I Like to Push It Push It

         So I could take the easy way out and make a post about the Oscars this weekend, and how they sucked... or how James Franco sucked... or how Anne Hathaway sucked, but let's be honest, I didn't even watch the Academy Awards. I played video games in my underwear, which seemed like a much better choice. A choice I still stand by.
         What I did do, this weekend, was yell at my car. Specifically, at the starter, which went out again for the 5th time in 8 years. The starter, for those not in the know, is a little motor that kick starts the engine, allowing it to turn over. Mine failed in the Safeway parking lot, leaving me unable to start my car.
          For starters (pun completely intended) the car in question is a '95 Taurus SHO. S-H-O stands for Super High Output, because it has a big beefy Yamaha engine in it. So basically, there's the little hamster engine that's in the standard Taurus...

          And then there's the SHO.

        I think he's been taking steroids.
        Anyhow, I was stuck in the Safeway parking lot, with a car that wouldn't start, and it was frustrating because the engine was perfectly fine; it's just the starter that was toast. I was yelling at the engine--hey, just start for me once, just until we get home, okay?--but it refused to listen to me.

         A little trick I've learned, from having a car that eats through starters like Jessica Simpson eats through a bag of Krispy Kremes, is that you can push start it. What you do is get a friend to push the car while you hold in the clutch, and when it gets up to a reasonable speed (5 mph) you let out the clutch, sharply, and give it some gas. The car will start.
         If you don't have a friend with you, then you get to push the car by yourself, run as fast as you can up to the driver side door, flop inside, and try to start it, all in one go. You also get to look like a fucking retard to anyone watching, which is always a mysteriously huge amount when your car breaks down.
         I started off by pushing the car alllll the way to the back of the parking lot, leaving me a lot of room to push it. Then, while everyone stood and watched like slack-jawed, brain-dead morons, I proceeded to push my car a few hundred feet, try to hop in--nope, wouldn't start--cuss my brains out... and then push it all the way back to try it again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Not surprisingly, it's hard to get a 3,300 lb car up to speed by yourself when you're 1/20th the size. It's even harder when the useless bystanders all around you grab their bags of popcorn and watch you like you're must see TV instead of asking if you need help.
      

Thanks for the help you useless fucktards

        After about the 5th attempt, a Mexican man sitting in a pedophile van came to ask me... um... I have no idea what the fuck he was asking me. He only spoke Spanish, and I only speak English and German (why the fuck did I spend 4 years in high school learning this? Oh, right, because of my killer Hitler impersonation. STILL WORTH IT).
         I didn't understand a word this nice Mexican man was saying. And see, the thing about talking to someone who doesn't speak your language is that you use a lot of hand gestures. And you keep saying the same words, like maybe he'll understand 'starter' if you say 'el starter' or 'el starter-o.' You end up looking like 2 monkeys trying to squawk at each other over the last banana.

        I gave up on him, gave my car one last triumphant push across the lot, hoofed it up to the driver's seat, and when I threw myself in and kicked out the clutch, the hamster roared to life. My car was started! ... and no thanks to the yokels that had all gathered like I was the world's worst street performer.
        Later, I yanked out the starter and took it to Checker Auto Parts to swap it out. The guy behind the counter was fat... amusingly fat. He was fat to the point of being morbidly obese. The kind where he had those deep, labored, Darth Vader breaths even when he wasn't doing anything.

             Of course, after working on my car for an hour, I wasn't looking much better. But at least it runs now.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Ignored
Beer: I need many. Stat.
Shower: I need many. Stat.

The 'Beast' when it's functioning

A Night at the Theatre

Few things are more painful to sit through than bad theatre. And the show I saw last night was, without question, the lamest production I’ve ever seen. Not that I’m a theatre junkie, but I’ve seen some bad ones. And this was even worse than that neo-Nazi reimagining of Fiddler on the Roof a blind date once invited me to. The playbill for last night’s show promised blood, gore, and a terrifying monster lurking beneath the stairs. Fifteen minutes in, I realized that I was watching the re-enactment of some Kafka groupie, hack-of-a-playwright’s pointless acid-trip, and decided to do myself a favor by falling asleep.

Somewhere between Act I and oblivion, I was awakened from drooling on my shirt by the sound of screams. Had someone mercifully pulled a fire alarm? Had the crowd finally had enough of this dumbfuckery and decided to revolt? Not quite. People around me were standing and pointing to the stage, where the ravenous plant monster had finally emerged from its lair below the stairs and began attacking audience members. The tiny auditorium was a mess of green tentacles and swinging bodies, turned into a scene from King Kong’s wettest dream. Minus any she-apes. The plaid swathed hipster-ette in front of me shrieked as a long, thorny arm snatched her from her seat. Finally, some action!

