How unfulfilled can you feel for $40 an hour?

I have decided that my newest life goal and highest priority (along with drinking and fucking) is to earn the title "Hero of the Soviet Union." I realize that I am, at the time of this writing, about twenty years too late on this, seeing how the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991. To this end I have decided to begin a conspiracy to bring back the state that convinced idiot American analysts that Communism was a global Monolith threatening freedom and mom's apple pie. Sure, this will oppress millions and bring the world back to the brink of nuclear war. But I'll have a medal. Reasonable priorities, Fuck yeah.

Huh. I guess I'm a costume, bank robbery and a henchman away from achieving the status of super villain, which isn't that unappealing of a career path...

[Laser sharks or not, This dude's got nothing on me]

No really, he's just a fictional character portrayed by an actor. Nowhere near super villain status.

I currently hold two jobs, both of them equally shitty and equally awesome in their own ways. I also am one of the highest paid employees, for both jobs, excluding the owners of these establishments. As anyone who wasn't completely disinterested in my previous rantings will remember, one of those jobs currently is a liquor store. Being the highest paid employee outside of the boss means I get a whopping $8.00 an hour. How did I get the dubious privilege of earning 50 cents more than my peers for doing a job a mental abortion could accomplish?

I asked. Yeah, that story sucks ass.

Well $8.00 an hour isn't that much as you well know. At 40 hours a week, that's a mere $320 a week prior to taxes. Considering dinner and drinks can run you $60-100 for a single evening, not to mention the price of bar liquor, condoms, gas to get to and fro along with day to day expenses and the price of graduate courses, plus the finer luxuries in life such as ammunition, it's pretty obvious I'm living beyond the means of a shitty $320 paycheck. Even considering that I don't have to pay rent, it is impossible to live my lifestyle on slightly above minimum wage.

Clearly I must have massive credit card debt, like many of my peers. Right? Actually, I don't own a credit card. (Yes I know it's not the wisest decision, but it is what it is.)

[But when I do, this will be my custom skin]

I'll be the coolest kid from 2010

So how does a debaucherous, hedonistic man whore, pay for his booze, ammo and classes?

Web development. Yeah, that's right, yours truly has some basic computer skills, mainly HTML, php and some Javascript. But how does an English and History major get a job with computers you ask?

  [First picture in the Google search for "nagging bitch" that didn't involve cats and poor grammar]

It was actually less like "nagging" and more like emotional abuse, but that shit isn't nearly as funny

Yep, you guessed it. A woman. I made the mistake of quit my job at a local restaurant that made shaving my nipples off with a cheese grater a more appealing option that showing up for work on time. The hordes of fat people were horrendous, emptying tray after tray of buffet food at a rate just slightly slower than I could fill them, meaning that for every two troughs you filled, you were stuck refilling one that was empty. It was a veritable Sisyphean task that I got paid minimum wage + tips for.

I quit. Rather abruptly. Without the foresight of lining up another job first. Woops. My then girlfriend was relatively unhappy with her boyfriend only being a double major student with a full ride to a top tier university. (Between family benefits and scholarships I was actually getting PAID to be there)

 [Which means that I actually got paid to sleep. I call it Salary for Snoozing]

 Disaster was averted when I decided not to host a crossover with my Salary for Shit program

So to satiate her, I decided to find another job. In the middle of 2008, also known as part of "The Great Recession." You know, the polite way of saying "The United States finally fucked itself financially, no work for you." So, after months of failing to find employment, what did I do?

I learned an entirely new set of skills from the ground up with no prior background and got myself a god damned job by manipulating the shit out of my social connections. Basically this mildly diabolic bout of job grabbing was a prelude to the arrogant ass hat that I am now. A brilliant bout of social engineering and I got introduced to the owner of a local tech company that primarily did website maintenance. I got the introduction by implying I'd work for less than what it would normally cost to hire a web developer. When I got to the bargaining table I conned the owner into paying me the full $35.00 hour fee by offering to fill a void he needed filled about two weeks ago. Yes, there's a sex joke in there. I saw it too. 

[And fill that void I did, if you know what I mean]

Someone needs to put cotton in her mouth to soak up that drool while she sleeps and my splooge when she wakes

He was not the wisest man in the world. Of course hiring me worked out well for both of us as I'm not fucking retarded and actually do my work, but he was pretty lousy with money. As in so lousy, the company tanked four months later only to get bought out by another company that needed more software related people. (He did pay me however.) The new company was satisfied with my four months of experience and solid "web development skills" (Read: Retard level coding and photoshop abilities) and hired me.

[Actually, fuck photoshop. I use The GIMP]

Which, in perfect accordance with my debauchery, can be interpreted as needlessly and overtly sexual

A few months later I became bored and was also displeased with the amount of work I was getting. As the company that ate my old company was primarily hardware related, they bought us out mainly to get our hardware at bargain prices, and despite claiming to want to advance the software end of things, failed to do so. So I moved on to greener pastures with a coworker...

...to a company with the promise of 10 hours of work a week or more. Guaranteed. At the previous company I got decent work, but sometimes it slipped under 10 hours a week. Sometimes it pushed 25. A guarantee of 10 hours a week meant I could effectively budget. It means I could start doing things like begin budgeting for my eventual proposal to the then girlfriend. 

