Cardboard Whores Made Me Homeless

I Felt Sick...And It Wasn't The Corndog He Was Eating

2011-12-11T22:02:00.004-05:00

Ugh.

I was getting a coffee this morning and overheard this gem when I was leaving the restaurant and passing a large table with about six people sitting around it:

"Michelle Bachmann is by far the most intelligent candidate in terms of her knowledge on political issues and international policy."

Uh.

Ummm.

AHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAHAAAAHAHAHAHAAAA!

HAHAHA!

HA!

oooh.

Oh, that was a good one.

Seriously, there are people who live in this G-d-forsaken backwater cesspool (as I lovingly call my town ;) that believe this. Really. No, really. No, I wish I was kidding!

Even after they've seen her on TV (All hail the hypnotoad!), and heard her debate (FYI: Gays are from hell, Vaccines give you diseases!), and saw her husband flounce towards the camera (Route I-85 Exit 13A glory hole award winner!), and heard about her husband's business (It's SO not pray-away-the-gay! Seriously! Stop it! No, you stop it! That tickles! Shut UP! Take off your shirt!).

Now THAT'S what I call denial.

Or, to translate it into Gay: "They're so far up in their own closets, all their clothes smell like Altoids."

© 2011 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Genesis Redux

2011-11-07T20:45:00.004-05:00

I did take cold pills. Really.

I guess that's my only excuse for this dream, which I'm going to tell you about. I actually don't remember any visuals, no sounds, no smells, nothing. The only thing I can recall, with searing clarity, is the sentence that was rolling around in my head when I came to consciousness.

It seemed really important, like a message from a higher being trying to impart an important aspect of reality to a lesser being (me) trapped on the mortal plain. When I woke, I felt this burning need to quickly write it down in my dream journal (which I totally don't have) so that I would never forget it.

And what was this message? This dire communication that was so important it needed to transcend the land of the unconscious and blast its way into the land of the living?

Percy, The Lord's Mold.

Yeah, I wish I was kidding.

That's what was "so pressing" for my brain that it needed to wake me up from a dead sleep earlier this week.

My friends were trying to parse it (were you talking to Percy? Are you introducing the Mold? To whom? Are you commanding someone to go and get the Mold?) but I knew immediately the meaning behind the message:

Percy was the name of the Mold, the Mold was actual mold (like you find on a tree outside, or in an unclean shower), and it was the Lord's (yes, that Lord) favorite.

You'd think this would've been covered in Genesis, but I understand that there were size constraints and page limits. Maybe God was busy, and is just now going back to "fill-in-the-blanks-of-Genesis" with a long list of his favorite flora, fauna, fish, etc.

Scary. But totally plausible.

I hope when he gets to mammals we make the cut.

I'll keep you posted.

© 2011 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

What the Holy F@*k?

2011-11-07T20:09:00.005-05:00

Hi. Yet again, it's been a literal Ice Age since I last posted.

What's up, you ask? Well...I've been busy trying to get my first book sold (no luck), broke up with my Agent/Agency (sad), went to a writer's conference to try and sell it (some nibbles that I'm praying work out), started and stalled on my second book, looked for a new day job, thought about moving out of state, thought about buying my first home, found a place but can't get financing in place (yet), got an unexpected raise at work, left my old therapist because he went into another line of work (sad), started having panic attacks again, found a new guy but took forever to get used to him (he's great, though), found out my physical problems could be worse than I thought (bad), discovered some new therapies that might cut down on the pain (good), and STILL haven't had a vacation in about six years.

Oh, I also bought a tablet and did some new art, which was nice.

So, some good, some bad, same as everyone else. Not much that was funny, though.

Until Prince of Pinkness (Great name! You rock!) replied yesterday to one of my posts and told me that, if you type "Gay Humor Blog" into Google my site comes up first.

As in number one.

What?

How the hell did THAT happen!?

I don't advertise this site. I barely post. The traffic for this website is usually so small it doesn't even register in actual numbers. How does Google compute this shit?

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. All three of you new readers, WELCOME!

Although, today one of my friends started calling me, "Gaymous" on account of my new Internet faux celebrity, which I initially didn't like. But who knows, maybe the addition of tens of tens of fans will go straight to my head and I'll learn to really love it!

Stranger things have happened.

And if you don't believe me, I give you my other posts as Exhibit A...

© 2011 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

New Underwear (and other junk)...

2011-01-24T19:14:00.008-05:00

Hey all,

I know it's been forever since I've posted. Life got in the way, from trying to sell my first book (nothing so far), to writing my second (coming along slowly), personal problems, nothing remotely funny happening in my life to write about, etc., etc., etc.

But enough about that depressing crap. I want to talk about underwear! They're fun to wear!

I was shopping for some new ones lately (cause you know I've got to look good for all the guys lining up to have sex with me...yeah) and was trying to find a site that had the style I wanted on sale, cause this bitch don't buy stuff at full price, okaaaay?

*Cough*RuPaulmoment*Cough*

Anyway, I came across this site called Skiviez (yes, that's the way it's spelled... sigh...) and lo and behold they had the ones I wanted on clearance! Yay! I originally wanted them in black or charcoal - unfortunately, all they had left were these blue stripes. :-( But who cares what I wanted - they were on sale so stripes it was! Hooray!

It was then that I finally noticed the pictures for this underwear. Usually that's the first thing I notice (a parade o' manmeat!) but I was buying boxers, so how revealing could they be?

And I was right. Revealing? No. But something WAS different about these pictures - let's see if you can figure out what it is:

Picture 1: Everything Looks Normal

Picture 2: So Far So Good...

Picture 3: Ahhh, yess! Grab That Junk! GRAB IT!

Ha! That's a first! And yes, these are REAL pictures from their website. I don't know if someone at the company snuck those in under the radar or an editor quit or what, but it made my day.

Of course, I ordered them. I mean, they were on sale AND I know they can stand up to rigorous grabbage?

What's not to love?

© 2011 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Cinderella Needs a Diaper

2010-07-11T22:54:00.005-04:00

This past weekend I was in my favorite store in the world, Target, and was walking past the card section on my way out. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found anything wondrous to significantly enhance my quality of life this visit, so I was a little bummed. As I breezed down the aisle, I noticed this lady standing next to the rack of cards, her small child perched in the front seat of her cart. She and her reproductive dropping were dressed like any other slightly wealthy suburban ass-clones, so I didn’t give them a second thought.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she lets out this exclamation, screaming it at the top of her lungs, “Cinderella’s ASSHOLE!!?!”

I stopped dead. My ears rose about five inches into the air, spontaneously grew pointed Spock tips, and turned bright red.

WhohuhWHAT?! Come AGAIN?

Shocked, my jaw fully dropped, I turned and looked at her again. She now had my (and a couple of other people’s) undivided attention, as anyone who would stand in the middle of a crowded department store and yell about Cinderella’s chocolate starfish certainly deserved it.

But then my brain made it worse. I mean, yes, it was bad enough that she was yelling this blasphemous statement in a public place, but it was worse because she had somehow managed to make it into the form of a question. WHY? WHY WOULD THIS BE A QUESTION?

I just didn’t understand it, and now all my brain could do was to try and think of the reverse-Jeopardy answer that would fit it. Uh, “Image that topped ‘Human Centipede’ as the most soul-destroying thing you have ever seen?” Or, “Mentioned (and shown) in the porn version, ‘Sin and Her Fella?’” Oh, I know! How about, “#1 instant boner-killer!” for a thousand, Alex?

Ms. Yuptastic seemed oblivious to the ruckus she had caused, pointing at a card her son held in his tiny hands and laughing at the image on the front. It was then that my brain caught up with my ears and realized that:

a) The woman in question had a thick, unidentifiable accent.
b) She had said, “Cinderella’s CASTLE” not “ASSHOLE” and was looking at said image on the card her son held.

Disappointed, (and oddly relieved) I resumed my trek towards the exit. Later that day, I realized I had literally gone decades on this planet without ever contemplating the existence of Cinderella’s (extremely clean, I’m sure) nether hole.

And I was uncontrovertibly happy about that.

But now, thanks to this innocence-destroying lady, the workings of Cinderella’s puckered poop chute would haunt my dirtied and defiled mind for the rest of the day.

Damn her to Disney hell.

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

OTC = On The Chest

2010-05-16T18:28:00.002-04:00

Have you seen the new TV ad for Zegerid OTC? I think it's some sort of antacid or something - I wasn't really paying attention because the commercial itself is SO weird.

This guy comes out, talks about Zegerid, blah, blah, blah, and then says something like, "Let me show you how it works."

And then he just takes off his shirt.

Ok, wow, this commercial just got interesting! At least, I thought so - random guys stripping out of their clothes is ALWAYS appreciated in any commercial. Really. Any. One. At. All. At. Any. Time. Any. Where. Thank. You.

Then the guy proceeds to grab a brush and some paint and paint on his chest (?) images that explain how Zegerid works.

I know, those ad guys were seriously smoking something. Hello, weird?

But, here's the weirdest part: the guy they chose for the commercial has the most asexual chest I have ever seen on any guy ever. I mean, I understand what the makers of the product were going for - they don't want some hot guy flashing his chesty man-meat at the drooling viewers and have them forget all about what they are selling. The problem is, they made the decision to HAVE HIM TAKE OFF HIS SHIRT AND PAINT ON IT. Nothing they do can change that fact, so why didn't they at least let the guy retain some semblance of, I don't know - MANLINESS to his appearance?