The bass player swung his oversized violin at the monster, severing one of its arms, but was dragged from his stand anyway. The enormous Venus flytrap spat out the musician’s bow with a belch and reached for the lead actor, who was cowering beneath the covers of the stage bed. A professional to the bitter end, he recited his terribly written lines right up to the point when he was chomped to Miracle-Gro. His two co-stars, undoubtedly fertilizing their own pants at the sight, quickly joined him inside the beast’s belly. The crowd continued to trample itself in escape panic, creating a human buffet line for the quick moving vines. Some people have no taste. My fiancée and I, however, were unable to look away. Maybe I had judged the quality of this performance too soon…

Everything was going great until one of those green bastards had the balls to rope the gin and tonic out of my drink holder. Bad theatre is one thing. But I draw the line at drink thievery. They cut your hands off for such an offense in Saudi Arabia or something, right? Blind rage stole over me as I dug the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and dove for the stage. Everything after that was a blur, but my fiancée later said that the venue temporarily transformed into a giant salad shooter.

When I came to in the lobby, I only had one hand left, but dammit if it wasn’t holding the chipped remains of my glass. I slammed it down on the counter and glared at the bartender.

"That was the worst fucking show I've ever seen. I demand a refill."

Cheers,

-brandon

Music: The Smashing Pumpkins

Beer: 3 Floyd’s Gumballhead

Seven Super Secrets That Will Blow Your Skull

        So as many of you know (and for those of you who are new here, welcome) this blog is co-authored by myself (Bryan) and Brandon, who was scheduled to post today, but is going out to the theatre with his fiance instead. As he is unable to post, I will be forced to fill in and most likely poke fun at him via MSPaint.
        First, I'd like to thank Christy over at Phantasos' Playground for the Versatile Blogger Award.

         Isn't is so shiny? If you haven't already, go over and visit Christy, say hello and that we sent you, and she'll give you $10 off your next oil change.
          Actually, I just made that up. Stop by, say hi anyways, and who knows, maybe she'll be nice enough to change your oil anyway.
          So in order to accept the award, you need to reveal 7 secrets about yourself. Anyone who's a fan of the blog knows that we lay just about everything about us out there on this blog, but I've managed to scour a few new gems for old friends and new friends alike, about both myself and Brandon.


1. Rather than yell at telemarketers, I'll play songs on the phone for them, using the buttons, until they hang up. Usually only takes a minute or two.

Seriously. See vid below.

2. Brandon went out to the theatre tonight with his lady, because as all straight males, he has an appreciation for fine theatre and finds way to correlate it with his life.

3. If someone gives me a hideously ugly shirt, I will force myself to wear it at least once, so I don't feel like an ungrateful asshole.

4. Brandon once went through an embarrassing Jersey Shore phase that we choose not to talk about anymore.

5. Back when I was employed, my boss was a 50's style greaser, one of my coworkers was a man that was married to two women at once (they didn't know, and still don't), and another of my coworkers was a male to female transgender--surgery and all. She's very convincing, though!

6. Brandon's fiance isn't a real person. She's actually just a broom with a bad Farrah Fawcett wig.

7. I've drawn all of these crappy MSPaint comics with nothing more than the stupid little clitoris looking mouse-nub on my laptop. They've turned out decently, so my fingerwork must be better than I thought.

So thanks again, Christy, and stay tuned for tomorrow night, when Brandon reports back here with his review of Cats the Musical.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Accomplished
Beer: Home-brewed
Shower: Gonna sing Funkytown till my lungs burn out

Great News/My Mother the Dream Crusher

          First off, the detox was a huge success, in which my body and mind now feel 100% better than they did before. The last day of detox was touch and go--there was a hostage situation involving this innocent bystander, who escaped with only minor injuries--but after all was said and done, I feel like a better person for having done it. Also, what better way to get back to the foods I love than with a little good news that came this morning by e-mail, which I am happy to announce tonight via blog.
           

            Thanks to a connection from the very awesome Lynne over at Bits of Paper and Glue, we got in touch with the editor-in-chief over at NoTeS Magazine, who's been looking for a humorous male perspective column. We 'auditioned' for the part (is that what writers do? Hell, I don't know), and our collaborative piece was so well received that she wants it in the upcoming edition! We are now official columnists at NoTeS, and will be writing a regular column from the first person fictional perspective of a homeless writer. Check out their site, and we'll keep you updated when issues become available!
             http://NotesAndGraceNotes.com
             Now, of course this is something to be excited about... to be proud over, right? So, I did what I do when I always get great news about my life, I called my mother.
             God, what a fucking idiot I am.
             My mom is a saint of a woman. She's been great to me for my 27 years on this earth, and I love her very much. With that said, she doesn't know much about the writing business. And she's pessimistic. Painfully pessimistic.
             I'm trying something new today, so in an effort to convey what happened during my phone conversation, I'm using poorly drawn MSPaint comic strips I created myself. The following is real dialogue.