Which leaves me where I am today. Still with this company, and getting paid $5.00 an hour more than folks with degrees in programming. Why? Because one of the skills I fully unlocked after my brush with death was being a manipulative bastard and a quick-to-rise bullshitter.

Picture this setting: It's 2010. Your boss is attempting to get a client to spend a pretty big sum of money. That client has a female partner who is known for indirectly controlling the purse strings of the company he works for. He's also impulsive and sticks to a decision he makes. The chick helps keep him under control and helps shape his decisions, if he hasn't put his mind to them. How do I know this? My boss told me.

Why did he tell me this?

To put it in his words:

"Well you've been quite the man whore recently, right? Wanna help me out?"

"Wait, what? Are you... soliciting me? Cuz I'm gonna need a raise if you are."

He failed to jump on the "I already have a rise," joke and explained to me that he wanted me to come there and distract the chick as she was about my age and supposedly cute. His strategy was to distract her long enough to get the guy hooked on the sales pitch on his terms, get him to commit in his mind before the chick could convince him to bargain and haggle. Also he'd drive my ass, buy me some smokes and pay my bartab for the entire evening. Wait, did he say pay my bar tab for the ENTIRE evening? And the girl is cute too? Who the shit cares if I'm being exploited, all I have to do is get drunk and hit on someone.

 [He would have been better off paying me $35.00 an hour]

Starting a land war in Asia might very well be a smarter idea than offering to pay for my ENTIRE bar tab

The chick didn't show up. I was left as the third wheel as my job wasn't to sell the company, the owner was. He told me to go get drunk, but told me he wouldn't drive anyone home with me. Needless to say I had a few black labels. At Downtown prices. Then I had a few beers, and hit on every piece of ass in the bar. And I didn't get shot down by all of them either! Then I drank even more. Patron? Sure! Grey Goose? Why the fuck not?

Now it's 1:30 am. I'm pretty blitzed. I have a few numbers in my phone. Sweet. My boss is yammering on about the job. Then he turns to me. "Isn't that right?"

"Huh?"

"I said isn't that right?"

I head nodded towards the chick with a tramp stamp on her back at the bar. "Uhhhh..."

"We're able to handle software and hardware applications at all levels, right?"

"Oh!" I realized it was time to work. Somehow I had gotten drawn into this deal closing. I don't have a business degree or any of that shit, so why the shit do I have to do this? Oh, right, I drank like $35 worth of booze the first half hour I was there. That might be why. I began explaining to the client, trying my damnedest not to slur my words and make an ass of myself. Apparently I did a half decent job of explaining what I do, how quickly I can do it and talked up my fellow coding monkeys, because we got the contract.

[Unmarked Quest Complete]

    (Choose your reward)

- One time bonus check          

- Permanent hourly raise         

I took the permanent hourly raise. When I asked what the bonus check would have been I received the following response:

"That's for me to know and you to obsess over."

No maniacal laugh, but sometimes when I rethink it I throw one in, because he really should have laughed maniacally. 

Now full circle to the post title. Why? Because fuck your noise, that's why. (Or maybe because that was the entire point of this post. Maybe) As stated in the post title "How unfulfilled can you feel for $40 an hour?" I imply that my job is unfulfilling. That's because it is. My job requires retard level coding ability. A trained monkey could do most of the shit I do. I'm sure there are down syndrome children with more advanced coding abilities. Yet I am getting paid $40.00 an hour for this shit. I walked into a field with no experience, taught myself this shit and now I'm getting a paycheck so easy that I often complete my projects while hammered beyond belief. And they turn out flawless or so near flawless nobody knows there was a problem.

And I am getting paid $40.00 an hour for this bullshit. 

I'm not changing the world, saving orphans or curing cancer. I'm coding stupid people's websites for shit tier businesses. And let me reiterate this:  

I'm getting paid $40.00 an hour for this. 

When it comes to my work, it is unremarkable, boring and easy. I am without a doubt under worked and overpaid with this job. I frequently get to charge for a full hours of work for a job that takes twenty minutes. Taking this into account, I make more money in the space of 3 solid hours than I make all week at the liquor store.  

Three. Fucking. Hours. 

Usually while drunk. 

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Compulsive, Chronic Masturbation)

My boss encourages me to drink when working because he's happy with the results. He figured it out the night that he payed for my tab when I was on my iPhone and the customer had gone to use the restroom or solicit one of the bar sluts. (Possibly a crossover of the two.)

 The conversation when like this:

"What are you doing?"

"The [I'm not using the real name here] project."

"Now?"

"Why not? It's retard simple."

"Let me see your work." I hand him my phone. "God damn, really? how often do you code when drunk?"

OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT IM IN FOR IT NOW.

"Be honest now."

"More often than I'd like to admit to you?" 

"[Coworker] Can't code unless he jerks off first. If you think drinking and coding is the weirdest thing we deal with at this company, you're sorely mistaken."

[I always envisioned this coworker using The Cone after hearing that]

The scary part is this coworker practically lives at the office, meaning that we now know what the sticky stuff on the kitchen counter is

Wait. WHAT? How did my boss know that and was I just given permission to drink on the job?

"By the way if it'll make you code faster, you can bring in a 6 pack to the office when you have to stop by."

Holy shit my boss is awesome. Our client returned from the bathroom at that point and I went back to chase some tang. 