His weird, fully shaved, oddly not developed yet not flabby yet not woman pre-/post-pubescent dough chest is just flat out disturbing.

I now need a shower.

And not in a good way.

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Solution to All Unhappiness in the World Ever

2010-05-16T17:58:00.005-04:00

I was watching some crappy TV news this morning while getting ready to go to the gym (which I never got to...whatever) and saw some disgusting "infoTAINTment" ad from Discovery Health that was so horrendously misguided and vile I just had to post.

I just lost a really good friend recently (no, they didn't die; no, we don't hate each other) and losing this person was just as hard as if we had been in a relationship. It's lots of days of me missing them and wanting to talk to them and, basically, not having them in my life is really, really depressing.

Then this cheery "ad" from Discovery Health comes on and tells me that, "Lots of people are unhappy because they lack love in their life."

NO SHIT.

HUH.

THANKS FOR THE OBVIOUS, FUCKO!

They then continue to say that, "Tests have been done that show, even from an early age, that people need love to conduct happy and healthy lives."

Sooooooo...

1) raised in nice home with loving parents = happiness

and

2) raised in a dog cage by human eyeball collector = unhappiness

Thanks Discovery Health!

After I take a break to vomit, the announcer continues to helpfully explain that, "Lack of love can cause stress (SHOCKER) which makes your levels of Cortisol go up and can cause you to gain weight."

So I'll be miserably alone AND overweight! Wow, Discovery Health, you ARE making me feel SO MUCH BETTER ALREADY! (...sound of me putting my dick into garbage disposal...)

But then they offer a SOLUTION to this torture and madness! Oh, thank the GOOD LORD ABOVE! WE'RE SAVED BY DISCOVERY HEALTH! What miraculous cure do they suggest for the lack of love and affection suffered by millions upon millions of people all over the world!!!???!!?

"To help combat this, you should try smiling more and giving out random hugs."

ARE YOU DOUBLE-FUCKING MY ANAL HOLE WITH THIS LUDICROUS BULLSHIT!?

Yeah, that's the stuff Discovery Health. Thanks for letting me know that the loss of a really good friend can be combated by smiling more and giving out random hugs. I'm sure after I gay hug the guy at Wal-Mart and he grinds my jaw into the pavement I'll feel SO much better.

Jesus.

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Why, Yes, I'm Famished As Well

2010-03-21T20:03:00.003-04:00

I had a weekend...to remember. I will post about it soon. Here's a little tidbit to keep you warm while you're waiting!

I'm standing in line at the bagel place, waiting to order. In front of me are this cute couple: the girl is perky and tall, with long brown hair, the guy is shorter and in shape, with a tight athletic shirt and a bicycling cap on backwards. Ok, I could've done without the cap on backwards (please), but otherwise he was a nice tasty nugget of eye-candy man-meat.

They're involved in some intense discussion, whispering and arguing about the gym or finances or about how he likes anal or something. I couldn't quite hear what they were saying. Anyway, they get up to the front of the line, she begins to order and the guy suddenly turns around and heads towards the coffee station, saying clearly,"Hey, I just want a mouthful."

Yeah.

All you had to do was ask...

Sex Marks The Target

2010-01-13T20:57:00.008-05:00

Oh, I don't know what is wrong with people.

Seriously.

This past weekend I went to Target to shop, like I do almost every weekend, and I was having a pretty good day up until I decided to enter the men's department. I, of course, immediately went to the clearance racks to see if anything that I liked was on delicious, blessed markdown, but the clearance rack was currently occupied with someone else.

That sucks.

Now, call me "touchy," but I don't like to peruse the racks with someone else. To me, it's akin to the unwritten guy rule of never bothering another man while they're in a bathroom stall: it just ISN'T DONE. I like to give other guys their space, and I expect them to do the same. So, when I saw this guy standing next to the racks, I continued past them and on to another part of the department.

Still, something about this guy caught my eye. For one, he was attractive - mid-thirties, short dark hair, stylish glasses that were for show only, a deep brown turtleneck, and a camel-hair jacket - in short, a bookish hottie. The second thing I noticed was that he was standing next to the END of the rack - he wasn't looking at the clothes. At first I thought he was loitering there talking on the phone, but I didn't see any headset and I didn't hear any talking noises. He just continued to stare at me as I walked by.

Well, after a decent amount of time at the other end of the department, I returned to the clearance racks to find him gone. Good, more clearance goodies for me! But as I started to thread my way through the hangers, my foot suddenly bumped against something on the floor underneath the rack. I kicked it out to see what it was, and found myself staring at a good ole giant jar of Vaseline.

Really.

Call me naive or a prude, but I just DON'T see the want and/or need to do that in Target. I don't even get the appeal! Was it the secret thrill of possibly getting caught? The erotic joy of trying to cram a giant square of Vaseline down your pants? Did the hot guys roaming the department (cough, cough) make you bowlegged with excitement? Did your quivering loins suddenly fill with cream for the great prices?

I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me some Target! But I don't LOVE my Target.

I guess I just don't swing that way.

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Write On This, Bitch!

2010-01-13T20:33:00.004-05:00

My coworker ran into a bit of a kerfuffle a few days ago.

One of her clients called her up and demanded she immediately reorder some of their products for them. The problem was, they couldn't remember exactly WHICH ONE of their many products they wanted her to reorder and, of course, they wanted them NOW NOW NOW. So she asked them to describe it. Y'know, like what does it look like? What size is it? Does it have a logo on it? What color is it? IS IT SQUARE OR ROUND!?

You know, the basics.

She finally gets some info about it being a notepad that was recently reprinted in October. She starts searching in her files. Comes up with nothing. She searches the online database. Nothing. She calls up other people in our department to see if anyone else worked on it. Nothing. Three hours later, she calls the client back, confused and frustrated that there is no record of any notepad reprints for their group going back a full year.

The client is perplexed, certain of their information. They go over the product specs one more time to see if they missed anything...and the client reveals that they were looking for a noteBOOK, not a notePAD. You know, something that is a BOOK, has left and right FACING PAGES, is BOUND, and has a COVER?

But I could see how you might confuse that with a PAD.

My coworker was furious that she had wasted three hours with this idiotic shit. I told her the next time it happened she needed to storm down to the client's office, reach into her underwear, pull out her bloody liner and slap it down on the client's desk and scream,

"That's what a PAD looks like, bitch!"

I guarantee she wouldn't make the same mistake again.

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

New Year Whore Wit

2010-01-02T10:33:00.001-05:00

This year I decided to let the mascots of the site, Smokey the Pole Dancer and Nipples the Stripper, have their say and let them share with you their pearls of wisdom from time to time. You have NO IDEA the amount of esoteric knowledge that is floating around in their heads, from how to get blood stains out of a cashmere sweater (club soda, rubber gloves, a Goodwill dumpster), to what the back seat of my car tastes like (Air Force Pilot), they are ready to explode their useful information all over your brain!

Smokey the Pole Dancer shares this slice-of-life tale:

"I was home for Christmas last week. We sat down to have dessert when Uncle Jabba all of a sudden looks at me and says, 'ANOTHER donut? Jesus.' So I cut him."

Nipples the Stripper shares these words of wisdom:

"If someone calls up and asks if you know what muffin meat is, just say no and hang up."

Thanks, and have a great New Year!

© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Christmastime and Rudeness

2009-12-13T16:46:00.002-05:00

Really? Isn’t everyone just happy and cheery and jolly this time of year? The answer to that question would be a hard and definite NO. People are assholes all the time, and the “holiday season” is no exception. The birthday of Jesus doesn’t make us all saints, I hate to tell you. I wish it was different, I honestly do, but this tidbit of wisdom is hard won, as the following examples will prove.

I was at K-Mart this afternoon, trying to get some decorations for my new faux tree. Shut up, I am not ghetto. Ok, maybe a little. Their shit was forty percent off! Anyway, after I picked out my cheap and trashy garland, I passed the aisle of Christmas candy and stopped to take a look. An old lady was taking up most of the aisle with her small frame and large cart, blocking my access to the goodies. She gave me a look of death, as if to say, “This aisle is MINE,” and continued to shop. This was fine, as I was just looking, but then I spotted something I had been passively keeping an eye out for since the start of the season: a box of those old-fashioned Life Savers Christmas books! I had mentioned them to my nephew a while ago and he said he wanted one but I couldn’t seem to find them anywhere. Eureka! Problem solved! I tried to reach over the old lady’s cart to get one but, since I am criminally short and the books were on the top shelf, couldn’t reach it.

I frowned but politely turned to the old lady next to me, who had pointedly ignored me until now, and said, “Excuse me.”

She looked at me through slit eyes and then moved her cart a micro-inch in one direction and said, completely unconvincingly, “Oh, sorry.”

Ok, wow.

I felt like saying, “Just because you’re old doesn’t give you license to be a bitch,” but I refrained. There was just enough room for me to scoot by the end of her cart and reach the candy books. I grabbed one and looked at it, disappointed it was so much thinner than the ones I remembered from when I was a kid. I pondered whether I should get one for all of my sister’s kids, or just the one I talked to about the books. As I stood there and thought, the old lady apparently decided my time was up and started to shove her cart into my right thigh and push me rudely down the aisle. I was shocked into motion and barely snatched two more packs before they were yanked out of my reach. The old lady didn’t even look at me while she aggressively gouged my side with her death-cart and escorted me away from all of her “preciousssssssss.” I gave up and left.

