Amazing Spectacles

Last month I went out to California to park cars at my brother’s wedding. It was a beautiful, beautiful occasion and I made some good tips. Following the wedding we traveled up to the central coast where we toured some wineries, ate some really good food and met some great people. On our second day up the coast we went to San Simeon and visited the Hearst Castle; www.hearstcaste.org.

WOW. It completely blew my mind. From the construction of the castle to the history of William Randolph Hearst himself, the entire estate and the story behind it is simply amazing. I had never seen anything like it in my life . . . it is so inspiring. For like an hour it really motivated me to do something totally awesome.

Absolutely amazing it was.

I can honestly say there is only one other thing in the universe that amazes and intrigues me the same way Hearst Castle does . . . The Bluetooth Wireless. Much like Hearst, the Bluetooth Wireless demands respect. When William Hearst walked into a room, his presence was known. You could feel his aura. I would argue to say that the Bluetooth also makes its’ presence known. The man who dons the Bluetooth doesn’t have to say a damn thing, nothing . . . and that’s because that miniature battle station strapped securely to his ear, the one playing the part of the blinking tower atop the Hancock Center, says it all: “I mean business, fuckers.”

Hearst was a workaholic and did not make much time for anything else. The Bluetool is all business all the time. The Bluetool’s business and networking skills are what dreams are made of. Hearst had a dream, a vision . . . an estate, a castle if you will, a place he could reward his years of work and share it with friends. The Bluetool shares this trait. He has visions of a kickass cigarette boat. And an acoustic guitar that will never be played.

The Bluetook is much too busy for a phone that is traditionally answered with a hand. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to fuss with such nonsense. The Bluetool will always opt for one-touch push button answering. That way he can walk, talk, text and sext at all times while also maintaining a constant image of importance and focus . . . all while enjoying a vodka/redbull/24 hour energy libation.

There might be other amazing and kickass things in the world. I have found my two. One had a kickass house, and the other is just plain ole kickass.

Keep that light blinking, friends. Blink away.

Times Up, Delores. You're Out.

This is the greatest obituary in the world. I get sick when I read about some kid who recently was killed who was in a gang, had been arrested 40 times for theft, attempted murder, drugs and the like . . . get written up with something like: "he was a great kid. He was turning things around and wanted to go to college. He would never hurt anyone . . . "

No, he was a real dick who terrorized his neighborhood and robbed old people and had neck tattoos and kicked dogs.

So, I found this was quite refreshing:

Dolores Aguilar, born in 1929 in New Mexico, left us on August 7, 2008. She will be met in the afterlife by her husband, Raymond, her son, Paul Jr., and daughter, Ruby.

She is survived by her daughters Marietta, Mitzi, Stella, Beatrice, Virginia and Ramona, and son Billy; grandchildren, Donnelle, Joe, Mitzie, Maria, Mario, Marty, Tynette, Tania, Leta, Alexandria, Tommy, Billy, Mathew, Raymond, Kenny, Javier, Lisa, Ashlie and Michael; great-grandchildren, Brendan, Joseph, Karissa, Jacob, Delaney, Shawn, Cienna, Bailey, Christian, Andre Jr., Andrea, Keith, Saeed, Nujaymah, Salma, Merissa, Emily, Jayci, Isabella, Samantha and Emily. I apologize if I missed anyone.

Dolores had no hobbies, made no contribution to society and rarely shared a kind word or deed in her life. I speak for the majority of her family when I say her presence will not be missed by many, very few tears will be shed and there will be no lamenting over her passing.

Her family will remember Dolores and amongst ourselves we will remember her in our own way, which were mostly sad and troubling times throughout the years. We may have some fond memories of her and perhaps we will think of those times too. But I truly believe at the end of the day ALL of us will really only miss what we never had, a good and kind mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. I hope she is finally at peace with herself. As for the rest of us left behind, I hope this is the beginning of a time of healing and learning to be a family again.

There will be no service, no prayers and no closure for the family she spent a lifetime tearing apart. We cannot come together in the end to see to it that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren can say their goodbyes. So I say here for all of us, GOOD BYE, MOM.

MLM

PERSON: Man, I am so glad we finally got a chance to get together! I have been wanting to catch up for, well, forever!

ME: Yeah, it’s really good to see you. It’s been, what, ten years or something like that?

PERSON: Something like that! Man, you look great! I am so happy to see that everything is going so well for you!

ME: You too.

PERSON: We had some sweet times at Tech, huh? Remember J-Pats?!!?

ME: Yeah, that was always my favorite bar. So how are things?

PERSON: Man, they seriously couldn’t be better! I’m the happiest I have ever been in my life! I’m making sick amounts of money and living the dream. [RED FLAG #1] But that’s not what is most important, it’s that I get to work with such kickass people and help motivate friends and help keep them healthy and to go after their dreams. [RED FLAG #2]

ME: Cool. So, what do you do?

PERSON: It’s funny you should ask, T! Here. (gets out a brochure) [RED FLAG #3] I am part of a family, not a company, a family that is gonna change the world, and we are! (RED FLAG #4) We provide direct health solutions to private consumers nationwide. [RED FLAG #5] We make it possible to unlock the American dream and provide health and wealth to anybody and everybody. [RED FLAG #6] I am responsible for the financial facilitation to help other build dreams! [RED FLAG #7]

ME: Neat. Did you know Anna Nicole is dead?

PERSON: T, I have always thought you’re a great guy and you deserve nothing but the best! [RED FLAG #8] You should be able to retire when you’re 40 and buy an island or own your own jet. [RED FLAG #9] I have an opportunity for you that will change your life! [RED FLAG #10]

ME: Oh really?

PERSON: Yes! How many friends do you have??!? [RED FLAG #11]

ME: Nine.

PERSON: See, now if you buy on and get 5 friends and they all get 5 friends and each person sells makes their quota each month, you’ll be a millionaire by dinner. [RED FLAG #12]

ME: So, what is it we are selling?

PERSON: I like that, you said ‘we’! You’re gonna be part of the family! Water filters and vitamins.

(waiter comes by)

ME: I’ll have another Budweiser and a double shot of anything, and a tequila chaser. And a broken bottle that can sever my wrist. And the check. Thanks.

- - - - - - - - - -

Does any of this sound familiar? No? Allow me. This is the regurgitated refried beans, peanuts and corn that comes out of your good friend that you had a class with freshman year in college that you haven’t thought about since ever . . . THE MULTI-LEVEL MARKETER. It’s a nice pile of crap that comes along with a pistol whip to the face and a side of olive loaf.

The MLM person is a snake. This specimen is the curly pubic hair clinging for dear life to the side of the urinal cake. They are all the same . . . they will contact you of the blue, throw some confetti in your face topped with promises of wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Nine times out of ten it is someone you know who will say they want to “catch up” and then will quickly turn the conversation towards a totally kickass opportunity. I have known many, many people who have been duped by the MLM toilet bug. Most of the time it is to sell something like vitamins or water filters, . . . but from time to time it is for something much more life changing like a set of knives, cleaning products or a time share.

