of tissue paper. You write like the pen is a hammer and truth is a puppy's head."

In my youthful inexperience I may have missed out on someone who really understood me.

Now she is dead. She was in a car "accident." A drunk driver T-boned her at an intersection. She was coming home from the bars, also drunk. Her favorite drink was Gin and tonic, which I always found disgusting.

end transmission.

I think pascifists are weak, and violence is wrong.

Well, here we are again. I feel after all this time, there is a lot of pressure for me to blow you motherfuckers! (There should be an "out of the water" somewhere in that previous sentance, but due to alcohol consumption and budgetary cuts, some things had to go).

A few mouthes ago I came across a drunk man at work. He was in his mid 30's not being intrusive, just wasted, having fun. I had just watched a Russian cocktal waitress trick him into tipping 20 bucks for his drink, and then we began conversing. (Vegas tip #343 Beware Russian waitresses with amazing blue eyes)

Here's how it went.

"So how old are you...25..23?" he asked.
"I'm 28." I said.
"Married, kids?
"No man no wife no kids,"
"Good work! I've been married almost 12 years! Can you believe that!"
"No."
"I don't have any kids. I fucking hate children."
I was thinking on the topic and I decided to press the man for some intel.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" I asked.
"Sure!"
"How have you been married for 12 years, and managed not to have a kid, how did you find a woman who wanted to be with you, seemingly forever, and not want a kid?"
This guy literally grabbed me, pulled me close, and looked over his shoulders and all around. It was as if I had asked him if he knew who really killed JFK, and he was about to reveal the name to me.
"I can tall you it wasn't easy...but, my secret is I didn't."
"Your wife wants kids?, I don't get it." I said.
"Hell yeah she wants kids! I fucking don't, but I love her and...I didn't wanna lose her over such bullshit. Here look at this!"
He showed me pictures of his wife, pictures from the wedding, all kinds of sappy cheek to cheek photos, etc...and then he told me;
"Se she's hot, right? I wasn't about to let a thing like children get rid of her...so I uh...well...one weekend while she was away on a business trip...I got a vasectomy and never told her."

end transmission.

Oi! Soft Cocks! You're a fucking disgrace!

I'm back! Feet solidly entrenched on the terra firma of the good old US of A! It sure feels good to smell freedom in the air once again!

Unfortunately, I returned to find the freedom of internet access I usually enjoy has been stricken from me. I have pictures to post and stories to tell, but for now, due to technical difficulties, you'll have to settle for a quick summery and your imagination.

First, thanks to Heidi, Scott, and Dusty (Melbourne's #4 top bloke!) for having me in their home, none of them read this, but I say thanks nonetheless. I'm sorry for Kelly's behavior....I don't like to travel alone and she was the only person i could find on such short notice.

Swimming with sharks. Explaining to foreigners about how embarrassing it is to be an American right now. Fighting the great and terrible Turtlesaurus in the dark depths of the barrier reef. Teaching hot Russian chicks how to use photoshop. making fun of Canadians. Ringing up the biggest beer tab on the boat. Pub crawling throughout Melbourne and magically loosing weight and feeling no hangover. Aussie rules football, meat pies and beer. Learning sweet chili is no substitute for salsa. Everything in Australia comes with fries, even Chicken Parmeasen, Melbourne's fave dish. Creation of about 100 inside jokes that no one else will ever find funny. Aussie cats can apparantly teleport through locked doors. Ausralian Sea Hippies respect a bloke who can make fun of himself. Even non-sea hippies respect a good sense of self deprication. Australia has the world's surliest customer service.

I tried my best, but I could only reach an Aussie Cultural Assimilation factor of 85%.

I'm a Big Girl's Blouse.

Stickin' it in and hoping for the best, Cheers Dude!

I don't know or care with who or where I fit in with at all...

Writin' fast and livin' slow...

Ok, I'm on the eve of my voyage to Australia where I hope to embarrass myself on chunk of land heretofore unexplored by the people of my tribe. Either cool stuff will happen, or I will make cool shit up, either way, this blog should experience a noticeable spike in excitement.

I am also 3 days away from turning 29. How did I get this old? Aside from the simple biology of the the progression, I feel like I'm still 13 years old, but with hair on my balls. Wait I had hair on my balls when I was 13...uh..maybe I feel more like a 9 year old? The point is I fell just as immature and useless now as I did 10 years ago.

I guess my point is, Ian bought me a really cool diving knife for my birthday, and you assholes got me nothing...so I guess I know who my real friend(s) are. Hopefully this will inspire some guilt and thus cause you all to scramble to get some last minute gift. Don't bother, just send money, that will suffice. No more naked pictures of yourself feeding your pets....wherever that trend came from, send it back (you know who you are)...it's just creepy.

So I work with this Mexican lady (one of many), and she's actually really awesome, but today she said something that got my panties in a bunch. Today was her birthday, she turned 42, and was really proud of the fact. Which is odd and pretty cool. SHe was excited to have lived so long, had such a full life, 4 healthy kids, all that crap. WHat fucked me up was the follow up statement.

