Sunday, December 26, 2010


If my life were a movie, it would start with a Spelling Bee. The camera would fade from black to a close up, on a pair of lips.
"Please spell the word..." our lips say "VAGINA"

Notice the lanky kid on stage? Six feet tall. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Hootie and The Blowfish T-shirt. This goofy piece of shit, he is me.
"VAJINA..." I say "V-A-J-I-N-A, VAJINA.
This close up of lips, tell me it's incorrect.
Some kid from behind the stage yells "What a pussy!"
I don't even think he meant the pun.
I walk off stage with my head down. A tear trickles down my left cheek. How was I supposed to know how to spell Vagina? I've never seen one. Not even read about one.
I'm a disgrace to pubescent boys everywhere. I'm even a disgrace to Hootie and The Blowfish . I don't even deserve to wear this T-shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my friend Hagen at the podium. I exit stage left as I hear his word.
"Please spell the word "CLITORIS." The Judge says
"I hate the Cock Suckin' word!" he says
Hagen tends to fail miserably when he's nervous. He also uses the words "Cock" and "Suckin" quite frequently. Even at Thirteen.
"Fine. I'll spell the Mother Fuckin' Word." he says
Also Note- The use of "Mother" and "Fucker" are used fairly common as well.
"C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S. Clitoris."

If my life were a movie, right now, at this moment in my life, eighty percent would hit the cutting room floor. Unless the camera wants to shoot me masturbating.
Please spell the word TABOO. T-A-B-O-O, TABOO
Read all the books and Dr. Joyce books you want. There are two kinds of liars in this world.
Those who say they don't masturbate
Those who say they've quit.
Unless you're the poor bastard who had both his arms ripped off from his tractor. He's the exception to the rule. I'm sure he still thinks about it.
Go ahead. Read your books, your facts. I dare you to find something different.

January 11th will make it eight months. Eight months since my wife left me.
The five stages of Grief after you've lost someone are:
If you don't believe me, ask my friend Stacy. Go ahead. He has a bachelors is Psychology. A real one.
To the above five stages, I'd like to make an amendment. It's actually more of an addition.
The six stages of grief after you've lost someone are:
Add- Masturbation Contemplation.
There are three kinds of liars in this world:
Those who don't think about masturbating.
Those who say they don't masturbate.
Those who say they've quit.
After sleeping in the same bed as your spouse for six years it gets kind of lonely when you don't, sleep in the same bed that is.
Tonight I lay on my back motionless. I can't sleep. The slightest noise is keeping me awake. The refrigerator runs. It sounds like a fucking jackhammer. A garage door from the neighborhood opens. It sounds like nails against a fucking chalkboard. Even the thoughts in, my own fucking head sound as if the volume is turn up to 50 on my television. I can't sleep. I am so so very tired but I can't sleep. It’s been so long since I’ve had a warm body lying next to mine you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m not. I probably never will, be used to it that is.
So I think about it.
Tell me I’m sick. Tell me I’m a fucking pervert for thinking about it. Tell me I’m a fucking weirdo for writing about it.
I’ll probably agree.
Tell me it’s wrong. Tell me most men and women don’t do it. Tell me once you’re past a certain age you shouldn’t even think about it.
I’ll call you a fucking liar.
There are four kinds of liars in this world:
Those who say they don’t masturbate
Those who say they’ve quit
Those who say they don’t think about masturbating
Those who say they’re too old to masturbate.

Sometime last week I had a conversation with Anonymous de New York. He told me he was masturbating at his computer when he noticed someone looking through his blinds. He forgot the cardinal rule to the pre-game warm up. Always make sure all binds are shut and drapes are pulled closed. Anonymous de New York told me he bolted up, ran to his door, opened the door and saw the perp running towards his car. He never mentioned if he had time to pull up his pants.

Here, on my couch, it’s been so long, even the highlight reel won’t work. I spent the last six years with someone. Here, on my couch I lay here and try to picture the faces from my past but they’re all a little fuzzy. I can’t even remember the names of some of them. If I had internet access, this would be easy. So fucking easy.
It seemed like only minutes later. I open my eyes and see the sunlight streaming through my blinds. I’ve heard stories about guys who fall asleep in the middle of intercourse. Most of them involve a lot of alcohol and ambien. I’ve never heard a story about someone falling asleep in the middle of masturbation. I don’t even think I started.

The judge tells Hagen that he is correct.
Even Hagen knows his sexual anatomy. And he doesn't even masturbate.


Veronica from the internet desk stops by every so often to see if her patrons need any additional time on the computer. As I finish typing the above paragraph, a whisper in my ear asks me if I need more time. Her eyes are fixated on my computer screen. The font is set at 12 but looks like 30. In front of her line of sight are the letters C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S
She gives me a look
I would like to finish my story but can’t. Veronica’s looks tells me to leave. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Also Note: I never had a Hootie and the Blowfish T-shirt. Honestly. Ask my friend Luke. He will tell you. You should also ask him about his closet and Thanksgiving dinner.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Worlds Greatest Dad

My son is the greatest. No doubt about it. I'm being bias of course, but after all he is my son. I only wish he could say the same for me. Not right now. I mean, he's only 11 months old. But as an adult. As an adult I only wish he could look back and say "My dad is the fucking greatest!"
We'll see.
Right now I feel far from it. Great that is.