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

So if you read through my bonus content you can see further why I'm unfulfilled with my job. If I needed to snort a line of coke off of a hookers ass before I started coding, my boss would be okay with it, because he only cares about the end result. 

"You turned a profit? Cool. What? 20 dead babies? Whatever. Don't get arrested now, I need you coding on Friday."

Fine Print: This is not an actual quote from my boss. I'm fairly certain he'd be pissed we didn't harvest the dead babies for organs and give him a share of the profit if he found out they died in the process of coding.

This means while it's easy money and it lets me live my over the top life, I have no sense of satisfaction with this. It is not a career I want. I will make no difference in the world this way. And ultimately I want to change the world... and if I can't change the world, I'll gladly change someone's world for the better.

Some men want an easy way through life. Me? I want glory. And glory is never found by shuffling your feet and waiting for it to fall in your lap.

[Well... morning glory can fall into your lap, but that's different]

By morning glory, I mean an erection you get in the morning. Because there's a hot chick in your bed and you're ready for round two

So, fellow Glory hounds! Until next time, don your horned helmets and grab your axes and mead. Cuz we're gonna get piss drunk and sail up and down the coast of Norway pillaging some villages.

The Lottery of Love

A wise man once told me "If you stick your dick where it doesn't belong, you're gonna get herpes." He also told me "A hole is a hole in the dark" and "If there's grass on the field you can always play in the mud," so he probably knew what he was talking about, or he was good at making up stories and sounding funny while hammered.

This man also encouraged me to spread my wings and start "fucking bitches." This was years ago, when I was still a steadfast virgin so I countered that I was waiting for that "special someone," you know, that "perfect girl." To this he gave me a piece of wisdom I wish I would have taken for granted then, instead of hindering myself by being unnecessarily picky and introverted.

Here is the advice that he gave me:
"If your goal is to get married, remember that 99.9% of your relationships are going to fail before you get married. You're only going to meet one that is worth it. You might as well have fun with the rest."

Of course this is a more eloquent version of what he was attempting to get across. The original version was loaded with much more drunken slurring and profanity. But this advice is excellent advice. And anyone who does not take it to heart in some way, shape or form is merely stunting themselves socially and emotionally.

Now to be fair I will give you a disclaimer before we continue.

1) My ("love") life has been described as "a Parade of Whores" by more than one of my friends...

 [Erm, exactly like this. Yep. All the time.]

The elusive 5 some is likely, given my spiral of drunken exploits, inevitable.

2) Given that I am likely emotionally incapable of experiencing love for the time being, any pontification on love that I offer or make should be treated with a grain of salt.

[Or a whole mine's worth of Salt]

On second thought, that might not be enough. Just sayin'

3) I'm still dumb enough to believe it's possible and that someone perfect will sweep me off my feet again.

[Someone like her. Bullets, Booze and Sex Appeal. Only thing missing is a Burrito]

There's probably a Burrito/Soft Taco joke in here somewhere...wait, what do you mean my priorities are way beyond fucked up?

Let's take a step back to our wise man's declaration: That 99.9% of all relationships you experience will fail. That number, assuming that it's an accurate number and not rounded off in anyway shape or form, indicates that your odds are 1 in 1,000 for finding a deep, meaningful and life long lasting relationship. Hmm... 1 in 1000 chance of winning per play... this almost sounds... familiar. Too familiar...

[Clicking on this picture causes an Ohio state employee to break in your house and steal your wallet]

He's actually doing you a favor. He's saving you time, effort and the undue stress of slowly spiraling into bankruptcy

Let us assume every person you've ever fucked senseless, or simply just taken out on a date is a shot at this lottery. Doing the math, unless you're a raging manwhore...erm... well, unless you're a long term raging manwhore... oh...

Look. Point is that chances are you're not going to blow through 1,000 people in your dating life, which has a reasonable span of 16-50. Sure if you go on a date with a single person once a week for the rest of your life you'll blow through a thousand in 20 years. But what happens when you get bogged down with dating someone for a few years. (You will likely do this more than once) Or if you get bogged down dating someone for a few months. (You will pretty much invariably do this more than once) you're hindering your dating experiences. Further from 16-20 your dating life is High School bullshit or standard College bullshit. Once you hit 35-40 you're not going to be pulling in dates because you're getting hideously old. And don't forget, if you do get married, and it ends up wrong, you didn't really cash out... its sort of looking at your ticket, getting 2 out of 3 numbers, thinking you won, then having the lottery attendant call you retarded for not knowing how to count.

Now everyone who knows me, knows that my life style of working too much, fucking too much and drinking too much is self-medication, mainly since they figured it out before I did. But upon further reflection, I think I'm trying something else. I wonder if I throw myself into the fire because I'm trying to pull a human wave style assault on the lottery of love. Much how lottery addicts will play twice as much as they win because they play so many numbers, I have elected to throw as much into the fire as possible, much like the Germans and the Soviets did to each other in Stalingrad.

[It's just like my love and Sex Life, only mine has more titties and (sadly) fewer Tanks]

The amount of vodka consumed might be the same though

Or maybe, I just like drinking and fucking and I want a somewhat socially acceptable reason to justify my drunken debauchery. Sweet, adorable, romantically idealistic guy behind a shell of hardened and bitter manliness or just a dick? Possibly a middle ground? You decide.