"I have four beautiful children, a house, a husband, some people have only one child or none at all."

Only one child, or none at all. She actually pities such people. Does she realize I pity her for the exact antithesis of her point of view? Probably not, she would most likely find just as much frustration in trying to understand how I feel as I do trying to figure her out. This bothered me for a a few hours until I watched a black hooker knock the front teeth out of a white hooker and laugh in her face. I also saw the white hookers boob when, during the tussle, her top was removed.

It is hard to focus in Las Vegas, sometimes.

end transmission.

Slowly Fading Fast.

Since these blogs are printed Chronologically, you might want to read the last post before this one in order to get part one of this story, in case that is too much work, here's a brief synopsis....

Previously, on Daub von Daub;
Theorizing that one could time-travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Daub von Daub led an elite group of scientists into the desert to develop a top secret project known as Quantum Leap. Pressured to prove his theories or lose funding, Dr. Daub von Daub prematurely stepped into the project accelerator... and vanished. He awoke to find himself in the past, suffering from partial amnesia and facing a mirror image that was not his own. Fortunately, contact with his own time was maintained through brainwave transmissions with Al, the project observer, who appeared in the form of a hologram that only Dr. Daub von Daub can see and hear. Trapped in the past, Dr. Daub von Daub finds himself leaping from life to life, putting things right that once went wrong and hoping each time that his next leap would be the leap home.

And now the conclusion....

Where was I...oh yeah the lesbian police officers.

So there we are, Chris and I talking on the curb, awaiting our Friend Brian's return with a car. Oh yeah, I guess I missed that point, Brian ran into us some time after the guy in the house threatened us, and before the pigs arrived. He said he would go get his car and come back for us, so we were just waiting for that to happen when the cop car showed up.

The lights come on, the spot light goes from me to Chris, and finally to Even, nonchalantly passed out in the gutter of the road a few feet away. The single light turns into three, as the cops pull out there flashlights. The "hot" one, shines her flashlight in my face and approaches, the bull dyke, stays at a safe distance, with her hand on her gun.

The flashlight moves from my face to Chris, then to Even.

"What's going on here?" the hot cop asks.

"Nothing, just waiting for our ride," I tell her.

"What's wrong with that guy?" she asked indicating Evan's lifeless form.

"He's drunk," I say.

"Why are his pants down around his ankles?" She asks.

Ehherrrrrrrt! His pants were down because he was fighting us the whole time we were carrying him, and he's super skinny so his pants just worked themselves off. Of course all I can think of to say is;

"They fell off," I go to get up to pull them up for him, when all Hell Breaks loose, both cops draw their guns and start yelling,

"Get back on the ground, hands where I can see them! (followed unintelligible screaming)"

"I was just...I was just gonna put his pants back on....ok I'm sitting back down."

At this point they calm down some,and the Bull Dyke walks over to Evan and starts trying to wake him up asking him questions, "Do you know these guys? Are you ok, what have they done to you?"

It is at this point that my alcohol addled wits finally do the math and realize what these two cops think is going on...

"Whoa! Hold it, we're just trying to get him home...his pants fell off while we were carrying him, we're not trying to rape him.."

"Sit down, now!" there is a gun in my face and I sit down.

"Do you know these guys?" Evan's questioning continues...and somehow he grabs onto some sort of coherence...

"Those guythss...yeah, I know them...they're fabulous!" Evan says and then goes back to sleep.

The cop looks up from Evan and asks us, "If you're trying to get him home, why are you just sitting here?"

"My friend is coming to get us with his car."

Meanwhile the other cop has gone to the house behind us to talk to the guy inside. She comes back out and asks us what happened. And this is where Chris and I's tactics in dealing with pigs differs. His dad was a cop, so he knows better than to lie, I just start lying out of habit.

"uh, what do you mean?" I said.

"This guy inside says you threatened him."

"Threatened? No, he said he was going to come out and kick our asses (which was technically true) and I told him that he was welcome to."

"He said you called him names."

"Names, like what?"

"He said you called him a pussy, and a motherfucker."

I start laughing. Like Butthead in health class. The cop just said it with such a dry expression, it was hilarious.

"What do you think is so funny?"

I stop laughing, suddenly serious.

"No, mam, I would uh never do that."

"Well he called us fearing you were going to beat him up."

What a pussy, I thought again.

This is when Chris pipes in, "Yeah we called him a pussy, he was telling us to be quiet and we're drunk, he threatened to come out here and fight us, and we told him to come try."

I started, "That's not how--"

I'm silenced by a flashlight in my face, "You sit down and be quiet, you're obviously full of shit, don't talk." I sit down and start wondering what the charges will be when I'm put in the slammer. Public intoxication. Threatening bodily harm. Uncooperative attitude. Attempted Sodomy of a redhead.

The two cops take our ID's and start talking on their radios and leave us to stew in our own thoughts. At this point, Brian returns with his car (he is pretty drunk too) and pulls over. One of the cops goes over and talks to him. Luckily his arrival corroborates our story and their fears of our molesting the skinny kid are alleviated.

The cops come back over to us, sitting on the curb, hand us our ID's.