In my unemployment uniform

 

 

          I know she's happy for me deep down. She's just pretty set on thinking that writing can never be a full time, high paying career.

Fun fact: at one time she wanted me to grow up to be this.

Instead I became this. With a pen. And she's slowly coming to show her pride in my career as a beer-drinking writer. :-)

Stay classy, friends,

Bryan

Mood: Underappreciated

Beer: Red Stripe

Shower: I can't tell where the tears stop and the water begins

            
            
        

Cockamamie Idears

I apologize for the sparse posting on my end these last couple weeks. I tend to fall off the face of the planet when I get too many writing projects rolling at once. I’m sort of like those two fat ladies who used to host that cooking show...Two Fat Ladies. Once the stove is crammed full of brewing concoctions, the sherry bottle makes an appearance and my skull starts to feel like two blabbering fat women have taken up residence between my ears. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing. Those hefty muses are excellent cooks. And if I’m lucky I can digest a nice chunk of their delicious goodies with my typewriter before it all goes to shit.

Anyway, things have been busy, but it’s all for the good. Bryan and I are back in gear with our new novel manuscript, the bills are more or less getting paid on time, and neither of us has managed to catch fire once today.

So, in these long days and late nights, what keeps me going? Besides the IV drip of French Roast, and the occasional pint of ale, I rely on a steady diet of guitar strings, bass rhythms and synthesizers to keep me alive. A steady beat is pretty much the only thing that prevents me from collapsing into that big fat dirt nap. Sort of like Bernie from that tropical cinematic turd of the early 90’s, Weekend at Bernie’s 2. But, you know, minus all the voodoo and shitty scripting.

What kinds of music, you ask? Well, barring bagpipe riffs, piccolo solos, Kenny G, and the ever popular moonshine jug, you’ll find a wide smattering of genres and sounds on my iPod. From Mozart to Method Man, Weird Al to Warren Zevon, and Buckcherry to Bonnie Raitt, listening to my iPod on shuffle is like playing Russian Roulette. Only everyone’s a winner. Except for you, Grateful Dead. You still suck. But you bring back many fond and hazy memories of college, so you lot get to keep your green cards.

What do you all listen to? Suggestions? If you’re a Pandora user, dropkick that mofo and cruise over to Last.fm.

Cheers,

brandon

Beer: Sam Adams Boston Lager

Music: The Beatles

              "Rigorwhatis? Pssh...you and your scientific mumbo jumbo. Just drive the fucking boat man."

Detoxification Proclamation

           This weekend I'm doing detox. No, I haven't had too many beers in the shower, I'm talking about a food detox. Every here and there the fiance and I, in an attempt to cleanse our body of toxins, will endure 3 days of eating nothing but lean white meat and green vegetables. After 3 days of hell, your body is rewarded with a fresh, clean slate, and your mind feels youthful and rejuvenated, like a fluffy white cloud.
           My body today, however, feels like a 10 car pile up, and my mind, which is crossing over into borderline insanity, is questioning what a fluffy white cloud might taste like. What I'm trying to say is that it's Saturday night, almost the end of day one, and my dog just caught me eying him hungrily.
          Don't judge. I wouldn't eat him, anyway, seeing as how he's too bony, has almost no meat, and is too fast for this malnourished writer to catch. I'd burn more calories trying to catch him than I would take in eating him. I'd be better off eating the poodle. He's slow witted and fat.
          I hope by now you realize I'm talking out of my quickly diminishing ass. I mean, sure, I've eaten some Chinese food in the past, but I'm not a big fan of eating pets. What I'm realizing, though, as I force another piece of chicken down my throat, is that I miss food. Simple food, even. I find myself craving a nice buttered slice of toast... or a creamy twice baked potato... or Burger King's 20 pound, twice-fried hamburger, with fried bun, fried lettuce, fried tomato, and optional fried mayonaisse. (What?--I'm American. Even if I'm a skinny American, I'm essentially trapped in the body of your stereotypical I-just-crossed-over-into-'morbidly-obese'-and-will-lose-my-foot-to-diabetes-but-are-you-gonna-finish-that-wedding-cake fat American)
           I would succumb to these food-porn fantasies, but unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) I like having the body promised to me by awkward late night informercials, so I'm going to stick it through until Tuesday morning. I've made it my goal. I'm going to go through more lean white meat than a Paris Hilton bender, and I'm going to eat enough greens to start a small forest in my colon. Or I'll die trying.
           So, with a weakened body but an invigorated heart, I'm off to cook another round of chicken and greens. Have a great weekend, and I'll catch all of you later.
           And speaking of catch... where did that fat little poodle go?

