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