Following are a list of warning signs of the mysterious MLM:

- Ridiculously enthusiastic about everything

- Use of fancy words like “facilitation”, “direct”, “networking” and “monumental”

- Group meetings in Starbucks

- You barely remember the dipshit from college

- Twice divorced

- Messy car with random boxes and papers everywhere

- Dirty fingernails

- Impossible to clearly answer any question

- Annoying and creepy talk about your family and friends

- Talk about buying mansions and planes and boats and shit peppered throughout the pitch

- Previous comment yet still live in one bedroom apartment on McCallum in Dallas

- Talk about starting a charity and giving back

- Pre-paid cell phone

- Talk of awesome and fun seminars that are out by the airport

- Still working at Chili’s just because it’s fun

- Referring to you as an “investor”

- Makes you want to drink a bottle of Clorox

Protect yourselves, friends. I love you all.

Tyler

The Greatest Day In The History Of The World

Today grown men will get enormous gadget erections and soccer moms will claw and fight their way to the front of the line like a drunk at dollar beer night. Babies will be abandoned, children will be abused and some guy will probably kill himself.

Hello new iPhone. Welcome to human world.

I do not own an iPhone. I don’t say that to be anti-iPhone or to make a point, I have no point . . . I say it because I simply don’t have one. I don’t do the Foursquare or participate in the Twitters. And I have no idea what I would do with an app that tells everyone how many miles I ran and how kickass my pace was or what I shot on the golf course. Thus, this essay has no merit and even less substance. I am actually more qualified to write about the desalinization of seawater than I am about the iPhone and apps. So you’re better off reading the back of a shampoo bottle than anything posted on this dumb blog.

From the moment I woke up this morning in a puddle of my own filth and said hello to the world, the first three things I saw or read had to do with a telephone. A telephone. A TELEPHONE. Turned on the news, iPhone. Opened the Chicago Tribune, iPhone. Got online, iPhone.

We have an oil well that is gushing oil like a bum regurgitating last nights Mad Dog 20/20 . . . one that is absolutely out of control and destroying an entire way of life for hundreds of thousands of people and killing wildlife. I meant the oil is killing everything, not the bum. The bum is just drunk and needs a bus ticket to Indianapolis. We have like 48 wars going on. The general in charge of the war in Afghanistan was replaced. North Korea is starving and going off the deep end while its leader drinks cognac and wears giant glasses and dictates in a jumpsuit. Someone started a wildfire in Arizona that is burning down trees and eating all the steak . . . and grandma broke her coccyx riding 4-wheelers in the dunes with her girlfriend. The south side of Chicago had 52 shootings last weekend and 40-something on Monday, the majority as a result of gang violence . . . and every one of the victims gets the same eulogy, “He was a good, smart kid . . . He was an entrepreneur and was just starting to turn his life around. He was gonna go to college and start a record label. He loved the White Sox. He would never hurt anyone, even though he has been arrested 46 times and was only 19. He was turning things around.”

There is also a huge unemployment problem, Detroit is demolishing their own city, my meth lab blew up and the Cubs suck.

So with all of these issues and many many many more, it makes perfect sense that the news of the day, and perhaps the week, is the new iPhone. A glorified telephone. A friend. A companion. A lover. Didn’t we just play this game like a week ago with the new iPad?

I don’t get it. I mean, I get it. It’s a neat gadget with cool things and stuff. But I don’t get it. It’s a phone. And because Apple has everyone by the balls, this same scenario will play over and over and over and over.

SIDE NOTE: Haha! I just saw a guy walk by picking his nose, I mean he was really digging, knuckle deep. Then, just as he withdrew said finger from his boogar cave and began rolling his treasure between index finger and thumb, we made eye contact. The look on his face was priceless. He looked like he had just gotten caught playing pocket pool. Wish I had a picture. Maybe he was on his way to get a new iPhone.

Anyway, I lost my train of thought. I’m still thinking about the snot prospector. I don’t know what else I was going to write, but by the looks of some of the men I saw on the news camping out for the new iPhone, the closest they will ever get to touching a ( . )( . ) is with a porn app for their new iPhone.

Gotta go, stocking up on trailmix and water . . . camping out the next 4 days for the new Segway.

The Furnace

Hello World.

I’ve been off the blog train for a while. In fact, I think this is my first trip in 2010. If this were a real train I would be writing this from either the bar car or from the train platform as the train departs the station without me, because I was at the bar in the train station . . . or on the can. Maybe I ate some Indian food or one of those new Double Down vegan sandwiches from KFC that are all the rage, and my stomach rejected it like those first 17 girls I invited to Prom. Perhaps I got kicked off the train for hitting on the conductor. Who knows, maybe my family tricked me with a fake ticket . . . all very possible. At any rate, it’s good to be back. How are you? The family? Did she make parole?

So, early this morning I was cooking up some oatmeal, toast and meth to kick off the day and my phone went off. It wasn’t one of those voicemail messages or a text message, but a comment from someone on the Facebooks. I don’t remember what the comment was or what the comment was commenting on or who or what and when it was initiated or why it was in existence, but I do recall that the comment was something really interesting and kickass, like “We loved it, but don’t go to the late show, Grant got really grumpy. BTW, does anyone know of a great fence builder who can work with mid-grade mulch? And I’m a HUGE fan of being a mommy!”

Since I don’t have any idea what this conversation is about, here are my observations:

1. Sorry about Grant. You shouldn’t take him out that late. Furthermore, Grant is not that tired, he is just pissed off at you that he has crappy social skills and no friends because you home school the poor lad and his playground is a Bed Bath & Beyond and his best friend is a blanket.
2. Fence builder: GOOGLE: reputable fence builders in Levelland (or your hometown)
3. Boycott mulch. Look into coal or broken glass.
4. I’m a huge fan of Whataburger.

I kid. We’re having fun here. People are free to write whatever they want on the Facebooks. I’m sure many people wish I would just shut up and go drink some Drano thru a turkey baster. I just wish for once I could read something honest like, “tried the Reebok Easy Tone with balance ball technology . . . still have a fatass. Heading to the store to get a bag of Bugles and a Mr. Pibb. Maybe 3.”