Jesus, what a Fuck Crone.

My second tale takes place at the esteemed establishment called, “Toys ‘R Us.” Yeah, I agree, to enter one of these stores this time of year IS like signing your own death warrant, but still. There’s no need to cause me to stroke out from anger, people.

This takes place in Georgia, so that partially explains why I was already in such a bad mood and filled to the brim with a heady mix of homicidal rage and Northern Stabbery. It’s not that the people of the South aren’t nice, it’s just that, from a Northerner’s perspective, the people down here just move SO. DAMN. FUCKING. SLOW. Whether it’s driving or walking (there are no other forms of transportation here, besides Wal-Mart’s fat-filled lazy-scooter) Southern people can’t do anything above the speed of a rotting corpse’s jog.

And it. Fucking. Drives. Me. NUTS.

By the time I whipped into the Lego aisle, I was already topping out on my rage-o-meter. I just wanted to see if they had the set I was looking for, which was, of course, right behind this nice young couple and their cart, who were currently blocking the entire aisle while arguing over what to get for one of their hell-spawn relatives. I didn’t care if they were talking about the firmness of Brad Pitt’s ab muscles or the numerous ways they could save the Pope’s life from assassins, I just needed them to get the fuck out of my way. I stopped in middle of the aisle and indicated with my expression and body language that I wanted to look at what was behind them. They could clearly see me, but decided to ignore me. I waited. They continued to ignore me.

My rage-o-meter broke with a sudden, “Twang.”

I drew in a breath and, with the utmost willpower, conjured up the most vile voice from the depths of screaming hell, corrosively dripping with equal parts pure derision and utmost contempt for the foulness of their souls, and said calmly, “Excuse me.”

POW. The lady reacted like I had bitch-slapped her freshly-born child, and then hung her head in rightful shame while moving her cart quickly and saying, “Oh. Excuse me.” The guy didn’t even react, as he was too busy puzzling over the contents of the Lego box he held and drooling.

I ignored her apology and let her stew in her own embarrassment while I walked past her to get to the Lego. Flustered, she decided to leave, only to be blocked by my body as I perused the shelves. Then she had the nerve to let out a sigh at me.

All I could think was, “REALLY? Aren’t you the one who was blocking the WHOLE AISLE not two seconds ago? All you need to do is drive your cart AROUND me, bitch! You know what I’m going to do now, fuck face? I’m going to let out a violent, juicy, ass-ripping Karma Fart right in your face! That’s right, take a nice big whiff of that ripe one and drink it in through your pore-filled crater face. Savor the pungent aroma of an instant Karma kick-in-the-cunt! Devour the delicious taste of bloody anal lining when it floods your throat after Fate karate-chops your jagged ass opening! And next time, you might stop chewing on a rancid cow’s creamy member long enough to notice the people around you and behave with a lick of COMMON COURTESY!”

I said none of this, of course, since I am a gentleman and a scholar. I just turned to her and arched one eyebrow at her crass display. She left, her dundering husband in sheepish tow.

And that’s a collection of my joyous Christmas stories for this delightful holiday season. Please make sure your yuletide’s GAY and have a Merry Christmas, everyone!

© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

WhatTheFuckreview: Friday the 13th

2009-03-17T21:49:00.005-04:00

It sucked rotting ostrich teats.

Seriously.

But wait, now that I think about it, actually watching live ostrich teats ROTTING ON SCREEN would've been a better use of my time (and made a better movie). Or, even better, cutting off my OWN TEATS and filleting them in a nice olive sauce with rum-filled raisins and then silently chewing them while shaking and crying WOULD'VE MADE ME A MUCH HAPPIER MAN.

Really.

There is nothing else left to say.

© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

I'm Even Better Than The Real Thing

2009-01-08T18:14:00.003-05:00

Y'know when you have one of those days...where nothing goes right...AT ALL...and you wish, for just one minute...that you knew some sort of Knife-Fu...and you could go all "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Bloody-Fucking-Lobotomy" on someone's ass?

Yeah, that was today.

I mean, not EVERYTHING was horrible, but it was pretty fucking bad. Even my therapy session, which usually puts me in a much better mood, just made me sad and anxious and wanting to hit someone.

That's not good.

Also, I got to write a REALLY vicious e-mail at work today that eviscerated this company for fucking up on one of my orders and I usually enjoy writing those type of e-mails (heck, I am KNOWN for those type of e-mails) and even THAT didn't make me feel any better. I must be coming down with small-pox or something.

Or maybe I'm just depressed. *sigh* Again.

So, instead of going to the gym today after work (like I promised myself I would), I headed home and stopped off at Burger King on the way and got a giant Whopper value meal. I'm sure eating THAT will put me in a better mood.

(The answer is: NOT)

But the most interesting thing happened to me at the drive-thru. I pulled up to the window to pay and this young guy was at the cash register, just smiling away. Of course, I immediately hated him. So I rolled down the window to pay and the guy suddenly jumps back and yells at me, "Wow! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like that guy from You Tube?"

I'm immediately confused. I'm trying to come up with a name but I'm drawing a blank -- there are SO many You Tube people! Does he mean that guy who sings, "Chocolate Rain?" Or the Star Wars Kid? I can't think, but none of them sound flattering. Could it be that I just got dissed by the Burger King drive-thru guy? Could my day GET any worse!?

I just smile back at the guy, pass him my money, and say, "No, I've never had anyone say that."

He just keeps on grinning and points at me, "No, you do. You look like him! I can't think of his name..."

I'm still at a loss, and getting more insulted by the minute. "Which You Tube guy were you thinking of?"

He laughs back at me and says, "NO! No! The guy from U2! The BAND! What's his name, the lead singer."

I'm kinda shocked. No, wait, I'm IN SHOCK.

"You mean Bono?" I ask, disbelieving every surreal word coming out of my mouth.

"Yeah, that's him! You look just like him! Do you get that all the time?"

I practically do a spit take in his face.

"NO, NO, I've never had anyone say that. That would be nice." I understate, not believing for one second I look 1/1000th as good as Bono does, even on his worst day.

He comes back to the window, handing me my change, "Dude, you do, seriously. You pulled up to the window and I was like, 'WOW.' Especially from the side you look exactly like him. You must get that all the time."

Now I'm just scrambling for words, any words. "Yeah, I wish. No, I've never gotten that before but that would be great. I'd love it."

Understatement. Of. The. FUCKING. Century.

Drive-thru guy just waves me off, "Cool, dude. Have a nice day!"

I smile back at him and say, "Thanks, you too!"

and then I ponder this incident alllllll the way home.

?????

??????????????

?

And the only conclusion I've reached about this whole thing?

Well, I WAS wearing sunglasses at the time...so that must be it.

Or I must be one smokin' hot stud.

© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Short(ly) Fired Stories

2008-12-12T22:11:00.003-05:00

I'm a writer.

Yeah, you'd never tell from this blog, but I've been writing for most of my life. I'm not the best writer in the world, I'll admit that, and I've never claimed to be. I either write what I know or I write what I like. That's it. Some people say I don't "stretch" myself enough, but I'd look like a fool writing about anything else. (I am considering a book for next year that may contradict this statement, but that story is for another post.)

Since some people in my life know I am a writer, they sometimes ask me to become involved in writerly things. Things that I inevitably end up saying "no" to. Not because I don't want to help, it's just that writing is a passion for me, an enjoyable creative escape that I don't want to spoil by making it into -- work. If I don't feel something for what I am writing about (pick your emotion - it doesn't matter what motivates you, as long as you feel it) then the writing escape is completely soured. At another point in my life, I was an artist and used to enjoy art in the same way as writing, until my escape became my work and now I haven't drawn anything for myself or anybody else in many, many years.

So, seriously, fuck that shit.

But one of my relatives decided to try and bother me again recently with a project he was working on - a collection of humorous short stories about people and their teen-age years. It was bad enough I didn't want to contribute anything to his collection (i.e. fuck that shit. Remember that? Hello, is this on?) but like I seriously wanted to revisit the fresh Hell dimension of my youth. Seriously. And, as a "bonus," this relative knew how bad my childhood was and he still asked!

He could go fuck himself sideways through a meat-cleaver waterfall.

Which would have been the end of it (in a satisfyingly gruesome way, I might add), BUT he wouldn't take no for an answer. OH, NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY! He just kept asking, which was doubly weird because he was also a writer and had plenty of material for the book. So why pester me? Nobody knows who I am! My writing style is completely different from the rest of the book! His stories ideas were (to me) painfully unfunny!

I finally got rid of him this past week with a strongly worded e-mail, but the whole situation got me thinking. What if I HAD written something? Something that was in MY style, with MY sense of humor. Would he really be so happy with me then? Let's see...