"I want you to apologize to the man inside the house," the hot one says.

so I turn and yell, "I'm sorry you're such a pussy, dude!"

"no...hey...look at me, go to the door and apologize to him, or you're going to jail."

So I get up, escorted by the cop, to this assholes door. HE opens it, and what a surprise, he's a dreadlock hippie, my most hated enemy! He smells like a dog's butthole and he has a pot leaf tattoo on his arm.

"Hey man, I'm sorry I got so drunk and was being loud outside your house." I gave the cop a look that told her that was the best she was going to get.

"Ok dude, thanks," he told me. I turned and left, not waiting for my escort.

I returned to the curb, Chris and Brian were getting Evan into the car.

"The next time this happens, call a cab, and tell him to buy a belt," the short haired cop told me.

"He has a belt on , now, " I told her.

She did not think that was funny.

end transmission.

It's nearly Impossible, highly improbable, but not hopeless.

So, I have really been shitting the bed on this blog lately, and I apologize. My hate mail has tripled in the past two weeks, people demanding their money back and some even offering me money if I just stop ejaculating this crap on the tits of the internet.

Well, I refuse to cease. I know i must sometimes fight through the shit to get to the toilet paper. So here goes.

Since nothing super awesome has happened recently, I have decided to regale you with a tale of yesteryear, when I was younger, dumber and equally handsome. This tale is set in the late 1990's, a time before the internet, cell phones, or that little ring contraceptive device that no one told me about, until I encountered it in the field (that's another story for later, when the kids go to bed).

I was 21, or 22, i can't remember. I do remember that Evan had was just about to turn 21 that day. tomorrow was his birthday, and he imbibed a heroic dose of tequila. His plan was to get drunk, then go to the bars after midnight (when he would be officially 21), thus starting off his 21 year in the tradition of many a date raped sorority girl.

So things are going according to planned, Evan is shitfaced, running around giving pool pointers to everyone in the Foundry, often times taking the stick from unimpressed patrons and shooting for them, to varying degrees of success. I lost sight of him, running into some people. At some point, like a mother at the mall who has finally looked up from the shoe display to find her bastard brat missing, I realize Evan is gone. I grab my buddy Chris and we head out to look for him.

He's not in the bathroom, not on the street, not at any of the bars around...fuck. Well I decide that I need another drink to bolster my spirits and resolve my courage for the search mission ahead. Chris and I head to the Pub, which is on one side of a sort of outdoor mall, lined on both sides with shops and restaurants and such. There's all kinds of grass and trees in the middle, along with really ugly modern art.

We round the corner, and on a whim I ask the people sitting on the patio outside of the Pub and Old Chicago's, "Hey has anyone seen a tall, skinny redheaded kid, whose super drunk?"

Everyone, on both patios, as if driven by a single will, points behind me. I turn and see Even, facedown in the grass, legs twisted at impossible angles, dead to the world.

Operation get Evan home commences. He is 120 lbs of dead weight, we can barely get him upright and maneuver him a couple feet before he falls onto the ground and insists, "I'll be fine right here."

One of these episodes happened in the middle of a crosswalk, there's Evan laying in the middle of the street, and there we are trying to get him up, but he is petulant and uncooperative.

We struggle and work and finally get him off the main area and we find ourselves in the closed tents of the Boulder Creek Festival, closed tight in the dark. The past hour has worked the piss to the top of my bladder and I call for a pit stop. It is at this point that I open a tent flap, open my fly and fill the "kettle" they cook popcorn in with rented alcohol (if you ever go to this Boulder Creek Festival, no popcorn from the kettle, no one could scrub away ALL the pee)

Chris, who is a big ass guy, says "fuck it" and throws even over his shoulders as if Evan is weightless. We get about 100 feel when Evan starts tweaking Chris's nuts in some sort of misguided, drunken retaliation for his help. Neither of us can loosen his grip, so Chris just starts ramming Evan's head into a light post. Both men, locked in a mortal stalemate fight with a rage born of desperation, but I manage to get them pried apart and we once again halt to rest.

Chris will no longer have any part of Evan's ball grabbing fury, and we are still about 1/2 mile from home. I convince Chris to grab Eva's legs (only minimal ball gripping potential) and I grab his shoulders and we walk. He fights us every step, insisting he's going to puke, we drop him, and he falls asleep. Eventually we ignore his pleas and trudge onward.

We get to the residential area and pitch him in the gutter and catch our breath. Chris and I are both very drunk ourselves, and we were bullshitting, there on the side walk, when we hear a voice from a nearby house, it is 4AM;

"Hey fuck you guys, shut the fuck up!"

I am in no mood to be ordered around at this point, so I yell back, "Fuck you, go back to bed."

the reply, "I would love to, but I can't sleep with you two yelling outside my window, fucking shut up!"

"You either come out here and shut me up, or fucking deal with it!" I yelled back,

"I'm coming out there to fucking shut you up, asshole!"

A few seconds later a pissed off dude appears in the doorway, takes one look at me and Chris and goes right back inside.

"i'm going to call the cops!"