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Is hungry a mood? If not, sad for my stomach (hungry)
Beer: Heineken counts as a 'green', right?
Shower: You gonna eat that shower nozzle, bro?

Cap'n No-Beard's New Kicks

       
           Since Brandon took a stance on his glorious new beard, I figured I'd take a stance on my, well, baby-face. In other words, if I was a pirate, I would not be the great Blackbeard or the fearsome Bluebeard. Alas, I would be the pathetic Cap'n No-Beard. Yarrrr. :-(
          On the plus side, I don't ever have to shave, I perpetually look like a teenager, and I'll probably get carded even when I'm 60. However, there's always drawbacks to looking like Pee Wee Herman at every stage of your life. For example, Novembeard (not shaving the whole month of November) is a joke to me. I'd need a Septembeard head-start to even have a shot at it. Also, as Das Auto reminded us on yesterday's post, hockey playoffs are a great time to support your team and grow out a beard like the team does... unless you look like this. This avid Colorado Avalanche fan (even if we suck now) is just plain out of his league on that one.
           See, I tried to grow out my 'beard' once I got laid off, aka the unemployment beard, and got this far after a month.

Disappointing, right? A whole month, and all I got was an awful Spaniard mustache, aka the reverse Hitler (only grows on the outside, not the inside) and the pencil-thin douchebag beard. I'm a step away from achieving this. So... off it came, and back I went to looking like a baby face. At least I don't look like a girl, though.

On a brighter note, I got a new pair of shoes. As a writer, and maybe even as a human being, I'm not very superstitious. However, sometimes I need a little jump start to get my writing going. A new pen, a new desk, maybe just a new environment to write in. I decided I wanted a new pair of shoes, some fun writer kicks.

I got them, for relatively cheap, brought them home, and deemed them my good writing omen. Now, imagine my surprise when I go to peel a sticker off the bottom and see the soles.

Is it a sign? An omen? Nerdy as fuck? Probably. Who the hell knows. All I know is that I've been writing like crazy, and the words that are coming out are good. Much better than my unemployment beard turned out, anyway.

Oh, and if you're wondering, since he didn't post a picture yet, here's what Brandon looks like sporting his custom-tailored beard. You're welcome.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Sorely disappointed in my genetics
Beer: Fat Tire
Shower: Just washed away what little stubble I had, down into the drain. :-(

Rub it in, middle eastern baby, but in 20 years you're going to have a unibrow that needs a weedwacker to trim

Razor Envy

            Bryan and I both have Spanish roots, but where his bullfighting genes give him the patchy goatee of Speedy Gonzales, mine were overpowered by the blitzkrieg intervention of Germanic hairiness. Which means I’ve been shaving since birth. At least it feels like it some days.

            Yeah, yeah, guys grow beards. So, what’s the point, asshole? Aside from the fact that I apparently need to fill my calendar with more interesting things to blog about, the point is that I’ve never actually grown a beard before. Despite my capability for pulling off a stellar Grizzly Adams since the end of middle school, it’s never been attempted. I’m usually a believer in keeping a healthy amount of disreputable stubble, but today I officially crossed that line and wandered into the territory of the common wino.

            How far am I going to let this go? Who knows. I don’t think I’m cut out for the mad prophet beard. At best, I’d probably look like a starved young Santa Claus. Which would really be more deserving of a Jesus analogy, I guess. But I don’t have a good set of billowing robes to pull off the son-of-God look. In reality, I’m already starting to feel like a walking Q-tip, so this whole beard thing is probably going to be short-lived. However, if Bryan and I keep getting writing news as bad as we did today, I might not have much choice in the matter. A fellow’s face can get damn chilly when he's got to sleep under a bridge at night.

Cheers,

-brandon

Beer: Amstel Light

Music: The Pigeon Detectives

                                          (Some men prefer to marry beards.)

Fuck Wal-Mart

Most of the time, I try not to go to Wal-Mart. Not so much because of its cancerous consumption of the global market, or anything noble. No, it’s because every time I step inside, I feel like my soul is being leeched out through my pores. Maybe it’s a greenhouse effect caused by the combination of fluorescent lighting and decades of toxic floor wax. Or, maybe it’s the in-your-face train wreck of humanity that shoots Darwin’s evolutionary theory all to hell. But, try as I might to steer clear of the place, sometimes a guy just needs to buy shotgun shells, some diapers, and a new bath curtain all at the same time.

 So there I was, in the checkout line at the Cicero Wal-Mart, inspecting the lustrous shine of my new seahorse-themed shower curtain. In front of me was a spandex diva whose rapt attention was tied up in the Weekly World News. As she intently studied breaking developments in the love affair between Bigfoot and Queen Elizabeth, her children hellspawn brood of Ritalyn junkies terrorized the candy rack and chewed through the cellophane of the newest Pokemon video game. Screaming and slapping ensued between the brothers, and I had to step back to give a little room so that a ten-year-old could properly execute a chokehold.