My Childhood

Me and Ricky ran the last few blocks, our breath escaping in huge gasps from our thin chests. The cold night air burned in our lungs as we looked back through the thin layer of fog hovering over the streets we had just escaped through. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled at Ricky, who smiled back while wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. Ricky counted out half of the cash in his front pocket and gave it to me, his hands still shaking. We talked quietly about what happened and, after a quick hug and some sloppy tongue action, Ricky quietly disappeared into an alleyway further down the block. He said his Mom was waiting for him at home and that he was late. I knew it was a lie, that his Mom beat him brutally with broken liquor bottles and ribbons of razor wire every night, but let him go anyway. I had someplace to be as well, so I didn't care.

Later, I met up with Sinky and Front Flap Pete at our usual stomping grounds. Sinky had just blown sixteen sailors in an abandoned car on fifty-fourth street so he was flush with cash. He even bought me a Diet Coke and some Chapstick from the local Duane Reed. The tube said it had a new "plumping action" which was nice and might come in handy when Ron stopped by later. Pete was taken away by some leather guy in a car right after that and we ended up never seeing him alive again. Well, except for his foot. And a chunk of his thigh. I don't know if that counts. Oh, and later I found a part of his ear in a dumpster, which I dried and made into a decorative fob for my keys. I miss Pete.

Sinky sank into a depression after Pete died and was never the same. He eventually joined a religious cult and disappeared for almost a year. We heard that he had moved to California but that one day he snapped and went on a rampage, castrating eleven men before being trampled to death by a rhino freed from the local zoo because of the fires. I ended up moving to Long Island and lost contact with most of my old friends, which was sad. I still compulsively blew random men in my spare time, just not for cash anymore. That had to stop once my left arm was amputated. My foster parents were very strict about that, at least until they were killed. But the sores never did seem to dry up completely. It was soon after that I bought my first computer and discovered hacking. The guards keep saying that my parole should go through soon. High School was so much fun, I wish I could've stayed a teenager forever.

The End.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

I Had "The Gay." I Got Over It.

2008-12-12T21:32:00.005-05:00

So, everyone in my office who is remotely human (There are some who aren't. Don't make me describe them.) is getting sick. It's just that time of year, when people are stressed out from spending too much money on gifts, plowing themselves into crushing debt for stuff they don't want for people they despise and wish would die a horrible whooping-cough death, which then lowers their immune system and causes them to stay home and become secret egg-nog alcoholics while watching Oprah reruns.

Y'know, the American Holiday Season.

Or, it could be that people are so damned tired of working all fucking year that they just need a fucking day off to rest and escape the haranguing of their mental-patientesque co-workers for one measly day.

Either/or. You choose!

So, this past Tuesday I was out of work because of SOME REASON and when I came into my office bright and early Wednesday morning one of my co-workers came running into my office and closed the door behind her.

That's never a good sign.

Either she's going to suddenly reveal a horrible secret -- i.e. "I have a horrible case of shingles on my vagina, wanna see!?" or she's going to tell me to quickly pack my desk items before the boss nazis come and fire my delicate (but perky and firm!) ass. Neither option is wanted.

But surprise! It wasn't either one of those. She had a serious look on her face as she sat down in the chair opposite my desk and blurted out, "Were you out yesterday because you are gay?"

".......?"

Is this a new excuse I hadn't heard of? Can I really tell my boss that I had a case of "The Gay" and would be fine in a couple of days? What was the prescription -- take two cocks (orally) at night and rim the Doctor in the morning? Suddenly I was all excited that my sexual orientation, instead of being a hardship, could now be used as a get-out-of-work free card! How exotic! How unexpected! How nippilylicious!

But my co-worked quickly explained that Tuesday was some "Gay Missing" or "No Gay For You" or "I Can't Get No (Satisfagtion)" day or something where all the gays in the all the workplaces were supposed to stay home to show people how much we actually contribute to society.

Or something. I totally missed it. Whatever.

I did notice that some of the "100% completely hetero married straighties that stare an oddly long time at me in the halls and make questionable statements in my vicinity" at work were out that day as well. Hmmmmmmmmm.....makes ya think, doesn't it? What were they doing at home, all alone...for all those hours...I mean, Manhunt.com doesn't pay for itself, you know...

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

You're Too Late, I Already Signed Up

2008-12-02T19:56:00.004-05:00

My new favorite commercial just aired again on E!. It's for a Nursing program at some online college I forget the name of the minute they say it. The only part I care about is when the announcer begins to wrap up the commercial and talks about the fantastic job opportunities available for the current (or future) graduating Nursing students. He gets really excited and then booms out this gem:

"All across the country, there are openings ready to be filled."

Oh yes, Mr. Announcer, there definitely are.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Bank of Evil

2008-11-30T13:15:00.001-05:00

It is a long-known fact that I fucking hate Bank of America. They are a shit-filled cancer on the ass crack of America, a pus-filled boil brimming with diseased liquid ready to explode onto the riddled skin of our great nation, randomly spreading its acidic, clotted bile all over our deformed corpse.

Yes, they are that bad.

Not that they’ve done anything to me lately, it’s just that in the past they have instituted such infamous “customer-friendly” rules as actually charging their customers for deposit slips. Yeah, those slips of paper that other banks give away for free because it costs them next to nothing to print and, since you are being a good customer and LENDING THEM CASH TO MAKE A PROFIT ON, they should be happy to provide. But no, Bank of America got rid of all the free ones in the lobby and then used to charge you A WHOLE FUCKING DOLLAR for each one you asked the teller for. I mean, really, what’s next? Charging me for the “privilege” of walking in your fucking lobby? Is that 25 cents/step refundable if I take out a loan over $100,000 and/or suck the manager’s cock? Is he at least cute?

Fucking dicks.

Just to fuck them over, I used to take my last deposit slip from my checkbook and copy it over and over on a Xerox machine and use the copies. They’d even have ragged edges where I intentionally, sloppily cut them out with scissors. When I handed the faux slips to the teller and they didn’t work (each slip has magnetic ink in it to be scanned by the bank and mine didn’t) I’d just smile and say, “Huh, it doesn’t work? That’s sooooooo weird.”

So I was in the bank this weekend as usual, just trying to get a fucking roll of quarters for my fucking laundry. The line was, of course, 3,000 miles long and it took fucking forever to move. Granted, not all of the problems were Bank of America’s fault. Sure, they could not have possibly hired slower human beings to man the teller stations, but the customers were also not helping. They tied up the lines while trying to get their checkbooks to balance, causing all of us to waste what little weekend we had left standing in a fucking line. HEY, IQ DEFICIENT, YOU KNOW WHAT I DO WHEN I CAN’T BALANCE MY CHECKBOOK? I SIT DOWN WITH A CALCULATOR AND FUCKING PEN AND FIGURE IT OUT FOR MY FUCKING SELF!

Which reminds me of a movie I watched last night, Drumline. “Who in the what now?” you say confusedly. Yeah, this is quite possibly the last movie I would ever want to watch, rent, or view. Seriously, I would rather watch a documentary on Alaskan whale farts than sit through this shit-filled experience, or so I would’ve thought before last night. I was surfing the web at the time, so fuck you too.

Anyhoo, the main character in the movie was some drumline protégé or something but he couldn’t read music and was all boo-hoo about it for the whole movie and I just wanted to carve out his brain with a cement trowel because all he had to do to solve the problem WAS LEARN TO FUCKING READ MUSIC, DICKSHIT. I mean, suck up the tiny man-sacs between your legs, sit the fuck down, and learn it! It’s not like he was born with half a brain or was in some bloody thrasher accident, he was just too fucking lazy to learn the shit. I have no patience for people like that.

Which brings me back to the people at the bank. See, that little diversion had a point! Really! Moral of the story: Learn to use your IQ-deficient brain or I will teach you what a real-life thrasher accident feels like, in person. It ain’t pleasant.

Which (again) brings me back to my original point: what was I thinking about while waiting for eternity in the fucking bank line? Good question! I was busy trying to come up with a new, dramatic insult name to call Bank of America. I mean, sure, “Fucking, Sucking Cockworm” or “Infected Anal Man-Gash” was good, but I wanted something original, something never before heard by the ears of Man. Something that got to the core of what the Bank really was, something that described what could be found down deep in its cold, dead heart. Y’know, near where Dick Cheney lives.

Also, something that I could enjoy saying while giggling maniacally as the words rolled off of my glistening, honeyed tounge. Hee!

Or at least something like that. Yeah.

So I stood there and thought and thought, but all of my expletives turned out to be too pedestrian. I was shocked, flabbergasted, dejected. Could it be that I, master of the put-down, had failed? It was inconceivable!

Then it finally came to me. The Holy Grail of insults, the Crème De La Crème of fuck-yous, the Muy Delicioso of disgusting putdowns. It suddenly floated down out of the Ether and graced me with its powerful, revolting presence. I was complete.

I greeted the teller with a smile, gleefully knowing that the secret name of Bank of Amercia had finally been revealed to me. The curtains in the sky had parted, and it was all good.

The Bank of Satan’s Gunt was now open for business.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Oh, and FYI: Chuck Norris Hates You

2008-11-19T22:29:00.003-05:00

Yeah, found out today that Chuck Norris doesn't really like and isn't a big fan of The Gays. Due to some ancient, medieval belief that the Bible told him so. Which is his right, obviously, to believe that, but he also came out in support of Prop 8 in California and believed it was the correct decision to strip away the rights from gay people to marry and treat us like second class citizens.

Whatever, Chuck, you are now dead to me. The only name I will now recognize you by is Fucker: Texas Ranger. I hope you accidentally stick your head in a Total Gym and choke to death.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Who, Huh, What?