So, long story long. After little thought or debate, I decided to do a little house cleaning of friends this morning . . . and caught myself talking out loud to absolutely nobody, just making comments as I sent some of the annoying one’s into the Facebook furnace:

- “I don’t think you are real, nobody can actually live a life that boring every day and feel the urge to talk about it.” DELETE
- “plenty of room for you to pray in the Facebook furnace” DELETE
- “you inspirational quotes make me want to go huff propane” DELETE
- “I don’t even know who the hell you are” DELETE
- “OK, you workout. A LOT. There is an elyptical machine waiting for you in the furnace” DELETE
- “My fault, my fault. You were annoying then and are even more annoying now and I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Marriage and kids hasn’t helped. My fault.” DELETE
- “Depressed much????????” DELETE
- “Take your Farmville to the fiery furnaces and look for the magic egg under the raging inferno.” DELETE
- “I don’t care that you just “checked into” Chipotle. Go away.” DELETE
- “That picture of an airplane wing you posted tells me you are really gonna tear shit up on your trip to Houston.” DELETE
- “So, what the fuck are you mourning today?” DELETE

There are more dumb little quotes but I am tired of typing.

Once again, I apologize for once again polluting the world with this nonsense.

Just put some Neosporin on it.

GO WORLD!

Tyler

Coffee Music

I never got to the end of the video game Oregon Trail. I would always find a way to either break a wagon wheel or someone got scurvy. I think one time I fed the oxen a bag of bad rice or something and one or two died.

I had a stuffy nose last night during my sleeping. Luckily the lock-in at the church was cancelled or I would be really disappointed. It started when I was a good 90 minutes or so into some movie, or rather ¾ way through, when I decided the movie sucked and turned it off. That is just absurd. I invested 90 minutes of my not-very-important time into a movie and didn’t even see the end of. I could have spent that time reading that book I started in 2005 or conjuring up ways to have the entire Kardashian family perish in a violent, fiery explosion. Watching a movie for that amount of time and not committing to the see the conclusion is akin to ordering a ordering a 12-pack of long fluorescent lights, proceeding to smash 10 of them against a brick wall and then deciding you’re not having fun anymore. It’s pretty much exactly like that. Anyway, the stuffy nose thing just blows, pun kind of intended. One nostril remains free while the other one is clogged up like an American Standard. And then when you turn over, somehow the cadre of snot and whatnot receives its marching orders and all contents shift to nostril B . . . it’s like turning over an hourglass full of swamp water, over and over and over and over.

 So. Wait, what was the point of this? Hold on. Oh, actually my only point was that it is a good feeling when you finally get that great big nose blow in the morning – the kind where you feel the portion of your brain that controls logic and reason come barreling out of your nose tunnel and land in the giant pillow of Kleenex in my calloused (right) hand.

 Which brings me to my next item: the acoustic version of an original song. While there are a few good acoustic versions of songs, most of them do nothing for me. The gym I am a member of where I train for nothing likes to keep it locked tightly on the “Coffee Shop Station”. Actually, they keep it on this coffee station in the locker room. I don’t know what they play out in the bullpen area because I usually have my Walkman on – and the foam earmuffs pretty much keep out all outside noise. But the coffee station, well, they love love love love to play the acoustic version of songs. And this seems logical since nothing gets you pumped up for some loud grunting bench press and power clings like soft rock.  I will wrap this thing up because I need to actually work on some ads, but my dumb point is that some songs need an acoustic version about as much as I need another pair of leather briefs.

I have heard the following acoustic versions on the coffee station, all true, not kidding. They all make me want to brush my teeth with a loaded 12 gauge. (a partial list . . . and the song is usually not covered by the original artist, with the exception of a certain hairy Canadian)

 

-         JUMP by Van Halen

-         EVERY SONG by Alanis Morisette

-         MONEY by Pink Floyd

-         SWEET CHILD OF MINE by Guns n Roses

-         FOOTLOOSE by Kenny Loggins

-         I LOVE ROCK N ROLL by Joan Jett

-         ANY CONVERSATION SHE HAS EVER  HAD by Alanis Morisette

 

       I’ll revisit this at another time.

       SWINE FLU!

Tyler

 

The Catalog

Hello.

I forgot my password.

The holidays are upon us. I love it. Lights. Trees. Gifts. Food. Parades. Stuffing. Wrapping paper. Families will gather around a big table for turkey and small talk. People will get drunk and cry, and then realize they gained 9 pounds and cry some more. Maybe someone’s uncle will get arrested in jean shorts and tank top for refusing to leave the property after throwing a half-burnt piece of firewood through the living room window . . . then will try to sneak back in the house though the chimney, which still has a fire burning at its base. And perhaps a nice young girl will bring her new thug boyfriend home for eggnog . . . then watch in anger as her mom rubs his leg under the table and slips him a roofie.  And everyone will have a great time until the house burns down. 

 

But it’s not just great events like this that makes me love the holidays, it’s also the small things. The memories. The traditions. The people. Just the other day I was thinking about one aspect that seems to be long gone and makes me feel really old, very irrelevant and as dated as the majority of the contents of my fridge: I  miss the days when the Christmas catalogs came out. It was awesome to get a catalog. It was always from someone like JC Penny or Montgomery Ward and was a big as a phone book. Aside from a few pages I would visit in the front part . . . which featured women scantily clad with Farrah Fawcett-style hair and 80s torpedo boobies, I immediately would flip to the back where the toys were. STAR WARS STAR WARS STAR WARS. The back had all sorts of other cool stuff like bikes and Transformers and Go-Bots and GI Joe, but all I cared about was STAR WARS. There was something about the way each action figure and ship or scene was posed just so with its name underneath, along with a brief description of the character or vehicle.  The art directors always did a fantastic job of arranging the photos to where they looked just like a scene out of the movie. Or maybe they didn’t, but this is how I remember it. We would highlight what we liked and give it to our parents, then get locked back in the damp and moldy basement. My imagination would run wild. It was cool. I waited all year to see what was going to be available. Now, just google whatever you want to see and it will come up. It kind of sucks. Or does it? I’m sure if I showed one of my nephews a catalog they would laugh at me and remind me that its never been proven that I am a blood relative, tests results are still pending.

 

I don’t know. I just remember the Christmas catalog. It was fun. It was exciting. It was something to look forward to. Thankfully the internet is just a fad and will be gone by this time next year and the catalog will reign once again.

In other news, that guy Levi Johnston needs to be drawn and quartered along with that California beauty queen who has fake knockers and is about as bright as my shower curtain. Reality TV is poisonous, but I have been enjoying the TRAIN WRECK that is Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew. The issues are absolutely unreal and its makes me feel like being a cutter isn't really that big of a deal. I am excited to go to LA next week for Thanksgiving to visit family and see old friends . . . and my SARS/Scurvy hyrbid is clearing up.

HAPPY MONDAY TO BOTH OF MY READERS!

Tyler

Tyler

Pot Luck

I had a dream last night that I got a job as a data-entry clerk at an office in Arlington, TX. Three things bothered me about this: 

1) - the idea of living in Arlington, TX. I think I would rather live in a broken 1986 Pontiac Fiero in Houston than live in Arlington. With a Fiero roommate.

2) - I had to wear pleated slacks in my dream and the computer I was using was the size of a pocket watch. And they monitored porn.