Director Franz Frankenhiemer makes a left hand turn on to 110 Mulberry Blvd at preciously 11:01 AM.
He drives straight for 2 miles and at preciously 11:04 AM he enters the Porte-cochere to the Grand Larmont Hotel in Burbank, CA.
At 11:05 he opens the door to his BMW, tosses the keys to the Valet Attendant, and by 11:07 he is through the lobby doors, into the restaurant, and seated at table number 6. It's the one next to the bay window.
"Gentleman..." our director says "This better not be a waste of my fucking time."
The other two gentleman accompanying table number 6 are
David Danderage-Producer
Boris Markovich- Producer
"Go ahead! Tell him what you just told me..." Boris says "It's fucking Brilliant!"
A waitress comes by the table. She asks the three men what they would like to drink.
Franz tells her to Fuck off.
David Tells her they're busy
Boris orders an appetizer. It's the cave-aged gruyere and mostarda
David spills a small pile of white powder on the table.
"It's a new idea inside of an everyday concept." Says David
"You mean like Reality T.V.?" Franz Says
"It's American Idol!" Boris Says "But Better! Way fucking better!"
David Danderage chops the white powdery pile with a small razor blade.
"It's fucking Dancing with the Stars!" David says
" Meets Jerry Springer!" Says Boris "But better!"
David separates the powder into three separate lines.
Franz tells the two men to fucking get on with it.
Boris hands David a hundred dollar bill rolled into a small cylinder.
"It's called 'Worlds Greatest Dad!'" David says. He bends down and snorts one of the lines into his right nostril.
"It's like Survivor!" Boris Says "But Better! Off the fucking charts better!"
David hands the dollar bill back to Boris
"Each week we take three different dads..." David says " Each from a different social, economical, racial, and geographical climate..."
"It's like fucking American Gladiators..." Boris says "Meets Lost!" Boris bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left nostril. "But only 'Season One Lost'..." he says " but better! Out of this fucking world better!"
"These Three dads are put through a series of competitive tests..." David says "Both are physically, and mentally challenging." He says
"It's like Jeopardy..." Boris says "But so much better! So fucking better!"
Boris hands the Hundred Dollar bill to Franz.
"and at the end of the month..." David says "We take the winners from each week,and pit them against each other."
"It's like Big Brother!" Boris Says "Big Brother Meets Spartacus." Says "I would've said Gladiator but I fucking hate Russell Crowe."
Franz bends down and snorts a white powdery line into his left Nostril.
The waitress comes by the table. She brings Boris his Appetizers. She asks the table if they need anything else.
"Fuck Off!" Franz Yells
"We're good for now." says David
Boris orders a diet coke. With a Lemon wedge.
Franz hands the Hundred Dollar bill back to David.
"So...Franz Baby, what do you think?" Asks David
"It's a sure thing!" says Boris "Like the actual quote." Says "Not the movie with fucking John Cusak."
Franz tells them he has to think about it. He looks at his watch and tells them he's late for another meeting. This one is with the creators of "Firehouse Rocks."
"The Reality show about Gay Firemen?" David Asks
"It was America's Got Talent." Boris says "meets the fucking bird cage." Says "But Better!"
Franz looks at his watch.
11:47 AM PST
He needs to drive 10 miles in 13 minutes.
So, at 11:48 AM, Director Franz Frankenhiemer stands from table number 6, shakes the hands of the two accompanying gentleman, leaves the restaurant, walks through the lobby and out the lobby doors and by 11:50 AM, he is seated behind the steering wheel to his BMW.
"It's like the real world." he thinks "Meets Days of fucking Thunder."

The clock on my computer screen tells me it's 10 after 12. I'd like to offer a creative Tie-in to the above story but can't.
I guess Christmas has put a lot of pressure on me.
There seems to be some sick part of society that tells us to buy the biggest and the best for our children, and if we can't, well, then we're just no fucking good.
So, right now. At 13 after Midnight, I feel as if I wouldn't even make it past the application process. You know. To the Reality T.V. show mentioned above.
It's like Maury Povich. Maury Povich meets Pulp fucking fiction. But not the send my wild teen to boot camp. I fucking hate when he does that.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Today is Thursday, December 23rd

Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Busiest travel day of the year
Last minute shopping
Suicide Rates are high
Anxiety over family

Right now Stu is on edge. His hands are on Ten and Two and nail marks are digging into the steering wheel.
"I can't see anything!" he says
The fog is thick. Visibility I'm guessing is Ten feet. The bus is crawling along going now more than Ten miles an hour and what normally is a 25 minute ride, is taking close to 40. I stare out of the passenger window and write in my Moleskin.
In the aisle directly across from me is Suzanne. She is a Forty-Something single mother who works at Wal-mart.
"What are you doing?" she asks
"I'm just taking notes." I say
Suzanne pulls a green thermos from a reusable Wal-mart shopping bag.
"Are you a journalist or a writer or something like that?" She asks
"Sort of." I say
She unscrews the plastic lid and flips up on a red nozzle
"Are you published?"
"Sort of"
Her eyes open wide with excitement.
"Really! That is so cool!" She says "Who is your publisher?"
She pours what looks like coffee into the lid she previously unscrewed.
"Wait! Let me guess!" She says "Ummm...Random House?"
"Warner Books?"
"Try again?"
"Little Brown?"
"Blog"I say
Her face is frozen.
"It's a website blog. It's free and anyone can do it." I say
Her look now reminds me of a Kid who just met Santa Claus but later learned he was fake. For a split second I was somebody. She was talking to a writer. Someone who made it. Now, she looks into the eyes of a wanna be disconnected from reality.
"Oh. That's nice." she says
She turns her face around and stares forward.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Remember the Egg Nog
Take out the Roast
The Banks are only open till 1 tomorrow
Buy Wrapping Paper

My house is a fucking mess. Not just one room but ALL rooms. My water has been off for a few days. I have stacks of dishes in the sink. The stink of egg shells, frozen pizza, rotting ranch dressing, Tuna fish and stagnant water fills my kitchen.
Then there's the garbage. I keep forgetting to take out the garbage on Wednesdays’. So it sits there. Pilling up in my garage like a junk yard it sits there.
I scan the wreckage. Even while I sit among this infestation, I can't find the motivation to clean. I just sit there on the couch.
I sit there and think about masturbating.
The blinds are closed
The only thing I need now is a wipe rag. I decide just to sit there and do nothing.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Two more days till Christmas
The winter Solstice was two days ago
The Temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit

Around Eleven O'clock my friend Luke calls. I pick up my phone and try to answer. The battery goes dead. I sit there on the couch. I'm too lazy to go plug the phone into my charger.
Laziness 1
Motivation 0
I sit there and feel bad. Yesterday was my friend’s birthday. I was supposed to be there. In Idaho. I was supposed to be there for his Birthday. My inheritance check from my trust fund was supposed to clear by then but it hasn't. I have no money for gifts of any kind for anyone. I sit here and feel bad.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;
Taylor Swift among top gift under tree
Happy Birthday Eddie Vedder
Mince Pies on Sale at Marie Calanders
The Santa Clause with Tim Allen is on T.V. tonight

The Microwave tells me its 1:45. This means I need to get ready if I'm going to catch the bus into town. My Laziness tells me to call my Therapist and tell her I'm not going to group tonight. I tell my Laziness because it didn't let me plug my phone into it's charger I can't. I get up, take a shower, and put some fresh clothes on.
Motivation-Winner by default.
Laziness 2
Motivation 1

Stu drops me off at the Library a quarter past Three. The fog has thinned out but is still there. Inside, Cheryl directs me to computer station number three. It's here, at computer station number Three I sit and type. Thirty Minutes from now I will leave computer station number three and head towards my group. I have no idea what I will do tomorrow or the next.
Today is Thursday, December 23rd. What this means is;

Sunday, December 19, 2010


Tap Tap
Testing Testing. One Two Three. Testing

I'd like to make an apology.

Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Tap Tap

I'd like to make an apology if I could. It's for all of my friends. Well, not ALL my friends I guess. Just the ones I push this stupid blog upon. I used to think I was creative. There was a time I thought I had talent. Now, it's all been siphoned away. At the bottom of the hose it falls into the pool of the more deserving. I should've spent more time. Done more research. Used a fucking spell checker. Something. I should of done something.

Feedback. Noise. Reverberation. Obscene shouts and lude gestures from the crowd.
Tap Tap

So, as I stated before. I'd like to make an apology. I'm sorry for pushing this blog. This shitty shitty blog. It's not funny. Don't get me wrong, I laugh but that's probably just me. I'm sorry for all the E-mails, Text Messages and Public Service announcements telling you to read my blog. If I had money, I'd drag a banner across the sky with my web address on it.
Yes I know I'm pathetic.
No it won't get any better.
I'm sorry for wasting your time.

Feedback. High pitch. Both ear drums ring. Shouts from crowd say, "Get off the fucking stage asshole!" Arms raise. Middle index finger extends. Crowd says, "Go suck a cock fuckface." Followed by "Shows us your tits!"

Tap Tap.

I'm sorry for making you feel like you had a choice. You didn't.

Man from back of crowd says "Cry me a fucking river homo!"

I thought if I wrote everything in Medias Res it would be clever. If I wrote in a Minimalistic style it would cover my ignorance.

Teenager from row four seat 3 stands up. Makes pumping motion with fist. Smacks lips. Winks. Blows kiss.

I though people would visit my site. I have ads by google. I thought people would visit my site and click on my links and I would make money. I could write and make money.

Something flies through air. Smacks Rectus Abdonimis. Hands Clench Rectus Abdonimis. Lean Forward. Whisper under my breath "Mother Fuckers." Something looks like Mash Potatoes. Tastes like Mash Potatoes.
Female from row 1 seat 11 says " There's more where that came from."
Senior Citizen. Female. Row 26 seat 14 Says "Run off the stage an cry to mommy pussy!"
Senior Citizen. Male. Row 26 Seat 15 probably husband raises hand and high fives Senior Citizen Female.

I though I was clever...

Voice from crowd I cannot see says "You already said that asshole."
Feedback. Noise. Reverberation.
Man in late forties stands up. Grabs Crotch. Pulls up on Crotch. Says "This is what I think of your apology!" followed by "Fucking Asshole!"

Tap Tap
Most importantly, I need to aplogize to myself. I need to apologize to myself for thinking I could write. Not only write, but write something people would want to read. I apologize to the word delusion. I give it no justice. I am more than that.

Man from back row with baby on his shoulders shouts "What does that even mean!"

I would also like to apologize to everyone on
Calling People Names
Bad Ass Geek
Mr. London Street
Bag lady
Steam Me Up Kid
Fluster Me

I'm sorry for wasting your time. I lured you into my blog like something lures something else in. If I were clever enough I'd tell you what that something is.

Man in Wheelchair seated next to Women in row 7 seat 1 says "If I had legs I'd walk up there and kick in your fucking face!" Followed by "Asshole!"

Feedback. Noise. Silence.
Tap Tap
Mouth Moves. Microphone does not amplify voice.
Laughter from crowd.
Young man early twenties standing near side of stage holds a cord. I follow cord to microphone.
Young man early twenties holding cord says "I think you might be in the wrong place." Says"I don't want to be a dick but you really got to go."

Behind me Red banner reads "Jim Mortensen." Reads "Third Congressional District." Reads "Two More Years"

Friday, December 17, 2010


I have ten minutes to write something. My laptop at home is broke. Something's wrong with the A drive. It won't let me insert my floppy disk. As dirty as that sounds, it sucks.

I can't insert my floppy disk.
I have only ten minu...eight minutes to write something.

Not that anyone reads this shit anymore.

More often than not, I lie awake at night. I lie awake at night with nothing to do. I could masterbate.
That sensation only lasts ten minutes at best. What then?

I remember a Limerick told to me by Luke's dad.

There once was a man from Kurplunk
Who locked himself in a trunk
While thinking of Venus
and stroking his Penis
He filled that trunk with gunk.

I decide to write a Limerick of my own

I think of the suberbs surrounding the Salt Lake Valley.

There once was a girl from Rose Park
Who loved to give head in the dark
While sucking my penis
She called herself Venus
But later I learned it was Clark

And that only took 7 minutes. What now? Maybe I should've masterbated.