"Go ahead and do that you pussy!" I yelled.

And ten minutes later two Lesbian Boulder Cops arrived.

to be continued....

end transmission

You make me feel like balast, like dead weight...

I want to tell you all a joke. I want to tell you a story about trying to take a shit on a toilet that flushes automatically, or an embarrassing sexual escapde involving me and a drunk gril from Iowa. I desperately want to tell those stories, but....

This sentence is the hundredth draft... I want to say so much here, but my meager literary skills are incompetent in the face of the task before them. How can my art fail me when I need it most...? What do I say. What can I say?

end transmission.

Unlucky Stuntman.

I usually try to keep this shit funny and light hearted. Right now...I'm kinda addicted to the expression of this medium. I don't mean to bring you people down, and you are all surely very unused to any sort of non-sarcastic sincerity in this blog, but someone I care deeply for was diagnosed with cancer today.

This person is my age, and it's kinda fucked me up a little bit. Ironically, recently had a conversation about Kharma with a girl at work. I told her thaT I thought the concept of kharma was bullshit, because my life experience has taught me that good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people. Shit happens, there is no reward, no deserving including in the calculations.

This person is one of the most kind hearted people I have ever known, though this person certainly has a dark side, as we all do, but...goddammit. I am left without a schematic, no chart to show me the right course. There is nothing I can do, I am powerless, the worst feeling there is. Why is someone who has such a positive influence on the world, stricken down, while someone like me, so useless and mired in the morass of mysanthropy, left perfectly healthy?

There is no why. That is a question that we invented, it cannot be answered because "why" is a motive that we create, but it has no actual value or answer. I wish there was a God I could blame, curse, and blaspheme against, but there is none. Nothing happens for a reason, it is biology, chemestry...physics. Fuck, I hope she will be ok. It's all I can do, and it sucks.

I've never been so angry at the truth.

end transmission.

Does this shit happen to anyone else?

Well, I have the internet again, and it turns out that I can live without it for four days. Though technically I had it on my phone, so maybe not.

So, a lot of weird shit happens at the super market. I think it's 'cause it's really the only place on earth that everyone has to go. Whether you are a lawyer or a janitor, eventually you need toothpaste, and oranges, and pizza, and beer. So you get a lot of people that normally don't mix in society, mixing it up.

As a digression, you should all know that I live my life by a morality that is popularly known are "relativisistic morality." Simply put it's the theory that morality is relative to the person in any given situation. Stealing is wrong...but not if your kids are starving, that kind of shit. I determine right or wrong based on what I would feel and/or do if I was the person in any given situation, I think it's really the only way to make judgment calls on hypothetical situations.

So retards. I think a child that is going to be retarded should be aborted. If it is too late for that, it should be humanely euthanised after birth. I only say this because, I would rather be dead than retarded. Life sucks bad enough without a handicap like that, and if i was in the womb, about to be born retarded, I would not want to live. Now that is not to say that I want everyone to kill their retarded babies, luckily for a limited time we still get to make choices like that for ourselves, I'm just saying what I would want/do. I think it is the only humane thing to do. Same goes for if my baby was black. (come on, that's a little funny.)

This is all relevant because I was at the local Albertson's buying provisions for the day. The bag boy was retarded. The "check yourself out" lanes were down for maintenance, and I had to shuffle along with the rest of the idiots. This is pretty much how it went down.

The retard put my beer in a bag (it maybe a slight bit ironic that we use drugs to feel like retards feel all the time, maybe I'm wrong, maybe I should hope that everyone is born retarded..hmm...);

Retard: "I'm going to put this in three bags so it doesn't break."
Daub: "Thanks, dude."
Retard: "My mom says beer makes you fat and dumb."
Check out lady is slightly embarrassed.
Daub: "Your mom's probably right."
Retard: "How come you're all wet?
Daub: "I just finished working out."
Retard: "You should take a shower."
Daub: "I think that's a good idea."
Retard: "My mom says you have to exercise or you will get fat."
Daub: "Yeah, that's true."
Retard: "I don't think Sarah exercises too much."
Sarah is the uncomfortable check out girl, who is slightly obese. At this point I make eye contact with Sarah and it takes all the will power I have not to laugh in her face and say, "the retard called you fat!"
We go through the normal bullshit, I sign my receipt and I grab my shit from the retard.
Retard: "Don't forget to shower, you stink."
Daub: "Thanks, you have a great day."
He moved on, bagging someone else's groceries.

end transmission.

I wrapped regret around the chance I'll never take..discarded dreams, far too much time awake.

I was writing a story about a girl who killed herself and I was researching suicide notes. This page is awesome: http://www.well.com/~art/suicidenotes.html. I don't know if it's real, but it seems genuine enough, or else the author is a badass. I love the idea of using your own death as revenge to someone who obviously hates you. THe guy who says he can't think of 45 days he would ever want to relive...awesome. I love the sense of humor these people exude in their final words, I also love the numerous type-o's. You'd think you'd want your last written work to be flawless, but apparantly who fucking cares.