3) - my boss, Mr. Dobbins, kept sexually harassing me and pinching my ass and calling me "buns".

I was reading an article this morning in the Chicago Tribune about the fall ritual of freshmen heading off to college for the first time. I have to admit, part of me was a little jealous. College was awesome. Some of the article was about parents who get all sad and suicidal and start cutting themselves and stuff when their kid leaves the roost. But since I was the last of 4 to leave for college and my mom had essentially packed my room 5 months prior to my departure, I had a hard time relating. After driving 6 hours through miserable heat in a jet black Ford Bronco loaded to the rafters with clothes, bikes, golf clubs and assorted weapons, I finally arrived at my new dorm. And I met my roommate for the first time. A scholar from Mexia, Texas named Jeb Scarborough. I vividly recall my first encounter with Jeb: when I walked into the room Jeb was sitting in our room with a pinch of Copenhagen the size of a donkey turd in his lip, lace-up ropers, very very very tight Wrangler's, one of those cardboard dust popper shirts that contains enough starch to kill an elephant, a belt buckle that doubled as a man hole cover and a 10-gallon cowboy hat on. 

Tyler: Hey man, I'm Tyler.

Jeb: God dammit, I got a fucking roommate?

Tyler: Uhmm. Can I put my stuff over here?

Jeb: I gotta go take a shit.

I'm not kidding. That was our first conversation. And our last. I also remember Jeb had very few belongings in his corner of the room. Long story long, I unpacked my stuff, put my things away and pinned my Blossom poster to my wall. Jeb never came back in that day and I left to go meet friends. Cut to 8 hours later: I walk in my room around midnight . . . Jeb is passed out in his bed and there is a LARGE drunk fucking cowboy passed out in my bed, empty Natural Lights cans covered the floor and there was evidence that someone had been cutting the cheese. The cowboy was in my bed. NOT on my bed, in my bed and under the covers of my new Corvette sheets. The room smelled like a cross between a burnt out clutch and the bottom of a spit cup with some manure overtones. I tried to wake up Big Tex a few times but when he looked at me through his whiskey-lined eyes and told me if I woke him up again he was going to beat with a lead pipe or something, I took the bait. I ended up sleeping down the hall. I'm a pussy, but he was big. And mad. And drunk. And not bright.

The next morning, I go back and all of Jeb's crap is gone . . . and there was dirt in my sheets from the large cowboy's filthy boots. I would also venture to guess he left several of his Frito Pie-laced farts swimming around in my mattress. After asking the RA what happened to Jeb a day or two later, I was told he hadn't been in school for 2 semesters and was "squatting" in the dorms. Yes, SQUATTING. I guess they kicked him out. I never saw him again but still miss his scent on rainy nights.

And that was my first night in college. Thank you Texas Tech.

God bless you Jeb. And God bless you giant filthy stinky fucking cowboy shithead.

College still was fun as hell.

GO WORLD!

Tyler

Ice Man

Hello,

I haven't pushed out a nice steamy blog in a while. I've been doing laundry.

I was at 7-11 this morning before I got on the train - where I saw a man at the counter purchasing an 18-pack of Natural Ice. It was 8:14am. Naturally, the questions started flying out of my mouth before I could even turn on the filter.

 

Tyler: Out of cereal?

 

Man: Heh. (sandpaper like smokers laugh) Heh, huhghghhg, Heh. Shit, this is my morning Joe. But I call it my morning go!

 

Tyler: Funny. What does that mean?

 

Man: Oh you know! What's up my brother? 

 

Tyler: Nothing man. Just about to head downtown. You? Big presentation at the office?

 

Man: I'm heading to the lake. I'll pound this by noon, believe that! 

 

Tyler: I believe you. I do.

 

Man: Shit, come on down...we will all be hangin' by Belmont Harbor.

 

Tyler: Thanks, but I'm really not much of an iced beer man. And I've got stuff to do.

 

Man: Fuck that! (coughing . . . coughing) Grab your suit and come out.

 

Tyler: Well, I do have a new suit, has a nautical theme. Stripes. Blue ones. With a big conch shell on the crotch.

 

Man: Heh heh. (coughing . . . coughing).

 

Tyler: Alright man, you guys have fun my friend.

 

Man: This will help! (to the cashier) and a pack of Winstons.

 

(just then his cell phone rings. Gone are the cocky, wild musings of a man and his beer)

 

Man: Hey baby. No, just grabbing the train. I just dropped her off at day care, will pick her up at 4.

 

THE END.

Work

I have been bad about the blogging and things lately. The Swine Flu came in with no mercy and turned everything upside down. Plus my polo mallet is broken and my horse has the runs.

I had a dream last night. 

THE END

I wrote that prematurely. I had a dream last night. It was a dry dream with very little sheet thrashing and only light sweating. You know when you have one of those random dreams out of nowhere that stars someone that you haven't seen of or heard from in years and years? Sometimes like since elementary school? They just pop in there for no reason at all and it makes no sense because the only time you ever spent with that person was when you were both crammed into a tiny, filthy, itchy burlap sack in your Bugle Boy jeans and turtle beck on a 101 degree day for the potato sack race at Field Day in the 5th grade. Josh Kirby, are you reading this?

That's happened to me. But that is not what my dream was about last night. It was a flashback to my days working at the great Prestonwood Mall in Dallas, TX, at a horrid little place run by a creepy man from Jersey who wore tight pants called Everything Yogurt. So naturally, this made me recall some of my crappy jobs growing up. Bored? Click out now.

Sports Fantasy: Valley View Mall, Dallas - sold hats, jerseys and sportswear to gangsters and creeps at a dark, dingy mall Dallas. Cross Colors was very popular during this period.

Journeys Shoes: Valley View Mall, Dallas - sold Doc Marten's to young people who have lots of piercings and hate their parents. 

Everything Yogurt: Prestonwood Mall, Dallas - sold yogurt and unrefrigerated, outdated dairy products in a food court at the best mall ever that is now a fucking Wal-Mart. Got fired for grabbing a handful of gummi bears out of the container with my dirty hands.

Greenwood Hills Pool Lifeguard, Richardson, TX - slathered on SPF 250 and watched as hoards of youngsters filled the pool with their urine.

Adair Baseball World: Addison, TX - shoveled baseballs in exchange for free tokens to the batting cages. Paid in candy.

Nick's Baseball Cards: Richardson, TX - shoved into a small, cramped, hot, humid backroom to sort through thousands of baseball cards and form sets. Paid in free cards and Schlotzky's sandwiches.

Campisi's Pizza, Richardson, TX - delivered pizzas all over north Dallas in a stiffling, jet black Chevy Blazer with black interior and no working AC. The radio worked sometimes and a mix tape with the likes of Ace of Base and Paperboy was stuck in the tape deck.