 

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: A boatload of dead Communists and Nazis)

There's like at least one other way to do the Stalingrad picture. So here's shit I picked up from the cutting room floor:

[The broken, remaining shells of these buildings are like my self-medicated soul]

No, there isn't black eyeliner being smudged down my face by my deliciously salty tears right now, why do you ask?

[That smoke; the stench of burnt flesh, oil and the cries of patriots is almost as dark as my soul]

It's blindingly so. Just like the double set of bangs covering my eyes, which are the windows to my blackened soul.

Wait, I've got one more and it's not completely emo parody bullshit. (Okay, yeah it is)

[The previous outcome of my love lottery. Sure I won, but at what cost?]

The Soviets just traded the Nazis for the Stalin. Just like my last relationship. OH SNAP HISTORICAL EX JOKE HAHA FUNNY.

Shit I could go all day with this. I just thought of like 50 more emo + Stalingrad jokes, but I'll spare you.

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

They say you can't win if you don't play. But unfortunately, the game of love isn't the lottery, there are consequences for winning. When you play the lottery, you bet $1.00 (or .50 if you so desire). You will either "Hit" and turn a profit of 40x or 500x or not hit and you're out $1.00. Sure in the long run, you'll lose more than you make but the only gain or loss is monetary.

In the lottery of love, you can win on your first try. In fact if you're young enough and both of you are inexperienced enough, you'll even trick each other into thinking you won. There's no maliciousness, it just one of those things about young love. Or you can never win. Sometimes winning is only delaying misery. Huh. That's not funny at all. Also, the losses are way more than monetary. Last terrible relationship cost me about $15,000 all expenses told, but the way it played out was what really stuck with me...

Which is why I can do anything I want, without second guessing myself. My experience with a meaningful relationship ended up like Stalingrad ended up for the Soviets, (Really, I'm not letting this analogy go, its a fucking gold mine) but the end game taught me something: Nothing worse can happen to me. Why worry? So as I type this out from the top of my head, I guess I really DID win the lottery of love. Sure there may not be a soul mate, but there are plenty of playmates. 

[Why get used to only one set of eyes getting ready to jump your bones in the morning?]

Half of my readers are going "FUCK YEAH" and the other half are going "Fuck you" Either way, I'm still going to get laid

So what's my overarching story? My special lesson? I don't really know. When I started writing this it was supposed to be a few herpes jokes, a few drinking jokes and making fun of people who play the lottery. Instead my idea mutated on me. It is quite possible my own blog has turned against me, much like... dare I say it?

 [Yeah, I went there. Hope you're prepared for the robot apocalypse]

So long as they all look like Summer Glau, I for one, will welcome our future robot overlords

I guess the moral is this: Love can be the best or the worst thing on the planet. Sometimes both. But for the time being, it's not for me. Not until I meet that scantily clad blonde with a bottle of Jack surrounded by bullet casings. Or a cute, sane chick that's cool with me being a bit of a (READ: Total) nerd and doesn't mind me working all the damn time. I guess I could settle for that, Maybe. 

Until next time, my fellow gamblers, try to keep the odds in your favor. Or at least gamble away when you're piss drunk so you have an excuse. That works too. Oh yeah, and try not to vomit in his or her bed or on him/her. I can't tell for sure, but I'm fairly confident that's disgusting. 

Super Powers and Subjective Reality: Part II. The Reckoning. This time It's personal.

Throw in some anvil sound effects after "Part II" and "This time It's personal." Wait. What?

Those of you poor bastards who were crazy, stupid, or somehow amused enough to filter through the entirety of my last post were possibly aware that I was stating that rampant alcohol usage grants you really lame superpowers. Sure, they're lame as fuck, but they're still fucking superpowers. I too have superpowers. Possibly from rampant alcohol use or perhaps from subtle Illuminati tampering with my genetic code in order to utilize me decades down the line for the future takeover of society.

 [I never asked for this. PS: haha, spoilers]

SPOILERS: I am a huge fucking nerd

What are my secret super powers you ask? An Iron Liver and the ability to reject reality and replace it with my own subjective version of life. Only the latter ability is one I have little to no control of.

[Kinda like this, but nowhere near as awesome]

But holy shit those dinosaurs are shooting each other with pew pew lasers,  holy fuck that's awesome!

Origin Story: Iron Liver Man

It's a dark and stormy night.[Thunder sfx] Betrayal! [Anvil sfx] Action! [Stock footage] Sex! [Live action Demonstration? (Please?)]

One day when getting some routine tests after an unfortunate brush with some medication which resulted in hospital time (Implied understatements anyone?) my doctor discovered that my liver filtered the crap out of my system ridiculously fast. So fast that I probably didn't need a hospital trip worth several thousand dollars at all. I was amused. My wallet was pissed. My liver wanted booze and couldn't have it anyway to "play it safe" for a few weeks. Needless to say this made me as pissed off as my wallet. I started smoking more.

Holy fuck that was a lame origin story. Oh well. The break down is I can drink a whole fuckton without worrying about the long term ramifications. At least for now. No possible way this could have a negative effect on me in the future.

[Nope. No negative consequences whatsoever... What the fuck is Cirrhosis?]