I write my masterpiece down in my moleskin.

My time is up.

Have a great weekend

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Hey, I was just being honest

A while ago I thought about joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.-Mormons.
The Bishop, being the salesman that he was, told me that he would pay my power bill and help with food until I got on my feet. All I needed to do in return was "consider and pray." So I did. A great deal in fact. After a long of week of
I came to my conclusion.

"Bishop S., I don't think I want to be part of your church"
"May I ask why?"
"I dunno. It's a lot of stuff I guess. Stuff that's hard to believe."
"Like What?"
"I dunno. Just a bunch of stuff. Well, Okay. The Lamenites. They were descendants of Lamen and Lemuel and cursed with a dark skin for their wickedness and rebelliousness..."
"Well, wouldn't you think if God wanted to fuck them over he would've made their skin Neon Green or something?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"Okay well, what about all these big cities I've read about?"
"What about them?"
"Have you ever been to Zarahemla?"
"Do you know anyone that has been to Zarahemla?"
"That's not a character in the Book of Mormon?"
"What about the city of Nephi?"
"Yes. Yes I've been there."
"Not the town outside of Provo."
"Okay, you caught me."
" there any archeological or anthropological evidence that these cities even exist?"
"Ummm....I'll have to check with my supervisor."
"I didn't think you had supervisors. Who would be your supervisor? You're a Bishop."
"His name is...Brother...Smith...yeah that's it."
"Can you call him for me?"
"Why not?"
"'Cause he's...not here. He's See, I do know someone who's been there."
" I don't believe you."
"Well, that's your problem now isn't it?"
"I still don't want to be a member of your church."
"Why? Haven't I answered all your questions?"
"No, not really."
"Well, it's not that simple. There are certain measures we need to take."
"Like what?"
"I dunno...Measures."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"You have an obligation!"
Phone rings
"Hold on for a minute Mike."
picks up phone
"Hello...Yeah...I'm sitting with him right now." Whispers "I'm trying to close a deal're what? Giving it to Donnie! That's rediculious! I've been number one for over ten weeks now! Okay...yeah...yeah...I know...yeah...Okay...bye.
hangs up phone
"Sorry about that.Where were we?"
"You were telling me how I have an obligation."
"Okay. Right. We've invested a lot of time and Money in you. You have an obligation."
"I do?"
"Yes! We paid for your power bill!"
"I know and I thank you for it. But that doesn't change how I feel about the church."
"You gave me your word."
"I gave you my account number."
"Same diff."
"Look, can't I just be jumped out or something? That's what the crypts and bloods do."
"It's not that simple.
"Okay. Well, I don't think you’d want me anyway."
"I'm a quarter black."
"No your not. We checked your background. Even if you were, we have black members now. Since 1976.
"I smoke."
"I'll help you quit."
"I have a DUI on my record."
"That's okay."
"I'm Gay."
"So am I."
"You’re good."
"Thank You."
"What about tithing?"
"What about it?"
"I have to pay 10% of my monthly income right?"
"Well, I don't have a job...and I'm kind of a dead beat so I don't plan on getting one so...10% of 0 is 0...but...if you’re okay with that?"
Picks up phone

Friday, December 10, 2010

Deja George

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."
We all have. It's one of those quotes you learn in Kindergarten. It's a phrase your Teachers, Parents, Bishop/priest/guru and whoever the fuck give people advice, utters throughout the first twelve or so years of our lives. I for one, attend to live by these rules. If I don't have anything nice to say, I simply don't say anything at all.
I just say it behind your back.

Sitting across from computer number one, is computer number three. Sitting behind computer number three is some guy whose name I don't know. Sitting behind computer number one is me. Sitting to the right of computer number one is computer number 2. Sitting behind computer number 2 is George. George(if your still reading after that fucking long and confusing paragraph), is a writer. COMIC BOOK Writer actually. His comic series titled, "Big George" is an LDS based comic book series that takes place throughout the Salt Lake Valley.
One thing about George that I don't think George knows, he's never met me before.