Glenneagles Country Club, Plano, TX - put clubs on carts at 4:30am, 5 days a week during my summer vacation. Paid in free golf and daily belittling by snobby, judgmental, rich, lazy Plano jackasses. Did I ever rummage through their bags? Maybe.

Valet Parker Guy, Dallas - parked cars and helped myself to loose change out of ashtrays.

Zoo-Kini's, Lubbock, TX - waited tables and allowed everyone I knew to eat free whenever they pleased. The charge for 6 friends what would have been a tab of $80 in food? One Iced Tea . . . $1.25. Often times I would still get stiffed, by my friends.

Black Eyed Pea, Lubbock, TX - I was a host. And I had to wear a tie. 

There are more, but I'm late for my shift at Gadzooks.

"Work builds character." - Stuart C. Kirk

YAY WORK!

Tyler

Assholes

ANYTIME the movies 'Just One Of The Guys', 'Caddyshack', 'Roadhouse' or 'Police Academy' is on TV I have to watch it. Same goes for The Goonies or LA Confidential. It doesn't matter. I could be on my way to opening day and it wouldn't matter, I'd stay and watch. There could be a man coming at me with a bow staff and I would stay put. Which is weird because I have the majority of these on DVD. So what is it about when a movie that you already own, and can watch anytime, comes on randomly that makes me want to watch it? I can watch it anytime but for some reason it is more appealing when it comes on randomly. It kind of falls into the same bucket that your friends fries always taste better. In my case, it would be that the stranger next to me has better tasting fries. 

The other day I was watching one of those Sunday movie marathons on something like TNT or TBS and 'Just One Of The Guys' came on. Aside from all of the greatness that movie has to offer - from Budmeister hitting on anything with a pulse to Terri showing her mammies to Rick Morehouse at the prom - one thing and one thing always stands out: THE GREAT WILLIAM ZABKA. Bar none, he was one of the greatest dickfaces of the 80s. Karate Kid. Just One Of The Guys. Back To School. All great performances . . . Zabka played a great prick, and played it wonderfully and without inhibitions.

So it go me thinking of what I think are the 25 best assholes of movies.

25. Paperboy (wants his 2 dollars) - Better Off Dead

24. Willie Lopez (rapist/killer/thief/junkie/all around prick) - Ghost

23. Ivan Drago (White Russian) - Rocky IV

22. Bart Taylor (BMX prick) - RAD

21. The Fratelli Family (angry inn keepers) - The Goonies

20. Jasper Woodcock (dickhead gym teacher) - Mr. Woodcock

19. Fred O'Bannion (old high school fartface) - Dazed and Confused

18. Shooter McGavin (pompous golf champion) - Happy Gilmore

17. Tantoo (wild indian dick who scalps wagon driver and eats his food) - Dances With Wolves

16. Hardy Jenns (Corvette-driving preppy scumbag) - Some Kind Of Wonderful

15. Victor Maitlen (cokehead/art dealer/drug dealer/killer) - Beverly Hills Cop

14. Sheriff Will Teasel (bloated small town cop) - First Blood

13. Darla Marks (crabby senior bitch) - Dazed and Confused

12. Stan Gable (shithead ATOMS quarterback and Betty Childs BF) - Revenge of the Nerds

11. Ogar (stinky drunk moron football player) - Revenge of the Nerds

10. Biff Tannon (jealous bully) - Back To The Future

9. Johnny (skelton karate fucker with headband and motorcycle) - Karate Kid

8. Ernie McCracken (bolwing legend) - Kingpin

7. Emperor Palpatine (racist Snuggie-wearing Sith Lord) - Return of the Jedi

6. O'Dolye Brothers' (red haired family of adolescent buttholes) - Billy Madison

5. Brad Wesley (rich dick with Napoleon complex) - Roadhouse

4. The Sand People (Snuggie wearing desert shitfaces) - Star Wars

3. Judge Schmails (golf cheater and Lacy's uncle) - Caddyshack

2. Andy (horny lumberjack) - PeeWee's Big Adventure

1. Chet (Jabba The Hutt starter kit) - Weird Science

And a happy Tuesday to you -

Tyler

GREENPEACE

I'm not a fan of solicitation. Not at all. If there is something I need, a group I would like to join, a charity I would like to give to or something I have a bleeding urge to learn more about, I will take the proper action. I recently purchased a Google on the eBay and have all of the knowledge and resources I need right at the tips of my fingers. It works very well and comes with all kinds of useful things like news, lost & found and porn. So when I get a call, an email, a fax, junk mail, a fake tattoo or something of the like from someone I don't know trying to sell me something I don't need, my erection goes down and I get that feeling -  you know, that feeling you get when there is a little piece of sand in the bottom of your sandal that is rolling around on the ball of your foot but won't go away. I think that is what an oyster must feel like, but I produce no pearl. Just the occasional poo.

I just have no patience for it. I take that back, I can tolerate it. I don't get angry. It just bugs. I think this is why I could never excel in any type of sales. The only thing I can consistently convince people of is giving me extra *fancy kethchup* at Whataburger and free syringes. 

Which brings me to my point. The GreenPeace folks. Now, I understand that these people are out there trying to do a noble thing to help the world for future generations. And that gets an A for admirable in my book . . . but these folks, at least in Chicago, are real jackasses. They travel in packs and I pass at least one group of them on Michigan Avenue each and every morning. It is hard to miss them. First of all, they stink. Most smell like they haven't seen a bar of soap since the Reagan Administration. Second, they wear bright green panchos, making it is easy to spot them from blocks ahead. (Editors note: the panchos do nothing to quell the stench from their dreadlocks and deodorant that came from the bark of a tree. Nay, it is the bark of a tree. They want to be one with nature.) And third, they fucking stalk you and keep pace with you going down the sidewalk, not listening. Not hearing "no thanks". Perhaps just a Q-Tip would do the trick? 

And they like to play the "guilt trip" card.

I'm not kidding. Ask anyone in Chicago and they will tell you the same thing. They are a beating. They are the type of person who, when you spot them, you quickly break out your cell phone and pretend to talk to someone. Does this work? No sir. 

Yesterday:

GP: Say man, if I told you five minutes of your time would save the world, would you stop?

TK: Hi. I appreciate what you're doing, I really do. But I'm in a hurry.

GP: Of course you are. 

TK: Thanks, good luck.

GP: Well, you sure weren't in a hurry when you were destroying our planet were you?

TK: Wow. That was uncalled for.

GP: It's true. You're all the same. No time, we get treated like shit . . . just like the planet. Whatever.

TK: Darling, you approached me. And if I didn't have a lid on my coffee you'd probably hit me with a roofy or something you got at a Panic show.

GP: (trying to make conversation, a "tactic", even though her and her hair were just rude as hell) Oh, you like Panic?

TK: No.

GP: Come one man, 5 minutes.

TK: Seriously, I don't have time and the best I can do for you right now is donate a stick of gum to help plug the ozone layer. 