I also found a rondom suicide note generator, this is what it made for me:

(Try it out http://www.porkjerky.com/suicide.htm)

February 26, 2007

Listen Up Dumbfucks:

Most people kill themselves because of a mental condition. This is true in my case too. The condition I suffer from is that I am not normal, I am not like everyone of you "sane" people.

I am not normal in the sense that I am not like every other one of you brain-dead zombies. I can think. I can reason intelligently. I can observe and learn from life. I can make my own decisions and follow through on them. And I can do these without any aid from celebrities, T.V. or radio. Unfortunately, every one of you shit-brained lemmings seem to lack these skills and I can't fucking take it any more.

Since everyone else in this world is a fucking retarded drone who revels in their ignorance and unintelligence, I must put an end to my misery. I truly wish I was normal. I wish I could be a fucking retarded sponge like all of you. I wish I could have the same conversations day in and day out about sports, politics and "how about that weather huh?". But I can't.

Sure you'll see this note and say Daub's the crazy one. You have to it's the only way you can go on thinking you're sane and your pathetic life is meaningful. Go ahead, call me the weirdo like everyone else surely will. Then return to your happiness of everyday mindless monotony.

My only wish is that the bullet I put into my brain doesn't kill me but only leaves me brain dead. For if ignorance is bliss and everyone of you fuck-for-brains is truly happy, then living a life without a brain stem in a coma, devoid of any cognitive ability must surely be utopia.

Leave My Machine Plugged In You Fucking Retards,

Daub

P.S. I superglued all my orifices shut so you coroner pricks can't steal my fillings or sex up my corpse.

It's a little too good. I better up my game before I kill myself.

end transmission.

Don't Call ME White.

So the NBA all star game came and went, with only 6 or 7 gun related deaths, almost 1,000 arrests, countless cocktail waitress molestations, and a general stench of anti-black people sentiment throughout the city to mark its passing.

By my count 98% of the people out this weekend were black, and about 75% were fucking assholes, on a scale I cannot even express. Absolutely no respect for anything or anyone, demanding free shit, throwing shit at people who didn't hop to fast enough, just loitering around and being loud, and obnoxious.

Now as a white man, I most certainly have never tried to scam free drinks from a casino, or acted like a jerk in public when under the influence of drugs and alcohol! Truly offensive!

A lot of people say a lot of shit to/around me because I am white. Things they may hold to themselves if in certain company, it's shitty that they assume I will be empathetic to their bullshit, but there it is. "Those people are animals," or "I'm not racist but this is why no one really likes black people."

Wow. Actually, these people are the reson why people don't like assholes. They just happen to be black, but I've known some assholes who are not black, quite a few, actually.

I even had a co-worker tell me that they were "embarrassed to be black," this weekend. Finally, someone who knows what it's like to have a whole demographic of your race embarass the fuck out of you by there behavior, and to feel somehow akin to them because of your DNA. I'm embarassed to be white everytime some ignorant motherfucker takes time out of his busy quality time in his trailer finger banging his daughter, so he can go out and beat up a gay guy or some black dude who has the audacity to marry a white girl. Fuck, I'm embarrased that our President is white.

Anyway. On a positive note, I was walking around with a clipboard at about 4 in the morning. I had to write down some numbers from a machine that was directly in the middle of about 6 black people sitting around bullshitting. I said excuse me, walked in the middle of them and started writing. One dude said;
"Look at this shit, what are you writing down how many niggas you got up in here? Just walk right up and start writin'! No shame at all."
I replied, "YEah, but on the sheet I'm supposed to call you guys "Neegros.""
I thought this fat black lady was going to choke on her drink she started laughing so hard. Her friend said (I swear to christ) "You did not!" about 5 times at the top of her lungs, and everyone laughed at me.
The guy who had spoken first said, "You're an alright dude(black people say dude?), What's your name?"
I said, "My name's Daub."
They introduced me all around, took my picture with the group and before I left, the fat lady said,"Now you make sure you don't get shot this weekend."
I said, "I ain't trying to get killed at work."
They all replied, "I heard that."
and I went on my merry way.

end transmission.

Alone Amognst the Heathens.

Alright! I get it, no more existential laments of my senescent fears. No more rants about boring ass celebrities. Today I'm back to my wacky adventures and the often embarrassing results of my life and times.