"Hi." Says George
The same people who tell you to never say anything mean about anyone, I think those are the same people who told me to never talk to strangers.
"Hello, how are you?"I say
My right index finger clicks the mouse that clicks the Internet Explorer icon.
"Not so good. I'm getting a divorce." he says
I squint and stare hard into his face.
"Yeah, came home from work last week and Susan had all my stuff moved out." George says
I continue to squint and continue to stare. Nothing comes to me.
George Continues
"I can't believe she left me for someone twenty years younger. I just don't know what I'm going to do."
His eyes start to tear up.
For Thanksgiving I was invited over to my in-laws house. My in-laws hate me. I ate dinner with them. It was uncomfortable.
Right now, at this moment, I would rather be passing potatoes to my father in law, taking dressing from my Mother in-law, watching football with my brother in-law. THAT was uncomfortable.
This feels worse.
I turn my focus towards computer screen number one. I type in the web address for my Gmail account.
There is a response from "Calling People Names" regarding my last blog entry.
She says it reminds her of the movie Porky's.
She says "it's pretty funny dude."
She also wants to know if I know any foreigners with huge wangers.
I write back. I tell her the coalition of Huge Wangers has black listed me due to the great indecent in-exposure of 1999. I tell her myself, and a bunch of my small dick'd buddies marched across the continental U.S. spreading our word for equality and the un-endowed.
Actually, I never typed these things. I was distracted
"Yeah so, enough about me, how are things going for you." He says
"um...good." I say with reluctance.
"Yeah well, that's good. My youngest one, well, she's dating a man who's four years older than her. Her boyfriend doesn't have the decency to come and introduce himself. She's never home, out all hours of the night..."
The face behind computer number three slides to my left. He stares me down. His brown beady eyes say "shut the fuck up."
I stare back. My eyes say "It's not me it's him." The face disappears back behind computer screen number three.
I open my facebook. I try and think of a quote that people will respond to. I need people to respond to my quotes. It makes me feel loved.
..."and then there's my dog.” He continues “O my precious Priscilla." he tears up again.
He tells me his dog was hit by a truck last week. He tells me it survived but has a broken Leg. He tells me he doesn't think he can nurse it back to health with everything that's been going on.
George, this man I've never met before, places his right hand on my left arm.
"Do you..." his lips are trembling..."do you think you could take her? My baby Priscilla? You know, take care of her for me."
I squint and stare.
I have never met this man before.
I'm sure of it.
While I have no intention of accepting his offer, I feel inclined to ask;
"What kind of dog is it?"
George tells me It's a blue Tick, Blue Healer mix.
In the search box to the top right, I type in;
"Blue Tick, Blue Healer Mix."
Google tells me the Blue Tick, Blue Heeler mix are “a breed of brave and trustworthy animals.”
I don't need anyone showing me up at home.
"Sorry, I don't think I have any room."
His eyes continue to run.
"That's okay." he says "I know you would if you could." He removes his hand from my arm.
A voice from computer number 3 says;
"If you two aren’t gonna shut up, I guess I'll just leave.” The man behind computer screen number 3 stands up from behind his monitor. “Fucking Assholes!” he says
The man from computer number 3 leaves.
The man from computer number two is crying. He’s bawling his fucking eyes out.
In the search box to the top right I type
“Strangers who think they know you but don’t.”
It takes me to website www.
It looks like a message board. The consensus is
Since there is no connection or relationship between the two, One of, if not both of the parties feel like they can open up, tell the other individual anything. Since this individual will likely never see other party, they feel there will be no repercussions to any statements they may share.
This message board looks like it was written by a bunch of 14 year old kids.
I remember when I was 14, my friend Justin shared some of his Mountain dew with me. I had just finished playing basketball in the schoolyard so I was thirsty. It was right after Pepsi came out with their Big Slam Bottles. So, I was thirsty, Justin was there, he offered me a drink.
It was piss
…and I drank it. I drank a Big Slam of Urine. Not the whole bottle. I spit it out. Most of it.
What I’m trying to say is 14 year olds care what other people think. I never wanted to go back to school after that. Of course they feel comfortable sharing things with people they’ve never met.
How does this tie into my story? I don’t know. George is distracting me with his latest comic strip.
Finally, after twenty minutes of sobbing, George stands up from computer number 1.
He hands me a buisness card.It says;

George Lastname
Collector of valuable items
His E-mail address is on the bottom

Before he leaves he says "Thank you for listening."
I place the card in my right front pocket.

So, sitting here, in front of computer number 1, I type my moment with George. A broken man with something to share.
I pull the card from out of my pocket. On the back George has written something.
It says
"It was good to see you again. If you ever have anything you'd love to get off your chest, give me a call. Here is my cell phone number."
The disturbing new is; I still don't think I've ever met George Before.
The okay news is; Next time I see George, I don't have to pretend I've met him.

Then again...maybe I have.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

The Dream

Broadcast Syndication is the sale of the right to broadcast radio and television shows to multiple individual stations without going through a broadcast network

Off-network syndication involves the sale of a program that was originally run on a specific network after the program has fulfilled its contractual obligation.

What this means to us is;
We get to continue to watch shitty television shows years after they were cancelled from the primary network the program originally aired on.
What this means furthermore is;
Shitty fucking shows like MacGyver, Matlock, The scarecrow and Mrs. King, even fucking Airwolf, can be seen on lame channels that for whatever reason, decided to pick these programs up.

It’s amazing what you still find on Syndication.
Tonight I sit here fixated on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Robert Stack talks about my missing penis. A close-up of my donger comes into view while that creepy background music plays.
Robert Stack says my penis was;
“Last seen somewhere between October 5th and November 26th 2003.”
The 1-800 number flashes across the screen.
Someone from forensics offers his theory.
He claims it’s possible that my stomach and my Penis collaborated together in a plot to overthrow my manhood. The forensics guy says it’s possible that my stomach grew, obstructing my view with intent to allow my penis to flee to a third world country. Probably India.
A close up of my Dagwood comes back across the screen.
Computer software is used to consider the past 7 years and display an image of what my penis may look like today. Despite the gray pubic hairs surrounding the base, everything else looks pretty much the same. The forensics guy says the gray may be an artificial dye used to throw off further investigations.
Finally, Rob…

I bolt up from the couch. My hands slide down past my stomach and over my genitals.
Still there. These dreams of mine are getting fucking weirder and weirder.
I pick up my phone and call my brother. I’m freaked out. I need to talk to somebody.
“Hello” the other line says
“Chris. O’ thank you for answering.” I sound panicked.
“What’s up dude? You sound like you’re in a panic or something.”
I start into my story. I talk about syndication
He yawns
I mention Unsolved Mysteries.
He doesn’t remember.
I mention my missing penis.
He doesn’t want to hear about my penis
I tell him it was just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.
“Dude, I knew you where dreaming the whole time…” He says
“I know right? It’s not like I’m fat, or my penis is small.”
“…’cause I know you don’t have cable.” He says
“Oh. Right.” I say
I hurry and change the subject.
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Why don’t you find out yourself?”
“Cause I don’t feel like calling her myself yet.”
My brother tells me I only call people when I want something from them.
“Isn’t that the way it works.” I say
“No.” he says. “Some people call just to talk.”
“If I call just to talk, it’s because I WANT to talk. Therefore, I’m calling because I want something.”
No response. I think I’ve confused him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening discussing semantics. I hang up the phone.
I turn on my DVD player and finish watching Season Three of Big love.