It made for good theater, like a miniature re-enactment of Cain and Abel with candybar bludgeons, so only when his face started turning blue did I clear my throat to warn big momma that her youngest was about to be smited. Even in Wal-Mart, fratricide is frowned upon. I think.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said.

Her lips stopped mouthing words, and without moving a muscle, her eyes drilled into me.

“Yeah?”

I nodded to the mess of writhing bodies on the floor. “I think you’re about to have an only child.”

With one swift kick from her leopard print boot, the two kids were upright, wheezing, and glaring at me as well. A shiny purple claw shot out from the woman’s fist to point at my face.

“Why don’t you just mind your own fucking business?” said the spandex queen, with a jiggling hip thrust.

“I was trying to. But it’s hard to hear myself think over the sound of bad parenting.”

And then, like a flying walrus, she was on top of me. The bath curtain, diapers, and shotgun shells were tossed aside by her immensity. This was it. The end. I was being crushed to death by a shiny, foul-mouthed monster wearing too much perfume, and there was nothing I could do. Every punch I threw was only swallowed by a roll of blubber. But, finally, against all odds, amidst a flurry of “motherfuckers” and “cocksuckers,” I managed to reach over and swing open the door to the mini check-out soda cooler and knock her big ass unconscious.

I crawled to my feet and prepared for retaliation from the cubs, but was caught off guard by the door greeter, who had limped up behind me with his cane and a chloroform soaked rag. The next thing I knew, I’d been bested by a geriatric employee, and the world went fuzzy. The last thing I saw were two very angry looking security guards in blue vests. Their smiley face buttons weren’t smiling.

“You shouldn’t have made trouble,” they said.  

Upon regaining consciousness, I found that I’ve been chained to a sewing machine, and have since been forced to learn the ways of the soccer ball stitcher. I don’t know where I am, but the climate feels tropical and none of my new sweatshop friends speaks a lick of English. Jesus, I wish I’d paid more attention in Spanish class in high school, because I was never that good at charades. And it’s nearly impossible to do sign language when you run your hand through the sewing machine every five minutes.

Fuck Wal-Mart.

Cheers,

-Brandon

Music: My new friend Mario’s pan-flute rendition of The Rolling Stones

Cerveza: Warm, yellow, and non-carbonated. I don’t think this is beer.

I Like to Blow Things Up

           First off, I want to thank everyone for their genuine concern over my last post about making money on the Internet. While I like to make a little extra cash through side jobs as much as the next guy, I'm not actually in danger of starving or losing my house, I was mainly looking to see how I could make a few extra dollars here and there. There's just something so freeing about being able to spend my time writing, and doing whatever else I like to do when I just lounge around the house in my unemployment uniform. But I appreciate the concern, and I assure you, if I ever need help, I know who to ask.
          Speaking of writing, today's post is about how I write and what inspires me. See, when I write a novel, my mind paints a picture and I just kind of describe what I see. Similar to a movie, there are a lot of elements to this process. I need a screenplay, aka a story that is original and isn't godawful. I need to be a director, to be able to place everything in a setting and set the flow of the story... without raping the plot. And most importantly, I need a set of characters, and I need to be those characters... almost like an actor. Also, I have to be careful with my actors, otherwise they may end up like this.
           My inspiration to create all of this, lately, is video games. Something about taking yourself into another world and controlling what happens relates to what I do as a writer. For my latest novel, in which a sarcastic slacker finds a magical gateway to a medieval fantasy land, I've been playing 2 games: Assassin's Creed 2 and World of Warcraft.
            I know, I know, World of Warcraft: what some see as a nerd's virginal paradise. I was skeptical at first, but my fiance the closet gamer got me on board, and frankly, it's a blast.
           There's a lot of elements to the game...  as I've been told, angrily, on many, many occasions... but I haven't explored any of them. You can enter guilds and build your reputation with others. You can join your friends on 'raids', where you team up and utilize all of your skills together to beat a difficult boss. You can train professions and craft items out of basic materials.
            Me? I just like to blow shit up.
            In a nutshell, I'm a big retarded moose-owl-bear (seriously, this is my character, it's called a boomkin, not to be confused with a manbearpig, which is equally dangerous), and I run around blowing shit up with magic. What's more, it solves every problem this game can possibly throw at me.
            There's a guard in my way and he won't let me through to the castle? Blow his ass up. Now a dragon's trying to set fire to my owl costume? Blow that shit up into next Tuesday. And now things have calmed down, and there's some kind of rare and beautiful mythical creature that no man has ever seen before, that we should probably extract carefully and study for the future benefit of science? Fuck that, give him the Michael Bay treatment. Ka-boom!
           All of this, and I'm as entertained as a special needs kid locked in a Chuck E. Cheese. The problem? I've gotten a ton of inspiration to write my new novel, which I'm slowly pecking away at... but I get so sucked up into blowing shit up that once I'm done gaming, my whole day is gone, I haven't eaten or slept, and I look like Lindsay Lohan (on a good day).
           So my goal for the next week is to get me away from the computer and the XBox 360 (don't get me started on Assassin's Creed 2, in which you can not only backstab evil politicians, you can also fistfight an 80 year old woman just to say you did), and get back into writing. I'll do this on Monday, when I plan on posting the first and only short story I've ever written, for you guys to massacre with constructive criticism, about a spineless cubicle worker who finds a vortex to another dimension behind his bookshelf.
            In the meanwhile... time to blow some more shit up.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Retardedly happy
Beer: Red Stripe
Shower: No time for that! I've got monsters to nuke!