If my coffin is this tacky I will come back from the dead and start biting people in the face

Origin Story: Subjective Reality Man

It was a sunny day in peaceful suburbia. Then... Action! [Stock Footage, whip sfx] Gun Fights! [Machinegun sfx] Drunken Sex! [ohmygodbeckylookatherbutt sfx]

One day, my heart rate was likely exceeding three times normal seeing as I was hopped up on half a pack of smokes and four energy drinks. Naturally, energy drinks make you have to piss like a fucking racehorse, so I did the abnormal thing and decided to head to the nearest bathroom instead of just signing my name in yellow on the nearest corner. Normally I like to expand my territory but I decided I might risk enraging the Germans if I did. (Wait, what?)

I was in my University's Commuter Lounge which should give away a few things about me:

1) I was a commuter for atleast part of my College Career

2) I have at least some College under my belt

3) I have a bladder

4) I have no problem with engaging in homicide to harvest spare replacement organs... erm... I mean...

The closest bathroom is located in the Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual support lounge which is directly above the Commuter Lounge. Unfortunately both of the bathrooms there were occupied, in what I hope was really hot gay sex. (Cuz I know I sure as hell didn't get laid that day, so someone better have been getting some.)

So instead of just whipping it out and taking a leak on the bathroom doors (Possibly because I wasn't drunk enough [READ: At all] at 3:00pm) like a well adjusted but mildly impatient human being would do, I walked about 50-70 yards across the building to a hallway which just happened to support two bathroom entrances. Now while a bottle of booze and a drunken dare may have resulted in me entering the wrong bathroom "by accident" and engaging in some water sports, I happened to have priorities --

[Logic Conflict Error: Implication that Sex and/or Booze is not a Prioritized Function]

Rebooting...

...

[Priorities re-established]

Are those bullet casings? I think I'm in love

  Okay so wait, what were we talking about? Booze, having to pee, water sports... oh! Right! So I walk down this hallway and make it to the door labeled "Men" which was right after the convenient water fountain.

BONUS CONTENT:

(Brought to you by today's Sponsor: A Motel 6 bathtub full of ice that you will wake up in) 

Sometimes when Drinking from water fountains near bathrooms I wonder if they share the same water as the toilets. Then the water starts to taste funny. Sort of like licking a 9volt battery.

.

[It tastes the same as some Vaginas]

Do you smell a conspiracy? Fish? Eh fuck it, I'm gonna go watch porn

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

Anyway, I reach what's almost the end of the hallway, when I see it. Can you guess what it is? You get four guesses. (Remember it's noteworthy enough that I'm putting it up on this blog in hopes of entertaining you)

If you guessed a $10.00 bill, then you've been drinking too much with me, or you've pooped in my bed. (Not cool, by the way)

If you guessed a bottle of Jack hidden behind the Radiator, you're reading my mind, but you're wrong.

If you guessed two hot lesbians making out in the end of the hallway, you've been reading my mind when I masturbate, but you're wrong.

If you guessed an AK-47 that fires 3and1/2inch magnum 12ga shotgun shells on full automatic, you've also been reading my mind when I masturbate, but you're still wrong.

If you guessed a display case, then ring-a-ding ding, you're right! Wait. What? Yeah, that's right this whole story has been leading up to a display case. Why? Because the moment I see this display case the following thought process occurs in my head:

1) If I duck down, I'll go into sneak mode

2) If I'm in sneak mode, then I can lock pick the case without being detected

3) If I can lockpick the case, which is probably only a novice skill level lock, then I can probably get enough experience to level up my lockpicking

4) I'll probably level up if I do this

How the fuck did I ever get laid the first time? I mean for shit's sake, I was sober. How the fuck do I STILL get laid? 

When I am left alone in other people's places I start looking through their stuff. Yes, invasion of privacy etc, but I never have and never will steal anything. I'm just satiating my natural curiosity. Plus people have cool shit and generally like compliments so I tend to compliment them on something that I found legitimately cool. Social engineering at its second finest.

Recently I was waiting for my friend to take a shower while in his room. He's one of the managers at a local restaurant. As I'm looking over the stuff on his dresser the following thought process goes through my head:

1) Wooden Coins... (Local restaurant uses these as in house dollars to encourage people to return to the bar and spend more than the $3 they're worth)  .. wait a minute, when did he visit Redding?

2) I could totally swipe that lighter right now... but I'd loose Karma 

3) I literally got an image in my head of an aiming reticule and text by it in read that said "Lighter. Steal" in red, indicating that the item in question was owned by someone else.

But WAIT. There's more. I was in an awesome location called Champagne Bar.

[This is actually a picture of the location in question]

This line of text is not a joke. Or is it? LOL META HUMOR

The Decor strikes me as this retro, 30's/40's/50's feel. Much like say... Rapture meets the casinos in New Vegas. Now normally this isn't too nerdy of a reaction, especially to go "Oh hey, this feels like Rapture," since Bioshock as a whole was an excellent piece of fiction that will stay with an observant player for a long time. However, here is where my subjective reality gets reamed by murphy's law.

As I'm sitting at the bar trying to get a shot of Jack and a beer to chase it down with when someone taps me on the back. I assume it was one of my friends, but instead it was a moderately attractive brunette sitting on the bench behind me. She introduced herself and her friend, who was visiting from new york. There was a bunch of flirting, and she made it clear she had her own hotel room. Fuck yes. Then: 

"Hey do you know where BarRoom is?"