Computer station number 12 is always quiet. It’s the computer I always request. I request it because of it’s isolation. It sits on a table all by itself. No one to the left of me, no one to the right of me. Just me and computer number 12.
Sitting across from me is computer number 11. Sitting in front of computer number 11 is some kid. His hair is blonde and in a pony tail. His face is covered with peach fuzz . To the left of the kid on computer number 11 is another fucking kid. His hair is short and brown. He also has peach fuzz all over his face. They discuss the new song they’re going to write during band practice.
“It’s called ‘Curb Stomp.’ The one with short brown hair says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says.
The one with Short brown hair says it’s an anti-drinking song. He says it’s about finding people that drink, and stomping there head on the side of curb.
“Like in the movie ‘American History X.’ he says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says again.
The kid with short brown hair says “I have the perfect spot for it in our setlist.” He says. “It will go great after we play ‘Gonna stab you till you bleed.’
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.”
I want to say “I thought blood kind of automatically comes with the territory of a stabbing.”
Running the risk of blowing my cover, I keep it to myself.
After further eavesdropping, I find out they call themselves “Asylum 49.” I want to ask what that means but continue to keep to myself.
After an hour, the librarian tells me my time is up. Asylum 49 has been here longer than me but still sits at computer number 11. I’d say something, but I don’t want to run the risk of a potential curb stomping. Or even worse, a stabbing till I bleed.
What does this have to do with Robert Stack and Unsolved Mysteries. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Nice. Fucking nice dude."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

I take cheese with my whine, how 'bout you?

Pinch your thumb and index finger together. Now rub them against each other. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger. Using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
This is my day. Back flat against the couch, head towards the ceiling, and thumb and index finger rolling a piece of hair hour after hour. It’s quite hypnotizing. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.

I open my laptop and attempt to work on my novel. I haven’t eaten in three days. The hunger is starting to get to me. Nothing makes sense. I read a sentence then read it again. Nothing makes sense.
My phone flips open. I scroll through a list of contacts searching for someone who may have the means to help me out.
Brother-Burned that bridge
Mom-Try again
Dad- Stole all my money
Step dad- Funny. Just keep moving
Jefferson-Makes Seven Twenty-five an hour and has child support. Keep going
Anonymous from New York-Already helped me out.
Luke-Going through a divorce. Too many court fees to pay. Should’ve asked two years ago.
Archie- Apparently just won 2300 last week in Wendover.
I press send. It goes straight to voice mail.
“Yo, Yo, this is Archie, leave me a message and maybe I’ll get back to you.”
I doubt he’ll get back to me if I tell him I need him to order me a pizza.
I continue to scroll through the list

…Earlier in the day when I wasn’t so fucking hungry

There’s nothing better than waking up to sunshine. There really isn’t. Eyes open, sunbeams filter through the blinds, beams so big you can trace across the entire living room floor. There’s just something beautiful about it.
Today was nothing like that.
I think I was dreaming about an old girlfriend. I think we were just about to make out or something. Then it sounded like a running faucet.
No, it sounded like a car wash. I’ve never worked at a car wash but that’s what it sounded like. Suddenly I went from a possible blow job to spraying a hose against a 1980 something Buick lasabre…or something.
I open my eyes.
In front of me is Max. He’s standing on three legs. His fourth leg is hanging in the air while a stream of piss shoots all over the wall. After a few seconds he lowers his leg and looks in my direction.
“Fuck max.” I say. “You could’ve just asked me to let you outside.”
Max gives me a look. His look says “fuck you old man. We’ve talked about this. I’ll piss outside when you rub ice cubes over your balls every time you go ‘Cause that’s what it feels like when there’s snow on the ground.”
I’ve got to say, he has a point. I pick myself up off the couch and head into the bathroom. I make a quick glance towards the ice machine but keep moving.
Max looks at me. His look says “Yeah that’s what I though bitch.”

After the bathroom I flip open my phone and check the time.
My phone says its 8:25. It also tells me I have 1 voice message.
I press and hold down one.
The voice message is from my friend in New York who wants to remain anonymous.
It’s a short message. It says,“I'm so fucking wasted!” the message tells me to “Fucking call me back!”
It also calls me a fucking pussy. The message is over.
I call Anonymous. He answers and says hello.
“What’s up dude?” I say
“Dude, I pissed me pants last night.” He says
“That’s not good dude.”
“You’re not gonna tell anyone are you?”
“No.” To write and to tell are two different things. I think they are anyway.
“Good. ‘Cause it happened the night before too.”
I laugh. I tell him speaking of piss I woke up to my dog pissing on my living room wall.
“Did it get all over your pants or anything?” he asks
“No, just the wall and some of my floor.”
“Then that’s not even the same thing.”
I laugh again.
Anonymous tells me he needs to cut back on his drinking. He tells me if he continues to drink like he has he won’t have anymore pants because he threw the ones away that he pissed.
“That might be a good idea.” I say.
My stomach rumbles.
I tell him I have to go look for something to eat.
He says goodbye. I say goodbye. We both hang up.
I open the fridge, there is nothing. I open the cabinet there is nothing. I’ve done this ritual three days in a row. Both days yielding the same results. For over a week now I’ve been eating nothing but cliff bars and a chocolate protein drink. Now I have neither.
Max looks at me. His looks says “Don’t tell me we’re all out of food mother fucker.”