Next year's Halloween costume? Yeah, if I want a plush wedgie.

      

An Ode to Coffee

I don’t get a lot of sleep these days. Between drafting two new novels, my thesis, doing various other writerly projects, working, and having a life, there’s just not much time for it. Which is why, in a land of brainwave deadlines, the coffeepot reigns king. In order to slay REM cycles and stave off Twilight-grade prose, I trust only my cheap ass, battered, Black and Decker to keep me coherent.

Besides the beer hop, no finer brewable crop exists than the coffee bean. It’s so deliciously addictive that I thank the heavens daily that I don’t have to turn tricks under a bridge just to keep up with my habit. It would seem that the Colombians have got their shit together when it comes to picking out lucrative export enterprises. Do you hear that, dropout corner peddler? If you want to keep yourself flush in neon sneakers and knee-high Bedazzled jeans for life, and out of prison, legal addiction is where the cash flow is at. Go start a Starbucks franchise. Barring that, at least go and ask for a fucking application.

I’ll see you all Saturday, for which a funnier post is brewing. It’s tentatively titled Fuck Wal-Mart. I have no idea what Uncle Bryan’s got in store for you tomorrow, but if he’s anything like my uncle, well, it’s probably best to bring along a couple bottles of mace.

With that, I propose a toast to the coffee bean. Thanks for the sleepless nights and the irregular heart palpitations! And, while we’re at it, why not raise a mug to the nice Colombian families who are thoughtful enough to harvest the shit for a nickel a week.

To exploitation!

-brandon

Music: The Indelicates

Beer: Dunkin’ Donuts Dark Roast

                                                                     What's a drug mule, amigo?

Digging That Sweet Internet Gold

          A wise man--I believe it was Jesus Christ or Martin Luther King Jr or Harry Potter (I'm terrible with history and I don't care much for research)--said, "Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime."
          This old adage worked once upon a time ago, but this day and age, it might better be said, "Pay a bunch of men minimum wage to fish for you, eat whatever you can and get fat, sell the rest, and then spend your time playing Xbox 360 in your underwear."
         Goddammit, it's The American Way (TM).
         Ever since losing my job (they took his job!) I've been trying to find a cash cow of my own, but so far, no luck. I've spent most of my adult life working a white collar job in a cubicle, but that was just awful, and let's face it, after 6 years of that, I'm not any closer to that big bath tub full of money (what the fuck is he doing to that guy?).
         Anyway, I've heard there's some money to be had from the Internet, so maybe that's an avenue I need to explore. Here are some ideas I've either been considering or have already starting doing.

1. Do Internet surveys. Seriously. I spend about an hour each morning doing these, and in exchange for trying out the most godawful new products, I get small amounts of money. So, was the $6 I got worth trying out Trojan's new 'Fire and Ice' condom and essentially rubbing Icy Hot (which is freezing cold, and then scorchingly hot) all over my junk? Possibly. Besides, if that new 0 calorie, 0 sugar Pepsi I'm trying gives me cancer, well, someone's got a lawsuit on his hands! Win/win.

BTW, now would typically be the part where I give you links to my favorite survey sites, which is really just a referral link for me to get more cash, but I find that kinda tacky. You guys are smart. Just do your research and find the most reputable ones. The nonreputable ones usually have bad spelling, bad rewards programs, and end with rape. Always carry a rape whistle when doing surveys.

2. Blog. Apparently the ads on this site can generate money based on what you type. So that's why today's entry is going to be about the time I slayed the mythical CocaColaHondaNintendoReebokMonster. He looks a lot like this. And to celebrate slaying him, I drank an ice cold Samuel Adams, which is always a good decision. Also, Justin Bieber stopped by. Or was that Justin BieBear? Even knockoffs attract Internet traffic.