As a preface, a short history lesson. When I started working at Mandalay Bay, I was a little sad to be returning to Graveyard hours, and I was drinking very heavily, lamenting my nocturnal prison. Those of you that know me, know that I cannot really hide my internal emotional state from showing on the outside. If i'm pissed, or happy, or whatever, you can see it in my face. My disdain and contempt was apparent to my supervisors and I got the non-surprising "do you like working here? You don't seem to. You're attitude is unacceptable."
Now usually when someone tells me they don't like my attitude, I would say,"I don't like anything about you, so why would I care what you don't like about me." but I needed money and a lot of people went out of their way to help me get the job, so I bit my tongue, and thus the most brilliant coping mechanism my evil genius has ever hatched came about.
When George Costanza realized every decision he had ever made had led him to failure, he decided to do the opposite, and everything would have to logically succeed. Well everything I thought or felt, resulted in the people at my job thinking I was a bitter, angry, relatively uncontentious individual who hated everything about the small minded hampsters he had to work with and under.
Since these feelings were not likely to abate, I just reversed how they were expressed. If someone asks me how I'm doing, I respond (Life is Shit, and you are the asshole.) "I'm doing super awesome! How are you doing!" Shit eating grin on my face. If some high school dropout tells me I have to comb the entire casino for chairs covered in piss, I would say (The fact that someone as stupid as you is my boss makes me want to kill everyone who ever met you, including myself) "Of course boss! Sounds fun!"
You get the idea. The more pissed off I was, the more psychotically cheerleader-like ecstatic my outward demeanor would appear. This had the added bonus of my inwardly laughing my ass off at mocking this life they all take so fucking seriously, thus relieving my own boredom and stress levels. I was using a modified anti-sarcastic sarcasm technique, pioneered (or at least introduced to me by) Justin and honed to a razor edge by hours of practice at the sub shop. That was a little different, since everyone but Bruce was in on it. My new approach worked and in less than a week I got the, "You have made a noticed improvement in your attitude, we've seen it, and we like it."
Anyway that leads into the second part of my trials this day. The first has something to do with a little hurdle I face everyday called "professional sports." I don't give 2 shits about any pro sports. If it wasn't for Nike I wouldn't know any of their names, if it wasn't for video games I wouldn't even know most of the rules. That is a small problem in most social situations, I usually surround myself with people that have more to talk about than that shit. Don't get me wrong, I have friends that are sports fags, but they can talk about other shit with me, and sports with their other friends. But at work, i don't get to pick who I interact with. And let me tell you I exaturate not a whit when I say that every male employee of my casino has no opinion, or interesting commentary on anything other than sports. That and all the things they would do to chicks that wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire, but that's pretty much all dudes everywhere. Their vapid diatribes of homosexual awe make me almost want to hear about what color Carrie is thinking of changing her fingernails to.
Anyway, this also goes for most of the customers. And this is of course, the weekend of the superbowl. On the 435th time I was asked by some drunk asshole, "Who you got on the game tonight?" I decided to have a little bit of fun. Usually I just pick whichever team the inquiring mind is advertising via hat or jersey. This results in massive amounts of high fives and cheering. This time, however, I told him the truth. This is how it went:
"I don't follow football."
"Why the fuck not?"
"I just don't care about sports."
"No sports?"
"I like girls volleyball."
"What are you gay?"
"No. I think watching a bunch of sweaty dudes root around in the dirt wearing tight pants and slapping each other on the ass, bending over in each others faces, is kinda gay. Getting such a vicarious thrill through the triumph of total strangers, is...I just don't get it."
"So, since you're a fag, you must be a Colts fan."
How does one argue with such insurmountable logic?

Still with me? Here's number 2. I was unloading off my slot gear waiting to clock out. I was waiting for this amazingly jubilant old man. Now, when someone is genuinely excited about coming into work, I instantly put them on the danger list, though it does help to feed my faux gusto.
"Hey! How are you today," I asked.
"I am doing amazing," the old man said, not a stitch of irony. Maybe I have met my match, maybe this old man has taken my technique to a level I can only aspire to. I must test him.
"Amazing? That's pretty good for nine in the morning! Why so amazing, what's your secret, I'm barely awesome right now!"
"Well I just got out of the hospital."
"Yes, always a cause for celebration."
"Yes they had to kill me for ten minutes and then bring me back so my heart would beat correctly. Now every minute of life is wonderful."
Damn! I knew it!
"Yup, life is pretty sweet, I have to agree with you! It could be worse!"
"Yes, that is how I feel. You know, you could go at any time. One minute your here, the next...you just don't know."
Yes. That is true. I agree, "Well let's just hope it's not too soon for any of us, am I right?!"
"That's why it's important to be prepared."
? what the fuck does that mean ? Prepared like, have a will in your pocket, or maybe make sure you paid your insurance so your family won't starve? No, being prepared for death means everyone you love knows you love them every minute!
"Prepared, like how?
"You have to make sure you have the love of Jesus in your heart at all times. It's what I tell all the young people in my bible study group."
At this point I would like to iterate that this kind of brainwashing is as evil to me as the Hitler Youth or teaching your children that black people are all criminals. Wasting space in young fertile minds with superstition and magic is quite possibly the most heinous thing anyone can do to the intelligent, useful development of a child's psyche. To teach them to focus more on the consequences of a life after this one, instead of making the most of this, their only one true shot....aghhh!
"Oh great! When are those meetings, sounds like you've got a lot of good ideas!"
"They're every Wednesday night. I can give you directions to the church."
"That's ok, but I'm gonna look into this Jesus thing. Have a great day!"
"You too, God bless."
"Awesome!"