2008-11-19T21:50:00.007-05:00

Consider this an addendum to my previous post.

We recently had a little inter-office get together for lunch and I noticed a new hunky guy walking around the party all alone. I turned to my friend and asked who the new gorgeosity was, and she said he had recently been hired and was working in a section of the company that I frequently collaborated with. My gay antennas shot up at that info, did a quick scan of the surrounding area, and then cracked out my Gaydar kung-fu to attempt to ascertain what his status was. It came back with "I don't fucking know," as usual. *sigh*

Undeterred, I hunted down my network of underground liberal company spies and quickly employed them to suss out his sexual leanings. Being as my entire "network" consists of two people, we decided to enact a joint CIA/FBI venture and conscript another person into our scheme, a previously untapped powerhouse whose reported gossip juju is "the most powerful ever recorded in a three-state area." Hopefully I should have some more information by the end of the week.

Still, you must admit it is odd that this guy would show up now, of all times. Was God feeling bad about his previous "gift" to me? Did I suddenly go from dumpster diving in an abandoned parking lot to the Showcase Showdown?

I don't know, but everybody needs to send me good thoughts about this. Good thoughts, people! Get on that, STAT!

(no, not on THAT, you dirty bird! Well, maybe this once... ;)

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Bone of Contention

2008-11-13T19:39:00.006-05:00

Hello all,

There are a million reasons why I haven't posted in the last few months, but none of them really good. I guess I needed a break, time away from all of this "blogging." Not that the time away accomplished anything, mind you ;) but I guess it cleared my head and made it easier for me to write. I also got quickly addicted to Second Life, and then just as quickly became unaddicted and I am now mourning all the time/energy/money I poured into my fruitless and ultimately hollow endeavor.

C'est La Vie.

Anyhoo, I actually have something semi-serious I wanted to post here. It's something that happened to me recently that I thought deserved to be blogged about. I know, shocking!

Background: Unbeknownst to me, I inspired a friend of mine to begin his own blog because of MY blog. Yes, the horribly trashy blog you are reading right now. LOL! I know, I can't believe it either! Obviously, it was more for the writing than the scanty man pictures (he's straight), but he also said my writing (at times!) could be good and was a great avenue to reach out to people who may be going through similar experiences as my own. This is a good avenue to explore (who knows, maybe I will make my blog "respectable" again?) so I thought I would try just that with the first post after a long break. Maybe someone else is searching for answers just like myself.

Still, I bet this post doesn't get as many hits as my scanty man pictures do! They were ratings gold, people! Literally tens of people flocked to my site to see my scanty man pictures. TENS, I tells you!

;)

SCANTY MAN PICTURES! Hee! Man, I just like saying that...

Okay, here's where my story starts: I'm reading Reddit.com at work, like I normally do ON MY LUNCH HOUR (Honest! Don't fire me!), and I come across an article about these doctors at Johns Hopkins University who are doing new experiments with the drug Psilocybin (mushrooms, I think (?) - definitely a hallucinogenic) on cancer patients and how this might be a new, viable treatment for depression (cancer patients generally being depressed, hence the idea of using them. Yeah, a life-threatening disease will do that to you).

The interesting thing about the experiment wasn't the results they were getting for the depression (which were generally encouraging), but the surprising number of patients who were having religious experiences while on the drug. Also, the type of experiences they were seeing weren't at all what was expected -- devout Catholics were seeing Buddha during their "trips," Atheists were seeing Jesus, etc.

If these hallucinations were being pulled directly from the person's mind, why were the results SO different from what was expected? The report I read didn't speculate on what was happening, just that this was a fascinating "side effect" of the treatment and was worthy of future study. They noted the used of hallucinogens in numerous other cultures as a tool to reach "enlightenment,"and were curious if that information had any bearing on what they were seeing.

The description of some of the religious "trips" in the article were very vivid, and made quite an impression on me. The stories of these cancer patients, their religious experiences under the influence of this drug, and how much of a radical and profound impact this treatment had on their lives was emotionally moving and gave me, an almost-confirmed Atheist, some hope that maybe I was wrong. That maybe there was a God.

I won't go into the reasons I became an almost-Atheist -- needless to say, it was some pretty shitty stuff I went through in my life that convinced me that there wasn't anybody up there with a shred of compassion. No God (or any one that I would care to know) could heap so much misery on one person in so short of a lifetime and have any soul. Nuff said.

My hopes were slightly buoyed by this article and after I thought about it a lot that night I decided that maybe God deserved another chance. I struggled back into my shroud of good-ole Catholic self-hate that I grew up in, got down on my knees, and said a short prayer to Him.

"Ok, God, here I am again. I've hated you for years because of all that other stuff you already know about, but this article got me thinking and I want to believe in you again. You did amazing things for those cancer patients who were suffering, so maybe I was being too hard on you. If you could send me a sign that I'm on the right track here, that would be great. Thank you, Amen."

I got up off my knees, went to bed, and promptly forgot about it.

The next day I'm entertaining another shitty day at work (I love where I work, don't get me wrong, but work = shit, there's no way around it) and I reach into the top drawer of my desk to get a paper clip. Now, I just moved my office around a week ago and got new furniture so I'm still not used to the new arraignment. Also, during the upheaval a part of one of my precious urban vinyl figure sets was lost. Me = geek, remember? I was still royally burnt about losing that piece (hello - it was a limited edition set that was no longer available and now it was WORTHLESS because I lost a piece even though I would never sell it so it didn't matter how much it was worth but it still mattered to ME) and I have the set displayed right in front of my monitor so I was reminded DAILY of my loss. I had torn my office apart looking for that damned piece and, sure enough, as I reach for my paper clip I knock over my Rolodex and out pops the missing piece.

Now, I had shaken and scoured and pried apart EVERYTHING in my office the week before and now, suddenly, the piece magically appears? Hmmmmmmmmmm. For a second there my mind was open, thinking about my prayer the night before, a sign from God, a sign that ONLY I would recognize, a sign that would mean something TO ME, be only important TO ME.

Could it be?

And then my mind went to the forbidden place and I went batshit insane. I started cursing God left and right because, heck, if he was GOD and he could do LITERALLY ANYTHING, why was my sign in the form of a puny piece of worthless plastic? Where's the dump truck of gold that "accidentally" spills out all over my front lawn? Or a new, dreamy hire at work who is introduced around and our eyes meet and it's suddenly Queer As Folk all up in my hood?

HOW COME MY SIGN DIDN'T TAKE THE FORM OF WET CONSTRUCTION WORKERS WEARING "STRIPPERS FOR JESUS" T-SHIRTS?

Ok, I admit I probably flew off the handle a little bit. Maybe a teeny, tiny tad. A dot.

Maybe a morsel.

So I went to my friend and told her my long, sad story of dashed hopes and dreams. And what happened next is what always happens to me when I tell friends my frequent stories of unfortunate occurrences and pitiable woe. She turned and laughed right in my face. (No, it's ok, I get it a lot. Apparently, I am very funny when I'm on one of my rampages.) But that wasn't the only reason why she was laughing. She smirked at me and said,

"You don't get it, do you? The piece of the urban vinyl set you were missing was a plastic bone. So when he gave you back that piece, God was literally throwing you a bone!"

And that, my friends, is a true story.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Jakob Lodwick’s Response

2008-07-06T14:18:00.003-04:00

Hey guys!

I just wanted to post and say that I got a response from Jakob himself about my previous post on him! I was so shocked that he was able to find my humble blog. A sincere “Thank You” goes out to Jakob (if you are still reading) for your kind words. Seriously, folks, Jakob is a really nice guy and I hope everyone will be nicer to him on his return to the Web. Jakob, I’d also like to let you know (in case you were fearing this) that the contents of all e-mail sent to me is kept private, always.

I also hope that other people reading the Jakob Lodwick post would be able to understand my motivation for writing it. There were two reasons: 1) I felt like I could relate to what he was going through. There are many of us online that have felt the sting of being picked on, made fun of, harshly criticized, etc. for whatever reason at some point in our lives. For me, it was in school (both high school and college) and both times it made my life a living hell (my reason was for being gay). It hurt to see someone else going through this, and I felt like I really wanted to help him if I could. 2) During those times of rejection, I often hoped that someone would come along and tell me exactly what I did wrong and how to correct it. Seeing it happen from the outside, online, gave me the realization that I could BE that person if I stepped forward and reached out to him.

So, I hoped I helped. I know this blog is chock-full of snarky comments and derisive put-downs. But sometimes little pearls of wisdom (or nuggets of something... ;) are inadvertently dropped and if they can help someone else out with whatever they are going through, then this blog would’ve been worth it.

Thanks for listening, guys.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

This Will Start Some Fireworks...

2008-07-06T14:09:00.002-04:00

Happy Fourth of July Everyone - Enjoy!

Explanation

2008-06-27T20:21:00.004-04:00

Yeah, you were all wondering where I've been, huh? Ok, admit it -- YOU DIDN'T MISS ME AT ALL, DID YA?

That's ok, I forgive you :)

Actually, after looking at the numbers, I found that more people came to my blog when I STOPPED posting than when I WAS posting. Seriously. All the more incentive for me to stay away...