So, have I sold my soul enough yet? Am I rich? No? Well, then I guess I'll have to stick to writing about things that I care about.

You may laugh, but you know you guys roll your eyes when you see that ONE blog that has nothing but blatant advertising pasted all over, as some kind of lame, home brewed experiment to get rich... and all they post for comments on your own page is "This was a good post!" so you'll comment on their blog.

Blog: "I finished my novel today!"
Thoughtless commenter: "Good post!"
Blog: "Today I had suicidal thoughts. I think I'm an alcoholic, and I'm slowly killing myself."
Thoughtless commenter: "Good post!"
Blog: "My mom was killed tragically in a car accident."
Thoughtless commenter: "Good post!"


You know what? Fuck off. (Bryan's note: what's fucking brilliant about this joke is that the thoughtless commenters won't be offended, because they won't read it anyway)


3. Nigerian E-mail Scam. Who said this was reserved to JUST Nigerians? Goddammit, we complain enough about foreigners taking American jobs, so let's bring this job back to America. Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day, but teach a man to phish and he'll fuck people over for a lifetime. As I type this, I'm already creating an e-mail account for Dr. John Johnson, Esquire, and whipping together a poorly worded e-mail about winning an $18 billion Power Ball lottery. Expect one in your inbox soon.


4. E-Prostitution. Don't ask me why, but I decided to Google 'male gigolo', and it auto-filled the search bar with 'male gigolo jobs'. After you type the j in jobs, it auto-fills it again with locations. Apparently people are that hard up for money that they'll look for gigolo jobs on the Internet. I haven't reached that point yet, not only because I'm soon to be happily married, but because as a gigolo, you have to realize you're not going to get to sleep with this. You're going to have to sleep with this. And if you can do that and still go to sleep at night, well, then you have much bigger problems than your bank account being low.

How do you guys make some extra cash?

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Naively optimistic
Beer: Sam Adams (ironically)
Shower: Not yet brimming with cash or some strange anime guy in a suit feeling me up

Nocturnal E-missions

We all know that nothing is less interesting than hearing a long winded, rambling recollection of someone else’s dreams. Even an hour of George Lopez’s comedy routine is more bearable than listening to the half-forgotten nonsense that splashes out of your best friend’s unconscious mind like so much toilet water.

With that said, I had the weirdest dream last night…

            I was lost inside the Temple of Doom, of Indiana Jones fame, except that it had been converted into a shopping mall. The cultish tribesmen from the film were there, but had given up their turbans in exchange for mall security outfits, and they were chasing me because I’d taken a shower in the decorative fountain (the planners shouldn’t have put the damn thing right in front of a Bath and Body Works). Luckily, my wizarding skills are keen in the dreamscape, and I was able to conjure up some clothes before being pursued through the dank caverns by a pack of angry ritualists. I jogged past store after store, decorated in the Flintstones motif, until I’d finally lost my pursuers.

            I decided that some Cinnabon sounded pretty tasty and punched the button for the food court elevator. But, the doors opened into the bottom of the deep-end of my high-school swimming pool. I was sucked inside and, just like I’d always pictured during all those hours of practice, a giant, cigar-smoking shark was swimming in the water too. I yelled in a string of bubbles and swam as fast as I could, but the surface wasn’t anywhere in sight. The pool had grown to the size of an ocean. The shark got closer, turned into a torpedo, and exploded. When I blinked my eyes I was standing, perfectly dry, inside my formerly local comic-book shop. All the regular owners had been replaced by the Temple of Doom guys again, and even though they’d probably torn the hearts out of my old geeky pals, at least they seemed to have forgotten about the whole indecent exposure thing. We drank beer and played darts.

           

            There were no boobs or gratuitous nudity, so, if you’ve read this far, I don’t know what else to say. Sorry?

Beer: Three Floyd’s Gumballhead

Music: Buckcherry

-brandon

                                        (On anyone but you, Indy, that is a fucking man-purse)

                                                  (You shall never again defile mall property, infidel!)

Monday Bloody Monday

          First off, we officially have over 200 followers! This is incredible to us! So we must say, thank you, sincerely, to everyone who reads our ramblings and feeds the illusion that our opinions matter. As you feed our egos, the monster only grows stronger (is it just me or does that guy look way too comfortable with that monster?).
           Anyways, the Superbowl has come and gone, and the Packers proved they can win a Super Bowl without Brent Favre and his wily penis. I have nothing against the Pittsburgh Steelers, but admittedly, I'm not a fan of Ben Roethlisberger and his penchant for sexual assaults. I don't understand it, really. How is it that a man this devilishly handsome doesn't have throngs of beautiful fans throwing themselves at his feet?
            Kidding aside, I was pleasantly surprised by the ads. A few of them were actually enjoyable. As some of you know, I drive an Audi, so now I look like an Audi fanboy because I love the commercial they put on during the Superbowl. But it was clever, and a lot of fun.