"Yeah, it's right down the street next to Cadillac Ranch"

"Is it far?"

"Nope, not at all."

"Could you take us there?"

[QUEST ACCEPTED]

Wait. I fucking HATE escort quests. 

About 5-10 min later we arrive outside BarRoom.

"You should come in and dance with us!"

"Uhhh..."

[Choose your reward]

-Get drunk, dance and fuck the brunette, Leaving your friends stuck in Downtown Cleveland (Negative Karma)

-Return to your friends, and don't get laid. (Massive Karma boost)

Seeing as how I was my friend's ride I elected to go with the Karma boost as it would have -- I suddenly (like as I was typing my last sentence suddenly) just realized a solution that would have made sure my friends would have gotten home okay and I would have gotten laid.

Fuck. So until next time Planeteers, remember that if you only use 4 out of the 5 rings to summon Captain Planet, you'll get Cthulhu. And nobody wants Cthulhu.

Super Powers and Subjective Reality

Today I'm going to regale you with stories from my time as an unlicensed surgeon. Or just stories about how I drink and fuck too much. You know, whatever floats your boat.

As with someone who is open about his sexcapades and in about two minutes, rampant alcohol consumption, it's probably not a surprise that one of my jobs is near minimum wage at a liquor store. (Oh, so fucking classy, right?) However, while at this liquor store, I have learned three things:

First: I'm getting paid $8.00 an hour not to go on a murderous shooting rampage.

 [Actually, fuck the eight bucks. This plus a bottle of Jack sounds like a good Friday night.]

Apparently I will spontaneously grow a Vagina, Soviet Flag and questionable trigger discipline before murdering everyone in sight.

Second: If you take a shit for 12min a day, every day, every week you will be getting paid for an hours worth of pooping. I call this Paid to Poop, Dollars for Dumps, Salary for Shit and Cash for Crap. Sure I'm not pooping gold, but I am pooping -- Guano for Green. Yeah, I knew I had another one in there.

Third: Alcoholics have amazing super powers. They can twist and bend reality to their subjective liking and ignore everything else.

For example, they have the ability to hear the door to the liquor store open from more than two blocks away. Apparently when your liver starts failing, doors start sounding like dog whistles, because they will come like locusts.

Rampant alcoholism also apparently ruins your perceptions of reality. For example: As you might guess I was opening the liquor store. The tiles are linoleum and it was raining outside. I have to get to the alarm to turn it off, but I'm not going to fucking run and crack my head open just so some impatient asshole can get his pint of Kamchatka. As you can guess, the alarm went off, which is not all that unexpected.

Here is what is unexpected: Four... erm, upstanding members of society, standing around the front door of the liquor store looking confused and dazed. Mind you the Alarm, as in the burglar alarm, had been turned off not more than ten seconds ago. You know, the alarm that summons the police. But rather than do the not mentally deficient thing and wait outside for someone to give you the okay to come in, these fucking morons decided to walk into a store that had no lights on and a ringing burglar alarm. Then got dazed and confused because the lights weren't on.

"Yo mang, why ain't the lights on?"
I looked at him in shock. "The open sign isn't on either, but the alarm is."
"I needa pint of "SheerRock"
I ignored him and proceeded to walk around the store turning the lights on. About ten seconds later, half way through turning on all the lights in the store: "Yo! Hurry up! Whats taking you so long?"
"Don't worry sir, I'm sure your liver still has some of yesterday's pint in it. You'll get your booze in a minute."
No response. Another twenty seconds later I was done, walked to the counter, turned on the rest of the lights, grabbed a pint of Ciroc (Luxury Vodka) scanned it and:
"Naw man, that's too much. I need somethin' like a shorty"
"You mean a half-pint, sir?"
"Naw man a shorty."
What the fuck is shorty you god damned waste of flesh. Whatever. I got him the fucking half pint and rang it up.
"One half pint of Ciroc, [whatever the price was]"
"Good lookin' triple OG."
Yes, by ignoring him, calling him an alcoholic, and being generally rude, I was instantly elevated to status of Original Gangster, not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES. Sadly "Original Gangasta" is considered a compliment by these people.

The next degenerate wants a pint of Kamchatka, possibly the most horrendous excuse for "vodka" ever created. It's American brewed, despite being named for the peninsula in eastern most Russia. PROBLEM: We don't have any Kamchatka, all the other drunk assholes bought them all, and the truck isn't coming for a few days.

Wait a minute. SOLUTION:
We have CHEAPER vodka which actually sucks mildly less. Considering a large percentage of our customers attempt to use their "Ohio Directions" [Food Stamps] card or WIC [Women Infants and Children], special money given to women with infants and children so they can buy them nutritious food...

BONUS CONTENT: 

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: ADHD)

[The "TV Pretty" version of the average booze buying WIC card Holder]

Can we bring back the Chick with the AK? Please?

...

 [And everything went better than expected!]

Now add a bottle of Jack and we've got an excellent thirsty Thursday

We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 

debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

So where were we? Right.
-No Kamchatka
-Slightly better and Cheaper vodka is available
-Customer base attempts to pay with food stamps
-Customer base is highly uneducated

The solution should be simple, right? Just offer them the cheaper vodka and they should be glad to save the 15 cents. If anything you might help bring some joy to a drunkards life and save them a bit of money. Right? Fuck no, dude, this is a liquor store overrun with dumb shit drunks and hood rats. Sometimes with some people getting overlap in both categories. No logic here, son.