So the third and final straw is a somewhat more common occurrence, but in light of my day I was in no mood for pleasantries. I had just got home from the gym. I was getting some shit out of my car, wearing what I always work out in, pink short-shorts and a black muscle shirt.
This little mexican dude comes gerbiling on my six. this is what transpired;
"Hey man, can I talk with you?"
"Uh, yeah, what's up?"
"Uh, my friend, got like pulled over by the police...and they uh took him to jail."
"Shitty."
"Yeah so, I was-"
"I'm not going to give you any fucking money."
5 second pause.
"Not even a dollar?"
"How the fuck is a dollar going to get your friend out of jail?"
"Well, I just have to-"
"Nevermind, fuck off."
I turned to walk away, and I swear this is what he said to me.
"Can I bum a smoke?"

end transmission.

Murder By Life.

Well some of you might know that I have a Grandma. She is drunk almost all the time, and is quite close to insanity. She can be very annoying, and petulant, but she has a special place in the hole where my heart used to be, so I can't help but have sympathy fot her. To her, I will always be that chubby, sweet little boy she knew me as long ago, and while this is sometimes problematic, it is also somewhat endearing. She has no idea what a massive pile of useless I have become, nor what an asshole I can be. She was also the only adult in my life that did not react with that pandering, "he'll grow out of it and get a real job" when I said I wanted to draw and write for a living. That always stuck with me and so I try to help the poor old lady.

That being said, I wish she would die.

She has lived a long time, and had her run at things. She had a pretty good life, but the good times are done. Everyone in her family, her husband of 40 years, all her friends, they're all fucking dead. Her life is as lonely as I can imagine is possible, with me her only friend (certainly a fate worse than death) Add to that the fact that the world has completely left her behind (she was born before electricity for fuck's sake!) and it's no wonder she's constantly wasted. She's trying to kill her self daily with piulls and booze, but because of some fucking ancient religion bullshit about suicide, she can't just off herself. "Why won't God let me die," she has often lamented. Maybe God is just a serious asshole.

This whole situation makes one thought surface in my skull. I do not fear death. I fear getting old. I don't mean turning 40 (though I do not relish that inevitability) I mean outliving your life, your body and mind failing, and watching everything you know and love change and disappear. Think about it, every person you ever made laugh, every person you ever fucked, every bastard you ever met on myspace, your mom and dad, brothers and sisters, all the people you remember, no longer exist, and you will never make new memories with these people. No one even knows what a Playstation 5 is, and all your favorite actors and bands are dust. No one wants to hear about life bfore cybornetic limbs and computer chip brain implants. You have nothing to look forward to and the past only brings pain. Existance is a painful limbo were all potential is lost, and thanks to the Republicans, you have to work at Wal-Mart just to have enough cash to stay drunk.

Hopefully, I'll get hit by a bus or a falling meteorite soon. That way my funeral will be full of grieving people, lamenting my untimely demise. You don't wanna be the last one to go with no one left to carry your coffin.

end transmission.

I am sooo sorry.

It has come to my attention that I am an insensitive, intolerant hate monger, with anger management issues. Man, I apologize to everyone for my injudicious views on, what are very truly, super important world issues.

I will be checking myself into a social sensitivity rehabilitation center. Hopefully they will help me care more for people I don't even know and allow me to avoid my terribly incorrect, yet surprisingly funny over generalizations, about people and their bullshit. Hopefully my blog will soon reflect my personal progress in the upcoming months.

Thank you all for sticking with me in my most dire time of need and weakness.

end transmission.

I'm not gay, but you are.

Wow. First of all i got suckered into watching Grey's Anatomy, once. I am a sucker for medical shows, and this one qualified, but it is the shittiest TV show I have ever seen, and labeling it a pandering, "chick" show would be very insulting to chicks. (PS if you watch and/or like that show, I will hate you, I promise).

That being said, I can't escape this "controversy" about the black dude that called someone on the cast a fag or some shit, i don't even know who he said it to. It doesnt fucking matter, really. The entire situation is ludicrous. Like I said I don't even watch it, but I still know about it, (aren't we at war or something?) and that angers me greatly.

They're actors people! COME THE FUCK ON! They are not the characters they play. Who cares if Dr. Dreamboat hates fags in real life? Apparently everyone but me. His job is to pretend he is someone he's not, if your gay and you like his character, well that just tells me he's good at what he does.

And what kills me is that this poor bastard is going into counseling over this shit, to change his obviously incorrect views on the gays. What the fuck kinda bullshit is that? If i was that guy I would have said, "You know what. Eat shit. I called him a fag, and he is a fag. And fuck you for telling me what I can and can't say, or what I can't and can't believe. I might have said it at the time just to hurt him, with no real anti-homo sentiment behind it, but now, fuck you all."

but that's just me.

end transmission.

Coping with Insignifcance.

This weekend was a very good time indeed! I got to hang out with some of my oldest palls, drink until sickness and tell stories about shitting and make fun of stuff. I got to go see NOFX (which was amazing, It's been almost 4 years since the last time?) and hanging out with real punk kids, both old and new, people who share a love for sarcasm, PBR, and being assholes to everyone. No dude make-up either. Finally hanging out with good music everywhere, not a DJ in sight.