Anyway, enjoy the weird post after this one. I'm a (semi) regular commenter on Gawker and they had this whole mini-blowup this week with some guy named Jakob Lodwick who is the creator (or co-creator or something) of Vimeo and Tumblr and a bunch of other websites and is really, really rich. I felt bad for the situation (even though I wasn't one of the commenters that thrashed him) so I thought I would write an open letter to him to see if I could help. You can read about the whole thing at Gawker.

If you're not interested in that, too bad for you. I will be back soon so I can drive off the rest of my newfound traffic and leave the few of my loyal Whores (TM) left to enjoy some nice naked pics I will (hopefully) post later this weekend.

If I don't get sucked into Second Life again. Oh, did I mention I was now addicted to Second Life? Huh. I don't know how I forgot to mention Second Life to you. It's really all I do now between working and eating and more Second Life. I really didn't mention Second Life before? Second Life. Second Life secondlifesecondlifesecondlifeseconeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Second Life. It's better than the first, y'know.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Open Letter to Jakob Lodwick

2008-06-27T20:16:00.003-04:00

Dear Jakob,

I don’t live in New York. I am not famous. I am not worth $1,000,000 or go to fancy parties or know the right people. I have never used Tumblr or Vimeo and I really had only a vague idea who you were until this week. But your post up on Gawker and subsequent “retreat” from the Internet got me thinking and I felt like I should write to you to try and help.

Disclaimer: I am one of the occasional (not regular) commenters on Gawker and have been for about a year and a half. Also: I did not, nor have I ever, posted anything about you.

Second Disclaimer: I am not an Internet “noob.” I’ve been online since Prodigy back in the caveman days.

That said, it was shocking to me that an Internet social butterfly (and incredibly smart guy) like yourself would be so ill-informed about the ways and nature of the Web. I couldn’t understand how someone like you, an Internet pioneer in so many ways, could make so many mistakes and, seemingly, NOT realize what he was doing? Was I missing something? Maybe I am and this post is worthless and, if so, I apologize. But I wanted to point out to you (from the viewpoint of a Gawker commenter) what was perceived as your mistakes.

1) The constant touting of the fact that you’re a millionaire.

We know, we get it! If I know that you’re a millionaire, and I live in the hinterlands of the U.S., then pretty much everyone you talk/write/chat with ALREADY KNOWS. You don’t need to rub it in the face of everyone you meet that you’re way more successful than they are. Even if you don’t mean it in that way at all – you may be proud of your accomplishments (rightfully so) and want to let people know this so you bring up the millionaire fact – it is perceived as you being a dick and acting superior. That is no way to make friends, especially online where nobody can see your body language/tone of voice/facial cues and get to see how nice you really are (I assume, as I’ve never met you) and only have your written words to judge you by.

Suggestion: Just stop. Mentioning that you are the creator of Tumblr, Vimeo, etc. will automatically let people know you are rich and it’s a smoother way to impart this information. Plus, it lets people know you are smart as well, which is always a plus.

2) The China question.

I know this was an honest question on your part. I don’t know what, exactly, you were looking for in terms of a response as the question was really vague, but my impression was that you wanted people to briefly try and sum up, in their own words and filtered through their own perceptions, what was currently happening in China. That would’ve been an interesting experiment in social journalism, to see how different people interpret similar news. However, that was not at all how the question was perceived. It was more like:

“Hey, I’m this millionaire guy who works on the Web all day and has plenty of free time. I’d really like to know about the current situation in China. Instead of actually going to assorted online news sites and reading up on everything that’s going down right now, I’ll just post a quick question online and see if all these other people, who unfortunately have to work for a living and aren’t millionaires, can go and do all the research for me and boil the information down to three sentences and then post it. Thanks!”

I am not saying this was your intent at all, but this was how many perceived it.

Suggestion: Be careful of your wording on the Internet. If you are any sort of a public person online, have somebody read your stuff before it gets posted. Your intent may be fine but, again, nobody can see you when you post and they only have your words to judge you by. And yes, people WILL judge you online, it is a basic fact of human social interaction that no one can escape. If you think about it, you are judged every day by every one of the people you come into contact with. The way you say hello to the cashier at McDonalds (Friendly? Distant? Chatty? Rude? Annoying? Slow?) may make him/her decide whether or not they like you. Same goes for people you meet at an office, at Starbucks, on the subway, etc. Everyone will judge you based on the information they have available, and if all the (limited) information they have about you is bad then what do you think their opinion of you will be? Good? I don’t think so. You can combat this by supplying them with more (positive) information, combating their previous misconception. This is the same conundrum celebrities face, and this is also why they have publicists.

3) The Balloon Picture

Too trendy. It looked like you were trying too hard to be “hip” and “cool” with your outfit. People like authenticity. Be who you are, and people will respect you for it. People can see through fake in 3 seconds, and they WILL call you on it. Viciously, sometimes, as you’ve experienced. Nobody likes a poser.

4) The Rant

I get that you were upset, and I certainly understand your reaction to the mean comments about you. However, you should NEVER post something when you are upset (remember the World Wide part of WWW? Posted stuff can spread lightning-fast, can never be removed (there always a copy stored somewhere), and may never be forgotten). When writing “emotionally” you could end up sharing too much, or unknowingly insult someone, or get your facts wrong and look like a fool – it’s best to wait until you’ve calmed down to react to stuff. The Web isn’t going anywhere, it’ll still be there when you get back.

Also, the Web is an amazing place to cultivate a good sense of humor. Please realize that most of the comments (especially on Gawker) were really not about you at all. Most of the commenters there (including me) are struggling writers who are only competing with their other fellow writers to see who can come up with the wittiest one-liner about the topic at hand. They (mostly) don’t care about who or what they’re writing about, they just want to win the respect of their peers. Realize this, and you can’t take the comments as seriously. Also, remember that these people don’t really know YOU (the offline person) so what they say shouldn’t really matter. And, to a certain extent, commenters on there UNDERSTAND THIS. When someone there made a remark about you involving your mother, the Gawkers commenters themselves called foul and wanted an apology. That stepped over the line because invoking family members suddenly reminded everyone that you were not just an online “persona” to be mocked but a real live person who had a mom and might be hurt by what they said.

Once you understand the culture of online commenting, you also realize what they value the most – wit and humility. Even if you aren’t a believer of that type of humor (sarcasm is an acquired taste), someone who has an understanding of themselves and their foibles and can laugh at their little mistakes are GOLD to this audience, especially someone who they may have maligned in the past. Look no further than Julia Allison, someone who is still hounded by Gawker for her actions, but has written some clever comments (a few at her own expense) that does much to help her public acceptance there. I’m not saying you need to insult yourself or ignore your accomplishments, you just need to realize that there is a razor-thin line being forthright and confident and being perceived as arrogant and a braggart. Tread carefully.

To sum up, the Web is a dangerous place, especially to someone (like myself) who is more of an introvert and may not have the best social skills. Slight social miscues in real life can become monstrously magnified online. A sarcastic and funny comment in real life, with the benefits of body language and tonal inflection, can become a stinging criticism online that can create many online enemies for you almost instantly. There should be a sign attached to every computer sold: Walk carefully because here there be monsters.

Being a very intelligent person, you probably knew all of this already and your problem was caused by something I knew nothing about. In that case, I just got a new post on my blog and wasted a half hour of my life practicing my typing skills. Oh, well. If not, I really hope this helps. I hate to see a fellow geek/nerd (if it’s ok to use that word) suffering due to a lack of understanding certain rules of Netiquette. Nobody on Gawker really hates anyone (well, almost nobody), and if you show them you’re a good sport, have a sense of humor (about yourself and others), and are willing to look past all of the inane insults and putdowns, you’d discover a community of incredibly smart and talented writers who are amazing to read and constantly surprise you with the innovative way their brains work.

Hopefully you’ll come back. It is really like the Wild West out there: dangerous, edgy, raw, and untamed. So pack your gun, be ready to shoot, hop on your horse, ride for danger, beware of men with masks, but also look out for the beautiful woman sitting on the dusty ranch with a freshly baked apple pie in her hands. She’s what we’re all looking for out there, the reason we venture online, the brass ring, the perfect YouTube video, the funniest joke you’ve ever read.

I hope you’ll meet up with her again, someday.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Damn Crafty Nazis!

2008-05-02T22:35:00.005-04:00

Y'know, if only poor Indy had just thought to check Craigslist before going through all that work to find it...

(And yes, this is a real listing. Quite a bargain, too! I'm thinking of getting it for my living room...)

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Let's Dance Around The May Pole

2008-04-30T22:48:00.003-04:00

Here are some new beauties. I'm working on getting out of my slump, I thought these might help :)

WhatTheFuckreview: The Ruins

2008-04-22T20:03:00.005-04:00

Sorry I’ve been away so long, it’s been rough here and I haven’t been in the mood to post. I’ve been really down in the dumps, so I thought this past weekend I would go to the movies and see something really scary to cheer me up!

BUT DID IT WORK? NO!

Because I saw this chunk of steaming waste! And cried! Real tears! Of sadness! That such a good idea! Went so horribly wrong!

The worst part? The guy who wrote the book (which was supposed to be excellent), also wrote the screenplay (which was horrible). WHY was it so horrible?