GP: Oh that helps. Again, nobody cares.

TK: Tell you what, I'll give you five minutes if you buy me a 5 dollar footlong.

GP: I thought you were in a hurry.

TK: I am. Deal?

GP: No.

TK: So, are we finally done?

(GreenPeace huffs, turns around and storms off . . . a cloud of dirt above her head.)

And then I gave my favorite bum in front of Wallgreens 3 dollars.

THE END.

Tyler

Sleep

I slept like a lump of plop last night. I got home from the gym all excited and aroused to watch a new episode of Intervention about a lady who had a problem with hitting herself and telling herself she was "so stupid and can't do anything right" and banging her head with a hairbrush. But after I ate dinner and got focused and ready for the Intervention to go down, I fell asleep hard, at like 7. When I woke up it was almost 10 and the self-brutality and yelling had ended. I was really looking forward to it. I was really groggy and disoriented and confused. After I finally dunked my head in a trough and got it together it was like 10:15. 

And then . . . WIDE AWAKE. It is funny the things you do when you can't sleep. For some reason it seems logical to check the fridge every 6 minutes to make sure you didn't miss anything behind the mustard and repeatedly look into the cupboard to see if the shelf had sprouted a fresh bag of Chex-Mix. Of course, in between all of these round trips to the kitchen the other rational thing to do would be to surf through the channels over and over and over and over and over and over . . . then go back and look in fridge. And just to complete the cycle, also peep into the freezer just to make sure that empty box of fudge pops is still there, cold and barren.

THEN . . . just lay there for hours and hours and hours pretending to sleep. Somewhere in this routine it is also recommended to grab your cell phone and skim through names to see who to text at 2, 3, 4am. Nobody. But it is a good plan to check every 6 minutes or so. Not much action on the Facebook during the wee hours, except for the handful of people who live overseas, so around this time is when I get out the matches and start burning things. Then I trim my toenails, followed by a trip to check on the empty box of fudge pops. Still there. 

THEN . . . Little House on the Prairie. Last night Mr. Edwards had a pet Orangutan, Blanche, who was a sweet and lovable animal who all the kids in town loved. But of course, all was ruined when that old hag Mrs. Olsen got a stick up her ass and didn't want Blanche around because she and everyone else think Nelly is a dumb whore. Blanche was taken to the zoo in Sleepy Eye.

THE VERY BEST PART OF THIS ROUTINE is when you finally fall into a deep slumber at like 6:21 and have to wake up like an hour later. It makes starting the day fun and refreshed, ready to tackle the world and kick off the day with a smile and swift kick to the nuts.

YAY!!!!!

Tyler

Tanning

To World:

I got an email the other day that went something like this:

To Tyler: Your blog is lame. Stop wasting peoples time. You're not funny.

To Angry Reader: I understand, and you're right. Seriously. This dumb blog is more of an outlet to get my thoughts rolling before I start concepting and writing for my real job, which produces even stinkier plop. But in an effort to curb your anger, I encourage you to no longer click this link, www.tylersouthouse.blogspot.com, and to also stop rubbing my knee under the table. I've also taken the liberty of removing the "T" and "Y" keys from your keyboard. No more garbage for you!   Done and done.

 - - - -

I was actually stoked to get that . . . it is proof that a set of eyes that do not belong to me actually have looked at this pile of shit I call a blog.

Moving along. I was reading the Austin American Statesman this morning on the internets, and as I was skimming the headlines, something caught my eye: "Bill: Teens would need note for tanning bed. Texans under 18 would not be allowed to use tanning beds unless they have a doctors permission and a parent present." www.statesman.com.

I think this is a great idea. Too often I see people rockin' that nuclear shade of orange in the dead of winter. It always makes me think of orange jello that been sitting in the fridge and jiggles slightly when you open the door to the fridge . . . and makes me wonder what kind of confused lava dance ritual that person's skins cells are doing under the first layer of epidermis after being fried inside a florescent coffin. Couple that with blinding blonde hair from from a cardboard box of bleach and you've got the makings for gold. GOLD Jerry, gold. And skin cancer. Add in some dark roots and you've got the makings for something very special. I suppose it is worse here in Chicago where the opportunity for catching rays is significantly less than in my beloved Austin . . . but tanning is not limited to a single place. I think 18 is a good idea. I frown when I see a girl get on the train using her Chicago Public Schools bus pass and she looks like a cross between a nectarine and an old saddle. Wait until you're 18 and then you can go lie under the heatlamp for as long as you like. I knew a girl in high school who, sadly, was referred to as "Nug" . . . a nickname for a nickname, meaning "Chicken McNugget", because she was only 17 an already a leathery mess. I saw the new Indian Jones last year and his bullwhip reminded me of her.

So, I support this idea. In addition to this bill, I also think that anyone with tribal art or frosted tips should also have to go through an intense screening process before being allowed to procreate. Same goes for every "Rock of Love Bus" participant. 

I take that back. That bus should just be driven into an erupting volcano at high speed with a full tank of gas.

Happy Saint Patricks Day!!!!

Tyler

Dream

Dear Diary,

I understand the economy is in about as good shape as Anna Nicole and the Crocodile Hunter . . . and that I shouldn't have such a dislike for the HUMMERS and meatheads of the world, but my sleep pattern has been a bit off this week. Am I eating too much salt? I'm not really understanding my dreams lately. So far this week I had a dream that I was riding a snowmobile on a beach (WTF #1) and then I rode it up a sand dune and and met my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Nance, atop the hill for a picnic (WTF #2). Then, we went to Wal-Mart and bought Dallas Cowboys jerseys (WTF #3). Right when we were at the cash register, I woke up in a heavy sweat - screaming and going bananas like the episode of Little House where Mary goes blind. Then, last night in the midst of my slumber I had a dream that I was being chased around the neighborhood by a Cop on a riding mower (WTF #4). I woke up from that dream, went back to sleep and had another dream where I was driving a Zamboni on a frozen lake and ran out of gas (WTF #5). I was rescued by a dog sled. And who was driving? The Cop from the riding mower (WTF #6). 

The only thing that can make me feel better is this: http://dallas.craigslist.org/dal/cto/106709452.html.

I'm not getting it, diary. What does all this mean? I'll cut down on the salt and am seeing a specialist about my fear of the olive loaf, but aside from all this I don't know what else to do. Is this pattern going to continue? I'll admit, driving the Zamboni was fun. But I didn't care for the chafing I got as a result of playing in the sand. 

Throw an 8 iron and a quart of 10W-30 into the dream sequence and we'll talk.

And where are my jumper cables? I already checked that old leather doctors bag . . . did Velvet take them home?? I need them for game night tonight.

Until next time.