             The other commercial I liked was the Bridgestone tire commercial about in office e-mails. As a former white collar cube monkey, I find a lot of humor in this.

            
               What commercials did you guys like?
               Also, while I'm at it, I'll just say the halftime show was not great. At all. The audio was terrible, mics kept going in and out, and overall it just sounded clunky... but, with that in mind, you have to admit it was more um, interesting? than more recent years' geriatric snoozefests. More importantly, though, it reminds me of a great story about Will.I.Am that definitely bears sharing.
                My mother-in-law cleans the top floor suites at Mandalay Bay in Vegas. She's a very sweet Mexican lady with a hard Spanish accent, but she's very sharp, very funny, and very bold in what she does, reminding me a little of Consuela from Family Guy (in a good way).
                A while back she was cleaning rooms when a black man in his pajamas came up to her asking if he could be let back into his room. It was Will.I.Am. He had forgotten his room key, and didn't want to be photographed by the paparazzi in his PJs. Being the bold and musically trendy woman she is, my mother-in-law, a big fan of his, started busting his balls. He asked, "Come on, you know who I am, right?" and she jokingly asked, "I don't know, who are you? Are you someone important?" I mean, Jesus. I don't even know if *I* could have the balls to say that to a music superstar.
                Anyways, she let him back into his room, and told him that she's a big fan of his music. She listed a lot of the songs that she liked, but then made a bit of an oopsy. She told him that she loved his song 'Green Light,' and that it was one of her favorites.
               Will.I.Am laughed, grabbed his acoustic guitar, and played and sang 'Green Light' for her while still in his PJs. And then he gave her an autograph. Later, when she came home from work, she told my fiance Meli the story, only for Meli to say holy shit, you know that's not even his song, right? That's John Legend's song.
               Oops.
               What a cool sport, though. I don't have an opinion of Black Eyed Peas one way or another, but I've just got to say, he could have very easily been a dick about it. Instead, he was really humble about everything and so accommodating. I admire that. He seems like a super cool guy, and I only hope, should I ever become rock star of the literary world, that I could have that same kind of attitude. And if I can't, I just hope I can look good in those awful skinny jeans.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Content
Beer: Red Stripe
Shower: Hope Ben Roethlisberger isn't in there...

"If I ever get real rich, I hope I'm not real mean to poor people... like I am now." --Jack Handey

If a black guy sports 'black face', it's not racist, right?

Black and Yellow

            Because both of us are busy, we're only giving one quick post this weekend. While Brandon does whatever he has planned with his lady, Meli and I have some adventurous plans of our own. For starters, we're all going out tonight to see the big fight.
           The UFC fight, actually. It sounds like a meathead sport, I know... and it mostly is, but as a jiu jitsu guy, it's fun to see the tactics being used when they aren't just punching each other in the dicks repeatedly. There will be beer, there will be chicken wings, and there will be bullshitting among good friends. Throw that in with some dick punching, and who wouldn't have a great time?
         On top of that, tomorrow is the Super Bowl. I don't really care one way another about either of the teams, but it's a great way to spend time with the one you love, preparing a ton of great junk food, drinking a toxifying amount of beer, and having some playful competition with your sweetie over which team wins.
          We both hope you guys have a great weekend and a great Super Bowl Sunday, and leave you with this thought, since the Pittsburgh Steelers, whose colors are black and yellow, are in the Super Bowl.

             As Mr. Khalifa says, "You know what it is!" Well actually, maybe it's just because I don't speak jive, but no, I don't have any idea what the fuck "it" is.
             So... anyone? What the hell is it?

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Confused
Beer: Whatever's on special
Shower: No time for that, there's fights and Super Bowls abound

UFC: ur doing it wrong

Posting on Friday

It's Friday, and I'll be honest, I've got lots of shit to do. So, this post will be shorter than a cannibal brunch with Gary Coleman hoagies.

Today I braved the snow to walk the corner deli, and was surprised to find that the streets were lined not with the typical Chryslers, Fords, and Toyotas native to the curbs of my neighborhood, but a sudden migration of lawn furniture.

Sadly no, this was not the precursor to an Eskimo block party. Apparently, this is how Chicago folks illegally mark their parking territory when their neghborhood gets shat upon by Old Man Winter. And the chairs are everywhere. Bravo, folks. Thank you for introducing me to a new level of stupid, and a comfy place to park my ass in the zero degree weather. At least until Mister Magoo needs his spot back.

Cheers!

-Brandon

-Beer: Honker's Ale
-Music: Queen