Ah, therein lies a tale…of two reasons. 1) It’s Hollywood, home of the ever-powerful test audiences who wouldn’t know a good movie if it threw up on them and 2) Sometimes things that work in a book…don’t work in a movie. Sorry, it’s true. It may sound really scary on the page, but in live action it may look retarded and make the audience laugh their asses off in all the wrong places.

Ok, SPOILERS of course, as we begin…

…at a resort in Mexico where impossibly beautiful people gather around a pool and discuss beautiful people-things and stare at other beautiful people while drinking beautiful drinks. Barf. Anyway, one of the men is Shawn Ashmore who played Iceman in the X-Men movies and is a total hottie. Did you know he has a twin brother? They should’ve cast him in this movie too, just for the eye candy. Double your pleasure! Double your fun! So Shawn is there with his girlfriend, let’s call her Sluttina because she unfortunately fills the stereotypical “slut” role for this film even though she’s really not and seems like a fun person to hang around with. Then there’s Sluttina’s best friend Book Worm, who’s a downer and kinda serious (you can tell because she wears glasses – GASP!) and her boyfriend The Doctor, who’s also a little more serious than Shawn because he’s in PreMed and has a goal for his life unlike Shawn who just wants to get drunk and fuck his girlfriend and who should immediately die because of that. DUH!

As they lounge around the pool with their fantastic abs glistening in the dewy warmth, a swarthy stranger (aren’t they always swarthy?) who’s also a super-hunk comes over to talk to them in a mysterious-yet-erotic accent about how he is sorry his two meathead friends accidentally splashed them in the pool and how he should buy them a round of drinks for their trouble and also he’s going to visit his brother and his archaeologist girlfriend at an off-the-map ancient ruin tomorrow and would they like to go?

Y’know, I don’t even TALK to strangers when I’m on vacation, never mind accepting a round of drinks and a trip to an off-the-beaten-path Mexican ruin. Have these people never SEEN Hostel!? I mean, DUUUUUUUHHHH! They’re so stupid they deserve to be diced into cubes and served as a salad topping.

So, the Stupid Bunch agree to meet Mr. Swarthy the next morning. Then they all get drunk and lay around on the beach but The Doctor decides to call it a night (wet blanket) and then Book Worm makes a sloppy pass at Mr. Swarthy and then they all go to sleep. In the morning, The Doctor jogs on the beach looking mighty toned, all shirtless and sweaty, and then he goes back to the hotel to shower where we get a glimpse of his naked rear. That was a really nice treat so early in the movie, so big props to the writer on that one. Of course, full frontal would’ve been nice too, so when I make it big as a screenwriter in Hollywood we’ll just have to see what I can do about that!

You also see some Sluttina nudity if that’s your thing. Whatever. Another friend of Mr. Swarthy’s decides to join them all but we don’t care because he doesn’t speak English and we’re snobby Americans. They all get on the bus and drive away into the wilds of Mexico. Mr. Swarthy did leave a copy of the map to The Ruins with his two meathead friends who were passed out on the beach, so they’re totally covered in case anything happens. YEAH. They arrive at a small town and then hire a taxi to take them the rest of the way. They arrive at the end of a dirt road, but the rest of the way is overgrown so they must walk. The Jeep of Swarthy’s brother and his girlfriend is parked here. Sluttina gets upset when the taxi leaves, but Shawn says he can call the taxi back with his phone. They worry about getting a signal but Swarthy says he has a satellite phone so they’re covered. PHEW!

They walk into the woods past this creepy young boy and girl who don’t speak English or Spanish and don’t say a word to them and they wander around aimlessly until one of them discovers the path they were looking for, covered over and hidden from view. Hmmmm, could that have been a CLUE!? I thinkest so! Anyhoo, they run down the path, right into a clearing with a big Mayan pyramid all covered in vines placed right in the center. Exciting! As they rush over to the pyramid’s edge, a whole bunch of local Mayans come out of the surrounding brush holding guns and knives and bows and spears and begin to yell at them. Being not stupid (well…not at the MOMENT) the group backs up, away from the scary men, and smack dab into the base of the pyramid and the creepy vines. After that, all Hell breaks loose as the non-English friend tries to reason with the locals and gets shot in the head for his effort. Of course, he was the one holding the satellite phone at the time (OF COURSE HE WAS) and so, as the group flees up the pyramid away from the bad men, they lose their only way of contacting the outside world.

Once on top of the pyramid, they watch as the bad men surround the base of the pyramid, preventing them from leaving. The whole group is in hysterics at this point, and delicious Shawn tries his phone but can’t get a signal (SHOCKING! – I mean, if I can’t get a signal in the back of fucking Target, I don’t know why Iceman can’t pull four bars on top of a Mayan pyramid?). So, they see the remains of the camp where Swarthy’s brother and his girlfriend were but there’s no sign of them. A winch and rope lead down into the hollow center of the pyramid, but nobody responds to their calls. They do hear a phone ringing occasionally down there, and Swarthy thinks it’s his brother’s phone, which was also a satellite phone. He decides to go down there to get it, and is lowered down on the winch. The rope unexpectedly snaps, and poor Swarthy tumbles into the pit. He calls back up, saying he’s still alive but thinks his back is broken.

The Doctor and Shawn braid some new rope from the tents at the camp and build a hammock to put Swarthy in. Somebody needs to go down to get Swarthy, and it needs to be one of the girls as the men are needed to run the winch. Sluttina volunteers (which is very brave of her) because Book Worm is all freaked after Non-American got shot and doesn’t want to move until “help arrives.” Yeah, uh, get comfortable there, Book Worm. Sluttina is slowly lowered but the rope runs out a good six feet above the floor. She jumps the rest of the way, but lands awkwardly on top of her lantern, which breaks and sends a giant chunk of glass right into her leg. Yuck. Now Book Worm needs to go down to help Sluttina! She gets down, they load Swarthy onto the hammock (with back-twisting sound effects which were quite gross) and he is hauled to “safety.” I use that term loosely. Then the other two get hauled up.

Night falls and the Mayan locals light torches to make sure they don’t leave. They all talk about how long it might be until people come looking for them (a while) and hope that the two meatheads might see the map and come looking for them (uh-huh) and finally realize how screwed they really are (duh). Morning comes and Book Worm goes down to face the locals and have a nice freak-out. She yells at them and then picks up a clump of the vines and throws it at them in frustration. It accidentally hits a young boy, who is then shot in the face by one of the locals. Satisfied that she caused the death of a child, Book Worm climbs back up to the top.

The phone is still ringing, the men convince the women to go back down into the pyramid to get it, they lower the winch and there they are. Sluttina and Book Worm follow the sound, which takes them deeper into the vine-coated pyramid’s guts. There they find the body of the girlfriend, all grey-eyed and dead. She’s clutching her phone, which the girls grab. Except the screen on it is shattered and the phone’s dead. So what’s ringing? Book Worm looks around, and sees the truth – the flowers on the vines are mimicking the phone sound! THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE FLOWER!

Then the vines get all badass and come alive and grab at Sluttina and Book Worm and pull the torches out of their hands. Ew! The girls run and the vines trip them and entwine their legs. Gross! They get to the sling and get pulled up as the vines roil around them and just barely miss devouring them. They get to the top, get out of the sling …and the vines stop moving?

HUH?

At first I thought the vines didn’t move in sunlight or something. Or were allergic to hairspray and perfume. Or couldn’t work any more hours without overtime pay. NOPE, nothing that simple. OR LOGICAL. And that is why this movie flies right off the rails, right here, right now.

BECAUSE THE VINES DON’T MAKE ANY SENSE.

So, I’m sorry to say, the rest of the movie is ridiculous, because if the vines could/should/would kill them at any time, the movie would be over and not make us wait another 45 minutes to end. Still, here’s a brief rundown of what happens next, although I warn you it just gets stupider.

Night falls again. Sluttina wakes up to find the vines crawling into her leg wound and under her skin. They pull it out but she claims she can still feel it inside. Wow, does THAT sentence sound dirty! Then Swarthy is attacked by the vines, who start chomping on his dead legs. The Doctor manages to free them but says they need to be amputated. Cue long, gross double-amputation scene. Swarthy seems to be doing better after the amputation but then the vines distract the other prisoners (through their nifty ‘sound” trick) and then crawl into his larynx and suffocate him. Goodbye, Swarthy!

Sluttina finds more vines pieces under her skin. The Doctor goes in and gets them out but they keep coming back. Shawn realizes that vine spores are growing on their clothes and eating the cloth as they grow. He also notes that the local Mayans are salting the earth around the pyramid to prevent the vine from spreading. Maybe the Mayans, who are obviously smart, should’ve been better at warning people away from the pyramid BEFORE they got too close! YA THINK!? Then Sluttina goes all wacko because vines are all up inside her and she cuts herself to get them out and then the vines taunt her with their weird voice sounds and then she accidentally stabs Shawn in the heart when he tries to take the knife away from her and then after he dies she begs to be killed and so The Doctor kills her. The vines slither away with the bodies LIKE THEY COULD’VE DONE AT ANY POINT IN THIS STUPID FUCKING MOVIE. Then The Doctor comes down to the base of the pyramid with the blood-soaked body of Book Worm. He places her on the ground and then distracts the rest of the Mayan locals with a loud rant. Once he’s far enough away, Book Worm (who isn’t dead after all) jumps up and dashes into the undergrowth. The Doctor gets shot and stabbed for his efforts, but the Mayans are nice enough to blow his brains out before the vines eat him alive.