I sit on the couch and watch Big Love Season 2. It appeals to me this big love. Not because of the whole plural marriage thing. Don’t get me wrong, that’s cool and everything. But Big Love takes place in the Salt Lake Valley. They mention local suburbs like Murray, Sandy and Draper. There are constant references regarding the book of Mormon and the LDS prophet Joseph Smith Jr. The episode I watch now talks about Wendover. I love going to Wendover.
There’s just something about this big love show.
After the episode, the disc is through. There are three episodes on each disc. This was the last one on disc number three. I want to get up and change out the discs but I can’t. I’m hypnotized. I’m twirling my hair and I can’t stop. If you don’t believe me, try it.
Pinch your thumb and index finger together. Now rub them against each other. Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.
Next, pinch a small amount of your hair between your thumb and index finger.
Now, using the same rubbing motion as before, roll the hair around.
I repeat this process over, and over, and over, and over again. Seconds turn into minutes and minutes turn into hours. I have maybe five or six knots now in the back of my head. I try to undue the knots but end up pulling the hair from my scalp instead. Curious about the negative impacts my new habit has caused, I snap a picture of the back of my scalp. I have a big fucking bald spot now. I’ll just blame it on being Thirty.
My stomach rumbles.
I flip open my phone. The time tells me it’s six in the evening. I’ve wasted my day. I’ve wasted my day doing nothing but just sitting here on the couch twirling my hair.
Max is asleep on the couch. He wakes up and gives me a look. His look says “Don’t fucking look at me. I have an excuse to be lazy.”

So now I’ve gone through my list. There’s no one. Even if there was, what could I say? “Hi, this is Mike, sorry we haven’t spoken in a few weeks but do you think you could order me a pizza.” What a fucking looser.
I take one last glance around the room looking for something to eat. There is a piss stain on my wall and the floor beneath it.
I look at Max. My looks says…


I have been saved. Praise be to my friend Luke. Luke has saved me from starvation. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The last thing I wanted to do was call a friend and ask them to order me a pizza. I read that last sentence and shake my head. It even sounds weird. Calling someone for a pizza? I just couldn't take it anymore. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Thank you Luke. I'll pay you back when I get a chance. I'll pay you back when I get a chance but I don't do anal. Unless there's another pizza in it for me...with pineapple.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Ass, Gas or Grass...No one Meditates for free

8:10 PM

Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”

This is group mediation. Part of Wednsday night’s “recreational therapy.”

“In One, Two, Three, Four, ” Our facilitator continues. “…and out one, two , three, four.”

“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.

“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”

The only thing worse than meditation, is meditation with numb bum. When Alexander Parkes invented plastic in 1855, I’m sure he meant well. If Parkes however, had known the pain and suffering he had caused on recovering drug addicts on Wednesday nights he might change his mind. If I hadn’t sold my DeLorean to the Lybian’s in 1985 I’d travel back in time and lay it all out for him.

“Out, one,two,three,four”

I open my right eye and catch a quick glance at Charles. Through my peripheral vision, Charles is making a pumping motion with his fist above his crotch. Across from him sits an attractive lady, mid twenties and well endowed in the chest. After he has her attention, Charles winks, smacks his lips and blows a kiss
1 hr 50 min earlier

Every Wednesday, Both the North and South group, get together with the Young Adults group for a combined session of group activities. Chairs are set up in a circle and everyone arrives at six O'clock. In case I have to piss, I take the chair closet to the door. Sitting directly to the right of me is Charles. Charles is a sixteen year old acne stricken young man. He's here not because of addiction per say, but because, and I quote "I could no longer master the art of the deal." Charles was busted transporting 17 pounds of pot brownies across the transcontinental United States. So he claims.
So, Like a small percentage of Recovery Works clients, Charles was ordered to attend 28 sessions of intensive outpatient therapy.
Shortly after my arrival, Charles spots me, picks a chair next to mine, and sits down.
"What's up Miggity Mike?" he says. Charles sees the need to use “iggity” before every word
"Hey Charles." I respond. "how are you doing today man?" I ask
"Good, just Chiggity Chillin' he responds.

As we wait for the rest of the group to come in, I pull out my cell and pretend to text someone. My attempt to avoid small talk fails when I notice his hand waving in front of my face.
I look over towards him.
"You know the new girl?" he asks.
He pulls his chair six inches closer. He smells of Brut after shave and Marlboro Cigarettes.
"No" I say
Putting both hands about six inches away from his chest he says "sure you do,the one with Big Milky Titties?”
"Not ringing a bell dude."
Actually, I lied.
I did know who he was talking about. Her name was Katharine. Everyone knew her. It was hard not too. Besides her chest size and beautiful blue eyes, Katharine was smart, funny and sexy. She was outspoken in class and had a whitty remark for everything.
I feel a nudge in my rib cage.
He points to a young lady sitting directly across from us.
"O her." I say, feigning sudden remembrance. "Yeah, I guess I do know her."
"Yeah, well later tonight, she's totally gonna be all over my nugs." Arm outstretched and palm down, he begins to make a motion that resembles a blow job.
“She’s 26” I tell him.
“So.” He says.
"Your only 16".
"So!" he says again.
"She could go to jail." I tell him.
"That's cool. Optical visits turn me on."
"It's conjugal." I tell him
"Whatever, jail or not, I'm tappin' that ass tonight!"
I turn my attention from Charles and listen to the group leader start our nightly check in.
We are asked to give our name, what we're here for, and if we could change anything about today what would we change.
I want to say; "My name is Mike, I'm an alcoholic, and I would've choose a different seat."
Instead I chose to go down the same road I always take. Mike, alcoholic, I would change everything.
Charles says "Charles, Dealer, and I would've slept in longer." Some of the younger kids in the group laugh.
After his turn, he leans over towards me and whispers, "I was going to say, I would've beat off two times, instead of once." I just smile and nod.

After the introductions, we meet outside for a group activity. "The goal..." our facilitator says, "is to drop an egg from a ten foot wall and not have it break." I remember doing this in Jr. High. In Mr. Cannon's science class I chose to wrap some duct tape around the middle of the egg and tried dropping the egg on its nose. Some fuckin' classmate told me if the pressure on the weakest part of the egg, the middle, was secure you could drop the egg on the end which was supposed to be the strongest. The egg was supposed to hold and I was supposed to win. It still broke. I think that same kid works for Boeing or something. Go fucking figure.