I had almost forgotten that there were any of these people left, but be assured they thrive! I haven't laughed as much as I did this weekend in many moons. Kelly and Chopper were out here, as well as Scott Kaplan, and Virgil and a veritable army of Suburban Home/Denver Punk peoples, drunks, nerds, and losers all around. We had an amazing time, and I'm now loathe to return to my normal life.

I haven't had that much fun in a long time. I would like to thank all of you, (even Fat Mike, who was a dick to me, just like always) even the new people I met whose names have faded in a beer inspired amnesia. Sorry for the unusual lack of vocabularic pinache, but my brain is literally exhausted, and elated for the pain. I have to get some fucking sleep now.

end transmission.

Finally, I know who gave the best onscreen BJ in 2006.

So last night was an excitig night at work. The AVN convention is currently taking up the floorspace in the convention center of THe Mandalay Bay. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's the largest Adult Video/Product convention in the U.S., and last night they had their award show. A kind of Acadamy Awards for porn, if you will.
When the show was over, the party spilled into the casino, and you can just imagine what that was like. Strangely enough, porn stars do not feel the least bit shy in a public setting. I haven't seen so many topless hot girls making out and finger fucking since my Grandma's 73rd birthday back in '92.
Honestly, all you had to do was look for a big crowd, and in the center of that crowd was any number of hot girls, tearing their clothes off and making out. Not to mention girls just standing around topless, gambling, drinking, all that shit. It was an eye candy bonanza.
Of course, the women I work with were all very confounded and noteably snooty. "Why do men have to be such idiots over tits?" or "Stop looking at those three girls practically fucking and get back to work" or "they're just tits and most of them aren't even real."
Their pleas fell on deaf ears and their attempts to ruin the spectacle were in vain. I mean, I might have been just as apprehensive if the casino had been overcome with statuesque male doctors from some kinda underwear model/mensa convention, but that kinda thing just doesn't happen in Vegas, or anywhere, who knows?
I also got invited by some dude to audition to be in porns on his website. Apparantly the interview is as follows:
1. Daub walks into room. Room has a few dudes and a camera.
2. Daub strips.
3. Daub achieves erection by manual means.
4. Daub masturbates and must be able to cum on command.
3. Success = a call back and I get to fuck some random girl and have it webcast throughout the planet.

I said I would consider it, took the man's business card, but declined to shake his hand.

end transmission.

I hate Bono.

So we're sending 20 something thousand more poor highschool dropouts to the middle east. I try to avoid politics in this thing because I like talking about myself more, but I watched that speech good 'ol George gave on the TV and it made me want to fucking assassinate him, well more than I already did.

You hear that secret service! I want the President of the United States dead. If I dissappear suddenly in the night you guys know what happened.

Anyway, fucking fuck! That asshole talked (well, sounds came out of his mouth in stuttering stream) for so long but he basically only said one thing. The fact that that anus sniffing fuckface told us with a straight face that sending more soldiers over there was the first step to getting them all home...well I was pretty drunk and now I have to buy a new TV. How stupid does he think we are? How does that even make sense? I might not understand all the nuances of American politics, but this makes no goddam sense. Fuck that guy. It's so frustrating.

end transmission.

The Rejection of Salvation.

The human being who is condemned to death is, at least, magnificent before he disappears, and his magnificence is his justification. The Daub creates his own unity by aesthetic means. But it is an aesthetic of singularity and of negation. The Daub is, by occupation, always in opposition, He can only exist in defiance. He can only be sure of his own existance by finding it in the expression of others' faces. Other people are his mirror. A mirror that quickly becomes clouded, it is true, since human capacity for attention is limited. It must be ceaselessly stimulated, spurred on by provocation. The Daub, therefore, is always compelled to astonish. Singularity is his vocation, excess his way to perfection. Perpetually incomplete, always on the fringe of things, he compels others to create him, while denying their values. He plays at life because he is unable to live it. He plays at it until he dies, except for the moments when he is alone and without a mirror. For the Daub, to be alone is not to exist.

end transmission.

Don't confuse your truth with your pain.

Well I've taken a break from my Tiger Woods 2007, I double bogey'd the last hole putting me at +6 for the Tour, which is really shitty. That game is like crack. I wonder if real golf is that much fun? Hm..

So 4 days deep into 2007 and there is really nothing to report. A funny anecdote...

I was working, well I was standing around at work wondering what would be better to be burned alive or to have a white hot copper wire stuck in my pee hole, when a cocktail waitress came up to me and said,
"Daub, who is that guy, he's famous isn't he?"
She was indicating a real tall skinny black guy, his hair mostly grey, and he had a cane.
"yes, that's Dr. J." I told her.
"Oh he's a doctor, I thought he was an athlete or something."
Then she walked away. Now I'm no sports freak, but I know who Dr. J Erving is. I went over to him (me and the Doctor kinda bonded earlier talking about how cool it was being so much taller than everyone else...I told him about how men over 6'2" are the largest minority in the world, we got to talking about all kinds of other shit, he's a real cool dude) and I told him what the girl had said, and he almost choked on hs beer laughing. When he recovered he told me that such a misunderstanding made him feel old.

Welcome to the club Dr. J.

end transmission.