"We're out of Kamchatka pints right now, but we've got McCormick vodka, and it's 15 cents cheaper"
"Naw, I don't drink dat shit, it's ROTGUT!"

Wait. What? Mother fucker please. You're able to get drunk off a pint of day because your liver's filtering capacity is do deteriorated from years of excessive drinking...

 [Anyone else get a chill down their spine?]

I was sure there was a lesson I'm supposed to learn here, but my conference with the 3 wise men tells me no

"You know, Kamchatka is rotgut too, ma'am."
"Yeah but that stuff gives me a headache!"

Erm... right. Different cheap shit, barely filtered vodkas are going to give you different effects? No. That's not how science works. It just means you were too stupid to drink any water while you were wasting your day drunk on a pint. PS: drinking tip for all of my reader... readers? Whatever. Water is your friend. It's the fuel for breaking down the ethyl alcohol in your system that your liver needs.

Anyway, there WAS supposed to be a part two to this, mainly about subjective realities and nerdery, but I'm getting bored writing this post, so that means whoever is reading it is probably already bored of reading it. So, until next time, young future socialists, remember to support gun control: Know where you're aiming at all times!

This is my Rifle, This is my Gun: I use them both for loads of fun.

 Last summer I was in my friend's kitchen prepping something by her sink when she asked me:
"So, how's the girl?"
I thought for a moment and replied:
"Which one?"
"Uh, Julie?"
I thought for another moment:
"Which one?"
"The one you're fucking?"
"Uh," I was smiling at this point, because I realized I was kinda being a "pimp" "Which one?"
She sighed. "The brunette?"
"Which one?"
She just sighed and finished off with a:
"God Damn it, just pop your collar now."

Yes, I was messing around with several women named Julie (or Julia) simultaneously. Some of them even with the same hair color. Remember my first post where I said I'm a walking application of Murphy's law? I'm also a cosmic weird magnet. Listen to me now, believe me later.

Yeah I'm kind of a dick. (or am I?)

 [If I were to meet myself of 5 years past, this would be my past self's face]

Past me does not approve of my sexual shenanigans. Current me does not approve of retroactively becoming a cartoon.

I am a gun owner. I'm comfortable around guns, I have fun shooting them and maintaining them is pretty fun too. I was approached by the owner of a bar I frequent about clearing and maintaining an old German pistol he came across today. I offered to do it for free just for the experience of learning something new. As you probably would be unable to guess from this post, I don't advertise my interest in guns because there are enough people out there who associate firearm ownership with insanity and baby killing. Being associated with insanity and baby killing can seriously hinder your chances at getting your bone on.

Which leads to my next bout of man whoring hilarity. Picture this setting:

You take an attractive girl home. Attractive enough for you to want to fuck her, albeit you have whiskey dick. (I was satisfied with my encounter the next morning, when I had sober dick and went for round two, but that's irrelevant) You're fooling around in your parents house, because you're not retarded with your finances and are saving for your own home instead of pissing away $6500-$10k a year on rent. Okay, fine. Chicks don't really care about where you live so long as they aren't made to feel awkward or slutty about it.

Now things are hot and heavy. She wants it. You want it. She's on top of you. She tells you to get a condom. Your first thought is "FUCK YEAH! Girl on top!" your second thought is "Can I reach my condoms from here without moving?"

For me the answer is "Yes."

 "Yes" is also the answer to another question:

"Can I reach my scary looking, .40 caliber handgun from here?"

Fuck.

[My personal Cock Block, in every way imaginable]

My Brain:"ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck"

Your condoms are in your nightstand drawer. Next to your handgun. Your instinct is to fling open the nightstand drawer to retrieve the condoms. After all you want some awesome chick on top action. (Which is surprisingly not as good as I expected it to be when I was younger) If you fling the drawer open she will see your "fully automatic, heat seeking, cop killing, freedom oppressing, baby murdering machine" The solution?

A minor heart attack. Luckily your heart attack stops all the blood from escaping your brain to engorge your penis long enough for you to realize that your arms are skinny, and the condoms are up front in the drawer while your gun is in the middle. Open the drawer slightly, get those condoms (which were already strategically separated from each other) and close the drawer. Disaster averted.

Now it's time to tear that bitch open (oh the wit with those dual meanings!) and go at it like a rabid dog. Then wake up 4 hours later and do it again. God Yes.

Here's the thing. Despite the initial heart attack, I have NOT LEARNED MY LESSON. Every time I am about to get some girl on top action THIS IS AN ISSUE.
Plus side: The 18 year old went through my drawer. Didn't bat an eye. Still comes back for more.
Down side: One of these days I'm going to get my face clawed off then maced, while in a girl, because I will forget to close the drawer. Then, with my luck, I'll associate the orgasm with the pain and get into S&M.
Possible up side: Maybe I'll be able to hook up with Rihanna.

 

 [Fuck Yeah!]

 Wait, suggestive picture + S&M discussion makes me frightened for my Johnson.