The facilitator tells us we can use:
-Ten Straws
-Five foot long strips of masking tape
-A pair of scissors
-A felt Tip pen

She explained that we were given 20 minutes to complete the task and each egg must be given a name.
The facilitator went around the group having each of us number off One through Four. It felt like P.E. class all over again.
"Four" Sounded off the first round. I skipped ahead and did the counting myself.I count myself as a three. To my relief Charles was a four. To Charles's relief, so was Katharine.
Luckily, I was teamed up with my friends.
"The drunken Trio" they called themselves. In a room full of opiate, meth, and cocaine addicts, these three somehow prided themselves on the fact that liquor was the only drug they used. Danny, the oldest of the three, once told me that an addict was somebody who passed out with a needle in their arm. "I only drink, therefore, I'm a drunk not an addict." He told me.
Danny, was bald,mid-fifties,held a great tan, and despite his age, sported a hoop earring in his left ear. Today he wore a red button up Hawaiian shirt consisting of white flowers scattered all around.
Scott, not too far behind Danny in age, looked like 70. After years of drinking his liver shut down and was all but pronounced dead. Both his cheek bones had been broke several times in several bar fights. He reminded me of a china doll whose face was put back together with glue.
Clay was the so called "younger brother." Mid Thirties I think. I remember a year ago, I read about a local MMA fighter who crashed his car into a telephone pole. His wife, while knocked out, was moved from the passenger seat to behind the wheel. Clay was heavily intoxicated, and at the time, thought it would be a good idea since his wife was sober. When she regained consciousness, she started babbling about being in the passenger seat one minute, and finding herself in the drivers seat the next. Clay was charged with a 3rd class felony for obstruction of justice and sentenced to 90 days in the Salt Lake County jail, plus 180 days IOP.

"What the fuck is that?" Charles asks.
Charles and his group had finished their model twenty minutes before everyone else. With Katharine in the bathroom and nothing else to do, he decides to comment and critique other models.
"It's your mother after I fucked her asshole." Clay responds.
"Ha ha, not so funny Dr. Jones!" Charles also has a thing for movie quotes. "You really think that piece of shit's gonna hold up? Whaddya call it?"
"Spudnick" Danny says
"Lets see your piece of shit." Scott says
Wrapped around every inch of the egg were straws followed by duct tape to hold the straws. On the duct tape the name "unbreakable" was scribbled on.
"You couldn't come up with a more original name?" I ask
"Fuck no! If the egg's unbreakable, why not name it the same?" He shoots a head nod towards our model. "It's better than your lame ass...Whatever it's called."
"Spudnick" Danny says.

Finally are facilitator corrals everyone up."Alright everybody, it's time to test your eggs." She says

Team "Super Drooper" goes first. Super Drooper's egg is connected to a parachute made from the straws and duct tape. Brandon, a tall and lanky twenty something year old has been designated to do the drop. He's instructed to stand on top of a three foot wall and drop the egg.
"That egg's gonna fuckin' briggity break." Charles says.
Brandon drops the egg. It falls as if it's attached to nothing and cracks open
"See" says Charles.
Up next is team "Tail Spin." Like Super Drooper's, they've also connected their egg to a parachute. The difference between Super Dooper's is the spiral it's parachute makes. Plus, It also looks like it doesn't suck as much.
Tail Spin Drops their egg.
"...and...splat! Fucking Lame!" Charles says

Up next is team "Spudnick." Our name represents the similarity our egg has with the Russian satellite.
"What was your motivation?" the facilitator asks
"Less is always more." I say
"Quality over Quantity" Danny says
"We didn't give a fuck what it looked like." Clay says
The group chose Danny to represent and do the drop. He stands on the ledge and presents our Model. We have several straws tapped randomly to the egg. It looks more like a large kidney stone than a satellite dish.
Danny drops the egg.
"Fucking knew it!" Says Charles.
Next is team Unbreakable
"You've died with the rest, now watch the best." Charles says
He picks his egg up and stands on the three foot wall.
He reaches out his arm and releases the egg.

8:10 PM

Picture 25 bodies sitting in 25 chairs in a circle. Legs are flat on the floor, palms resting on Kneecaps and harmonious breathing fills the room.
“ Breath in, one, two, three, four, ” Our facilitator says. “ Breath out, one, two, three, four.”

“This is fucking stupid” say's Charles.

“Breath in One, Two, Three, Four..."
"Shushh, don't get us in trouble." says a voice to my left.
“Breath out One, Two, Three, Four.”

In through the nose and out through the mouth my eyes are now closed. My eyes are now closed and close to entering into a peaceful and relaxing journey.
I’m gonna do it.” Says Charles.
To my left is a new girl. I think her name is Ann.
“Don’t you fucking dare asshole.” She says.
“I can’t hold it any longer.” Says Charles.

After three minutes of deep breathing we begin our journey.
“Picture yourself in an elevator.” Our facilitator says. “…and in that elevator you notice a color. A color that surrounds the elevator like a bright aura.”


“Charles, you fucking asshole!” Ann Whispers

“Inside the elevator you notice there an unlimited amount of numbers waiting to be pressed. Each button represents a floor. Each floor represents a choice you may or may not have made in your life.”

Puefff, puff, puuusshhhhh

“That smells so bad.” Says Ann

“…Without putting to much though into it, press any button you’d like.”


“That’s it! Charles, you’re fucking disgusting!” Ann shouts.
I open my eyes. Ann is out of her chair and walking towards the door. Around the circle others are laughing as well.

After another five minutes of meditation, the facilitator turns off the soft music and turns on the lights. She makes not mention of the farting noise overheard during our journey.
Ann walks back into the room but stands on the other side of the circle. We hold hands, say the serenity prayer, and wrap up recreational therapy.

On the way to my car, I see Katharine cross the parking lot and get into her Honda Civic. I laugh to myself. I laugh not only at the fart noise, the shitty eggs that broke, and the square girl who left the room, but at Charles. I laugh at Charles and his confidence. As I’m laughing I see Charles. As I’m laughing I see Charles walk across the parking lot and into a Honda Civic. Katherine’s Honda Civic.