Tyler

Hair

To You -

ATTENTION: If you are a subscriber to HBO, I highly urge you to watch a new program called 'Eastbound & Down'. A washed-up baseball player. Mullets. Booze. Drugs. Lying. Cheating. Jet Skis. Broncos. Stealing. Lakes. Bars. Strippers. Fighting. Cussing, lots and lots of cussing. Violence. Destruction. Sports. Steroids. And REDNECKS! This show has all of the trimmings for something very special, like a delicious Thanksgiving dinner where Uncle Dan gets drunk and lights the couch on fire. Tune in. The Sopranos is over.

Hi. How are you? Good. So, yesterday something happened that got me thinking. And like all of these really dumb blog things, this is equally, if not more important. I had just got done swimming at the gym and when I got out of the pool I felt something intertwined within the fingers of my left hand. It was a hair. A 4-inch random hair that I had apparently picked up when I was looking for spare change in the pool. Just a hair. Nothing else. Not a tampon or a syringe. Just a hair. And since I had been in a pool one can only assume it was a clean hair . . . what with the chlorine and what not. Well as I felt it on my hand and then noticed it, I went into a bit of a wild panic in order to get rid of it. Like when a moth if flying around your head. A random hair can sometimes be like a cobweb . . . you know it is there and pull furiously to get it off, but you can still feel it. Finally I got it off. And as my heartbeat began to slow and after triple checking for more stragglers, I sat down in the sauna and poured a whiskey. Breathe . . .

You see, I hate hairs. Wait. Let me correct that, I hate random hairs. I really do. I have a fear of them. The random hair sits right up there with spiders and ear wax. But it is just hair . . . which when you think about it, is very odd. It is not a dirty diaper or an old pair of old, stinky UGG boots. It is just a hair. I have lots of hair. Every second Monday when I take a shower and shampoo my hair, I don't find myself going crazy. When I go to get a haircut and walk into the mecca of random hairs, I do not swallow a bottle of Advil and chase it with the blue liquid that the combs are sitting in in order to numb the pain. When I see a hairbrush - flush with a family of dead hairs tangled in a sea of dandruff and lice - I don't reach for a razor blade. It is just a hair. Gross, sure. But why the freakout? It doesn't make sense. One would think if a single random hair would make me freak, a million would make for a complete meltdown. But it doesn't. I once got intimate with a girl. As we were making out in the Whataburger Drive Thru, I ran my fingers through her burlap hair. Then the car honked behind us and we had to move up and my Snow CD skipped. But, when I was there with a fistful of hair and in my hand and happiness in my pants, I didn't go crazy. No, I didn't. It felt nice. I didn't go bananas. And I have no fear of petting a dog or of dental floss. 

The elusive, stray hair. The one that got away. A mystery.

I don't like poop. So naturally if you add a bunch more and throw me into the bowels of an outhouse, into the doo-doo of doo-doo, I'd freak. More plop = more freak. That makes sense.

More hair = less freak. Weird-O-Rama.

Goodbye.

Tyler

Change

Hi World. Thanks for the rash. Where is my gun?

I think I might actually have a point to make today . . . bare with me. I am writing this dumb thing today on an electronic computing machine. I am listening to some fucking ROCKING jams on my electronic tape player. I am getting text messages from my parole officer on my super fast electronic cell phone thing. Plus, I watch all of my old Kids Incorporated videos on a miniature electronic movie theater.

So. The other night I was downtown at a party with people who pretend to be my friends. It got late and I needed to make the trek back to Lincoln Park from Wicker Park. Being that I was tired from it all, I decided to forego the traditional February car jack and opted to take a taxi cab. I flag down a cab and get in the car.  Well, I tried to get in the front and sit extra close to the driver on the bench seat just to make things spicy, but he insisted I get in the back, or . . . no ride. I complied. We get all the way back to my my area and I tell him to drop me off at the corner near my hovel. He told me the fare and when I gave him a credit card his head spun around and he went into a fiery temper tantrum. He didn't want to take my card. Here is a summary of the transcript:

Driver: "Eleven twenty five."

Tyler Guy: "OK. Here you go." (hand him PLATINUM Visa Debit Card)

Driver: "No. No. What? No, you got to pay cash."

Tyler Guy: "What? Why?"

Driver: "Cash only."

Tyler Guy: "But there is a credit card machine right there." (I point to the card machine thing in the back seat, convenient for passenger use)

Driver: "Cash only. Cash only. No card."

Tyler Guy: "Well, I don't have cash. You wanna take my card or not."

Driver: "Mucky Blangada Vinceteo a Mucky Flipourin---Ivan Drago." (foreign expletives, lots of finger pointing and wild saliva spitting)

Tyler Guy: "I don't know what you just said, sir. But I don't want any trouble. Stay here and I'll ATM at this 7-11."

Driver: "Yes. Go."

So, I go into the 7-11 and ATM 20 bucks - then I buy a Slim Jim and head to the cashier to pay. As I am completing the transaction with the nice 7-11 man, I decide to get creative with my change. I told the story of what was happening and the man was happy to help.

As I return to the cab, I stand outside and hand the driver a bag of money. $11.25 in this manner.

14 rolls of pennies.

12 quarters.

10 dimes. 

5 nickels.

Driver: "Fuck you you fucking prick fucking boy."

Tyler Guy: "Cool man. Keep the change. Oh wait! It's all change. I'll walk from here."

My Point? It's an electronic world. Get with it or jingle. 

THE END.

Love Always, 

Tyler

Too . . . There . . .

Dear World -

Today I would like to take a moment to discuss two groups of words: the "to's" and the "there's". If that is kind of confusing I will break it down further into teams:

The Bluebirds: to, too and two.

The Irons: there, their and they're.

Now, I am not a scholar. I have not written any dissertations, my favorite book  is Goodnight Moon and I am not good at building things. Having said that, I am somewhat familiar with the laws and regulations regarding grammar and words and things . . . and thought I'd take a moment to delve into a little matter which people seem to get confused more often than not. Folks can't seem to use the correct form of "to" and "there" when writing. I find these words important in our language and deserve more respect. As such, I thought I'd create a guideline for the appropriate ways to use these two teams of words.

Following are correct and in correct ways of using these words.

THE BLUEBIRDS -

To:

Good Way: "I am heading to the east side to get my balls waxed."

Bad Way: "I have been a cutter for to years now."

Too:

Good Way: "That chick has eaten way too many donuts in her day, but I'd still hit it."

Bad Way: "The nice priest at church told me not too say anything about us playing hide the dart."

Two:

Good Way: "Uncle Dan hit mom in the head two times with a broken bottle."

Bad Way: "Anna Nicole took way two many drugs for lunch that day. She dead."

THE IRONS:

There:

Good Way: "I put the gag ball over there."

Bad Way: "Every time I go over to there house, I wake up with a sore fanny."

Their:

Good Way: "At least their trailer has heat."

Bad Way: "I think she went over their to pay her pimp."