Sadly the remainder of my sex life, other than a few farting incidents (and faux farting incidents) is rather "vanilla." Further discussion of me getting it on will probably not occur here just because, its lack of anything odd would just be me stroking my own ego, which I possibly already stroke more than my dick. Also I doubt anyone would find my ego stroking rather hilarious or entertaining, thus defeating the purpose of this ridiculous blog experiment.

So, Rocketeers! Until next time, I bid you farewell. Go forth and do your utmost to further the cause of Socialism for the Glorious Soviet Union! Or just go get piss drunk and fuck a random. That's cool too.

Number two for one Special

Dear Diary...

Wait, no.

Dear Blog, today...

Wait, no that sucks ass too.

Yo Dawg, I heard you like blog posts, so I....

Wait, that wouldn't even make fucking sense.

 [Technical Difficulties: Please Stand By]

Read: The poster has no fucking clue what he is doing

Okay upon further consideration, lets toss the whole post opening thing. On to my story of the day. My story today is about what I will refer to as "The Poop Fairy." Now I know this sounds like the title of a story that a 3yearold who just learned about the tooth fairy AND how to poop on his own would write, but this is a legitimate story about mysterious deposits of poop and cash that I found under my pillow. By the way, for those of you who are slower, you will notice that my post title has a (questionably amusing) double meaning. See "number two" is the colloquial way of referring to poop, which is an integral part of the story, which is why the title is funny.

Anyway.

For the first time in God knows how long, I entered my room before 4:00am to go to straight to sleep. No drunken sex, no last minute projects. Just me, my bed and sleep. It was going to be glorious. A full four hours of sleep. All for me! There was no alcohol in my system, so I wasn't even going to have crazy ass alcohol dreams. I was set for like one and a half cycles of REM sleep that would let me have boundless energy without the aid of stimulants like energy drinks and cigarettes. For those of you who don't know me, Sleep and I have a like-hate relationship. Being a new man of less than two years, I have come to the conclusion that I can most certainly sleep when I'm dead, as life is awesome and I don't particularly want to waste time doing things such as sleeping.

That being said, I like to indulge myself once in a while, and in years past I was known to sleep for ridiculous amounts of time. (My summer of senior year of high school, I passed out at 6:00am, woke up at 12:00 am, stayed up to watch Conan O' Brien and then went to sleep for another fourteen hours.) So I don't hate sleep because it's unpleasant. I find it quite pleasant. I just find it annoying that it's necessary for things like "functioning properly" and "not keeling over."

Anyway, back to my shitty story. As I prepared to indulge in hedonistic pleasure, I noticed an off smell. An unpleasant smell. Being that I am a male, and my shoes were off, dirty clothes were tossed in a pile and I had neglected to bathe in a full 24 hours, I shrugged it off. Nothing that Fabreze, doing you laundry, washing yourself and some odor eaters can't fix... tomorrow.

So I get naked, as I am want to do when I sleep. And I hop in bed. The smell is more noticable now. More distinct. More like... feces.

"Shit" were my exact words. Followed by "What the fuck?" Apparently I traveled back in time to answer my question before I asked it. I get out of bed, and the smell dissipates. I go back to bed, it gets stronger. Baffled, I look behind my bed. There is a turd there in the corner of my room where my bed meets two walls. There's no way one of my dogs, who is a poop factory, could have gotten it in there. But hey, whatever. Stranger things have happened to me.

A paper towel and a flush of the toilet later I'm even more ready to go to sleep early. I lay back down and...
Yeah, the smell is still there. I push the bed back. Maybe my dog, the uni-pooper decided to leave another surprise down there. There was a major thunderstorm last night and he does get scared. And this wouldn't be the first time he came into my room, pooped and left, so whatever.

Well there's no poop behind the bed, but the smell is still coming. In frustration I lift up my pillow and...
Poop. A big, sort of dry, stinky turd. My dog pooped... under my pillow. I don't know how he moved my bed to get behind it with turd number one, nor do I know how he dropped a deuce under my pillow, but props to him.

But wait! There's more. For only 12 easy payments of a pint of blood and a pound of flesh you can hear the rest of my regaling tale! As you can well guess, I was not about to sleep in my bed, which has been bombed by the uni-pooper. Twice. Instead, I slept in my guest room, vowing to clean my bedsheets tomorrow.

After returning home from an "interesting" day at work, I removed the pillow covers and sheets to wash them and -- A wild $10.00 bill appears! Right under my pillow.

All I can say is "What the Fuck?" (As if that's abnormal for me anymore.) The only rational conclusion to be made is that The Poop Fairy is grossly under appreciated and is paying top dollar for dog turds.

Stay tuned for my next post, entitled "Paid to Poop!"

Ha! Ha! I'm using the internet!

At the behest of some of my close friends, I have decided to create a "blog." On my own I find these things as an excuse to indulge in excessive narcissism, but my friends (or maybe my own subconscious narcissism) have convinced me that I might be able to entertain other human beings with my drunk, arrogant debauchery and constant exercise of Murphy's law.

In the coming (whatever unit of time is most efficient for expressing how long it takes me before I get bored with this project) I will regale you with stories from my life and my personal observations there in. I am colloquial, offensive, and honest. I am not the world's next Einstein, Oppenheimer or Whittle, but I am not retarded either. I am just a man who was all too recently a boy trying to carve out his place in the world. I hope you find my life as entertaining as I do.