They're:

Bad Way: "They're the nicest couple. I hardly noticed his wooden leg and lazy eye."

Good Way: "I think they're is only one good way to steal his kidney."

Please use this source for reference at any point.

GO WORLD!!!

Tyler Britain Kirk I

Baby Encounter

TV: Sober House is no Intervention, but it is another option to make you feel better about yourself.

Moving along. Lets talk for a moment about kids. I love kids. I have four nephews that all share my last name, all look kind of like me and all speak English. They are hilarious, smart, enjoy being on earth and don't have to pay rent. Plus, they really appreciate the greatness that is Whataburger. 

Having said that, I'd like to address one thing in particular that continually makes me somewhat uncomfortable. Ready?  When you're sitting at a table, or on the train, or in line buying your liquor and gorilla glue for the morning and the lady next to you - or in front of you...or to the side of you - is holding onto a cute little tike who, for whatever reason, finds you unbelievably fascinating. Fascinating to the point that the little fella stares holes through you as the puddle of sippy cup infused mucus flowing onto mommy's shoulder grows into a pond. Now, that is not a problem. Kids are curious. The problem really gains momentum and increases from a canter to a gallup when I begin to try to talk and interact with the little titan. I like to talk to them and try to get a giggle from them. FAIL. The whole process usually transpires in 7 stages. Perhaps you can relate. This happened to me this morning.

STAGE 1: Eye Contact. I notice two plate-size eyes beaming in my direction. Quickly, my attention is diverted from pocketing a pack of Top Cigarette paper to the issue at hand. A smile is cracked as I fake a cough and put the tobacco paper in my pocket. Success.

STAGE 2: Facial expressions. Now knowing that the game is well underway, my immediate impulse is not to realize that I am looking at a cute little raisin who has been on earth for less time than my rash. No, instead I believe the best move at this point is to completely ignore the beams being shot at me by the mom and instead, not make any noise but contort my face and dome into various shapes and expressions that the child can only process as being frightening and somewhat disturbing. The big smile, the tongue out, the confused muse, the constipated bellow, etc. At this point in the game, I am losing. 

STAGE 3: Baby talk. Since my impression of a stroke victim has done little to entice the youngster, my next move by instinct is to begin to create words that have no meaning and no place in the English language. All sorts of unknown creations are being uttered at this time, such as "hoooola hi-eeeeeeeeeeeee" and "a boooga, booooga". Now, these noises in conjunction with my expressions that can be best described at what it looks like to squeeze an empty beer can on your forehead, do not bode well for the child. The kid continues to stare with little or no expression. I also like to point at random things.

STAGE 5: Judgement. After all of the previous stages have been thoroughly explored, the baby at this point has little choice but to stare and judge me. It is an uncomfortable exchange for a few moments because at this point I know the baby is thinking what a moron I am and how glad he is that I fall nowhere in his blood line. The mother quickly gets in on the act as she does a slow once-over of me from head to toe, then grimmaces and says something under hear breath. More judging. The she fakes a smile and pretends to check her BlackBerry.

STAGE 6: Small talk. My only move at this point - as the tike continues to judge and stare - is to say something to the mom. Something really funny and witty . . . something like, "I love kids. I'm good with them. Is it yours? Really, fun." FAIL.

STAGE 7: Sedation. As my ego plunges from judgement and failure, my last chance at redemption is to undo the vice grip the child has placed on the Sponge Bob sippy cup and fill it with whiskey. I am now smarter and better.

THE END.

Have a great weekend!

Tyler

Character Reference

Hello Folks.

Some lady squeezed out bonus 8 kids in California. Have fun with that. I defeated Scurvy once again and Anna Nicole's Show is still on hiatus. 

Moving along . . . I was asked to write a character reference recently for a friend. And I use the term "friend" very loosely. Not because I don't like this person, I like him fine. I say that because I have only known this person - who I shall call "Leonard" - a few months through acquaintances. I really don't know him that well and am still puzzled as to why I was the one he asked to write this letter. Having said that, I have come to learn that Leonard, although relatively harmless and a thoughtful individual, is not the brightest bulb in the bunch. The only times I have met him are when I meet up with some friends for college football or happy hour, so I know him through them. But he has always been nice to me so I am going to do my best to draft some sort of letter on his behalf. 

Here are a few things I do know about Leonard: no high school diploma, jail time, multiple DUIs, drug charges, unemployed, lack of stable employment, lack of stable apartment, potty mouth, smoker, poor personal hygiene, warrants for his arrest, no bank account, drinking problem, pot smoker, loud, obnoxious, often forgets his wallet.

Knowing this handful of personality traits, I will do my best to draft a letter for Leonard while at the same time being completely honest. Here we go:

Dear Sir or Madam, 

My name is Tyler Kirk. I am a copywriter at an advertising agency here in Chicago. I am happy to write a character reference for Leonard McConnaghey. I have known Leonard for a few months and think he is a really good guy. He has always been very nice and is really nice and friendly and things. I have met up with him on three or four occasions at local watering holes in the Chicago area and he is always good for a laugh, many a fist bump and an absurd amount of high-fives.

In regards to Leonard's character, I would say he consistently portrays many of the traits of a solid individual. For example:

- SELF STARTER: Leonard is always up for beers and is often the first one at the bar getting a head start on the evening. Sometimes hours before the appropriately alloted time. 

- RELIABLE: he will be at the bar when he says he will and, like clockwork, will consistently blackout and call a stranger a "dickface", sometimes throwing a bowl of popcorn at a neighboring table.

- PASSIONATE: Leonard can sing the lyrics to every Motorhead  and Asia song. Leonard also has collected a large amount of Camel Cash and has the Joe Camel lighter to prove it.

- THINKS OF OTHERS: Leonard will drink all day and then offer to drive you home.

- RESOURCEFUL: Leonard has a knack for forgetting his wallet, yet still drinks the night away on someone elses dime.

- CULTURED: Leonard spent 18 months in the Cook County Jail and speaks fluent English.

- HONEST: Leonard has had 3 DUIs and will tell you all about them...including but not limited to the time he drove to Wisconsin to watch the sun rise and drove his station wagon into Lake Michigan. He also tried to "borrow" a pizza delivery man's car once. Again, he will tell you all about it. Over a beer. Over and over again.

- GOAL ORIENTED: Leonard is going to start a record label.

- CREATIVE: Leonard has the ability to fabricate any story into a 3-hour trilogy, complete with piss breaks. Many times the story lacks the appropriate "arc" format, but he makes up for it by creating 4 alternative endings to one story. In one sitting.

- ORGANIZED: Leonard has 4 compartments in his velcro wallet for storage of anything from numbers and business cards to half-smoken cigarettes and packets of Equal.

- DRIVEN: Leonard is determined to be dead by 2012.

If you have any further inquiries regarding Leonard, please don't hesitate to ask. I am happy to help.

Best -

Tyler Kirk