Book Worm makes it to the Jeep and then drives away, free and clear except for all of those vines spores on her clothes, which she is now spreading like a hideous plague everywhere she goes. Happy ending for all! Until the Earth is swallowed up by talking, man-eating, evil, sentient vines, that is!

YAY?

I did read online (after I saw it) that the movie had been through extensive audience testing (bad sign), and that they had filmed 5 or 6 different endings for the film, all of which were different than the book’s ending. And they wonder why the film was a watered-down, tragic mess? I also read that huge chunks of the film were removed because test audiences thought the “talking plants” idea was stupid. Well, then Hollywood shouldn’t have bought a TALKING PLANT SCRIPT if they thought the idea of TALKING PLANTS was so stupid! Also, in most cases, it’s not the IDEA that’s stupid, it’s the EXECUTION. With moderate CGI and a good filmmaker, you can make gold out of even the lamest ideas. If the plants didn’t work the first time, maybe you should’ve fired your director and not asked the poor writer to excise the best parts of his script instead…

\Rant

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Christmas in April Gift

2008-04-07T20:53:00.003-04:00

Hey all,

Since I was talking about Christmas in April in my previous post, I'm going to leave you all with a few...gifts. Enjoy!

Christmas in April

2008-04-07T20:12:00.005-04:00

I have to admit, I am a shop-a-holic, no question about it. I loooove to shop and I have the credit card bills to prove it. But I am also addicted to clearance items and getting something on sale/used/factory-refurbished/free etc. There is nothing better than having somebody comment favorably on something you own and being able to reply, “Really? Thanks! You know, I found that (chair/plate/ottoman/sex toy) on clearance at Tuesday Morning. It’s regularly $55 and I got it for only $5!”

That kicks ass.

BUT, the thing you have to remember is that there is a time and place for bragging. You cannot and should not use your unnatural deal-deducing powers for evil, for that way lies chaos, bad feelings, skin rashes, and death. Unfortunately, my mother never learned this lesson, and dropped this bomb on me a couple of Christmases ago.

I was in the middle of opening a gift package that I just KNEW contained clothes which, picked out by your parents, is bound to be bought at K-Mart/the wrong size/something you would’ve worn TEN YEARS AGO/so horribly ugly it is now considered a work of art and is hanging in the Louvre. Bottom line: H.I.D.E.O.U.S. So, as I was opening it, I began to plaster my patented fake smile of surprise/joy© on my face in preparation for seeing the creature within. Once the tissue paper was removed I found, to my complete surprise, a fairly normal blue sweater nestled inside the box. Huh. My parents actually bought me something nice?

WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?!

So, I actually managed a real smile as I took it out and held it up. It was the correct size and it wasn’t made in Bangladesh by K-Mart slave children. How odd! And yet oddly pleasing! And then my mom had to open her mouth and ruin the whole moment. She leaned over and said, “I’m glad you like it. Y’know, I found it on clearance at Target for only $7!”

Bad form people, bad form. You NEVER tell the recipient of a gift that you paid ANYTHING but full price for it or you will seriously insult them, even if they are a bargain shop-a-holic like yourself. That’s basically like saying, “You are so totally NOT worth paying full price for!”

Or, as my mom put it, “I love you, but to me you are only worth $7.”

So, this past weekend I went to a giant flea market in town and I was rummaging through some old Christmas items in a beat-up box (I love vintage 50’s Christmas ornaments – I have a big collection and am always looking for more) and I stumbled across a Ziploc bag with two Snowbabies ornaments in it. If you don’t know what Snowbabies are, they’re this line of cloyingly cute statues of children wearing snow outfits (coats/boots/mittens) that sell at places like Hallmark that women of a certain middle-age seem to LOVE. I have bought a few for my Mom in the past and they’re pretty expensive (or, at least used to be) – around $40 a piece if I remember correctly. Now, the ones I found were just ornaments, not the statues, but I think they would probably go for around $15 - $20 apiece if you bought them new. The price written on the Ziploc bag? $1 for the both of them, and they were in perfect condition. I snatched those Babies up in a quick minute.

Now, I am probably going to gift them to my Mom for Christmas. Do you seriously think she would appreciate me telling her I only paid $1 for them? No, I think not.

But considering I don’t have a super-great relationship with my parents, and in light of the former dis from my Mom, I was discussing with one of my friends about how I should present the Snowbabies to her, being as this was a perfect scenario for some good old-fashioned, pay-back revenge. We thought about it a lot but, y’know, already the $1 thing was pretty good, pretty low, but then I thought about telling her I only paid 25 cents for them at an AIDS-infested garage sale! GENIUS! My friend liked that idea, thought it was good, but not plausible here in the Deep South being as no one down here is, of course, gay (/sarcasm). But then I had an even greater idea. The BESTEST!

I’ll just tell her that I was sitting on the toilet one night and, after a particularly bad fart explosion, looked down and found the Snowbabies floating in the bowl! Presto! INSTANT GIFT!

Of course, I would tell her I washed them before gifting. I’m not a COMPLETE monster.

Then I decided that was too mean.

But still funny.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

This Commercial is the Shit! Part II

2008-03-28T21:34:00.004-04:00

There's this commercial that runs all the time on CNN Headline News (Yeah, I know, the channel is shit, but I like Robin Meade in the morning. She's perky!) for some company called SelectQuote. The company supposedly shops all the insurance companies for your quote and then gets you "the best buy." Their tagline is, "We shop, you save."

Gag.

Anyway, this one commercial that ran 3 times a day for FOREVER had this family shopping for insurance because something scared the father of the family and he now rabidly needs more life insurance. Maybe the incident that scared him was seeing a PERSON OF ANOTHER RACE because there hasn't been a more white family on TV since Lawrence Welk. They might as well have just called them The Whitebreads, who lived in Whitebread, USA with their whitebread mom and whitebread kid who ate nothing but loaves of whitebread and sucked gigantic whitebread cock.

Well, not on the commercial at least. They only had thirty seconds.

Sooooo, apparently somebody in the company finally realized their error. They recently released a new version of their commercial with a more accurate, world-view approach to their casting. Problem solved, right?

WRONG.

GOOD G-D is it wrong.

The commercial starts out good, introducing an Asian gentleman named George who is almost involved in a car accident. He suddenly realizes he needs to get more life insurance to protect his family in case he is seriously injured or dies. They introduce his family: his wife Yeung, who runs a sports bar. His daughter Yuki, who is shown bowling. And his other daughter, Momoko, who apparently does nothing but sit around WEARING A KIMONO.

Maybe I'm overreacting.

Seriously, it's possible. But to me, this was one step away from:

Here's George, he's thinking about buying insurance. Let's meet his family! This is his wife, Geisha, who always walks five feet behind him, his daughters Panda Bear and Eng Grish, and his sons HiddenPork Crouchingrice, Chop Sticks, and Karate Kicktoface! Aren't they just all-American SUPER?

G-D!

Again, I could be wrong. But imagine this commercial with a gay couple. Would it be ok then?

Here's Bill, he's thinking about buying insurance. Let's meet his legally-endorsed communal living partner that is in no way his married spouse! This is his "wife," Steve (aren't they always named Steve?), their legally recognized only in certain states adopted daughters Fatfag Haggus and Angry Buzzdyke; their sons Mincing Queen, Musclebound Chesthair, and Closeted Analcork; and their transgendered daught-on Leatherlicious.

With Hollywood's history of being so INCLUSIVE, I tend to lean on the side of cynicism. But please tell me if you think I'm overreacting.

Y'know, because I am NEVER accused of doing that.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Insurance Dilema

2008-03-28T21:21:00.006-04:00

Here's a quick one to tide you over until I can rant about my recent apartment nightmare. AIGH! The insurance lady came on Wednesday to review the damage and was so nonchalant about the whole thing I got really scared. Me being me, I immediately thought that the insurance company was about to bend me over a table and slide a pencil between my teeth as I am totally a glass-half-empty type of guy. My friend think it's because the insurance company knows they are totally responsible and completely guilty and since I have a gigantic overload of evidence they are just rolling over and letting me rub their man-tits on this one. She's a glass-half-full type of person, OBVIOUSLY.

G-d, I'm so jealous.

So, despite the fact that you guys have NO IDEA what the hell happened to me yet, I'm going to create a poll on the side to let you vote on what you think is going to happen. Do you think I'm going to be voraciously ass-raped by the insurance company OR do you think they're going to roll over, wag their tail, and shove their delicious man-titties in my face.

Only YOU can decide.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Big Tease

2008-03-23T01:18:00.002-04:00

Hey all,

Still working on my book, so no update on my apartment woes - yet! No, my book hasn't been accepted by anyone yet (I wish), I'm just writing a chapter synopsis that one company asked for. It's long and tedious and I've been slaving away for three weekends now. I need some fun! So, in "honor" of my frustration, here's some teasing photos for you. Enjoy!

Random Shit 3/17/08

2008-03-17T23:51:00.001-04:00

Quick update here: this past week has been…tough. I had another run-in with my apartment manager (yes, really), which will make a very interesting future post. Can’t wait to rant about that! Also, my addition of pictures on the site hasn’t gone unnoticed as I received my first invitation to have my blog join a porn website! YEAH!

Plus, here’s some other random oddities of this week:

I was checking out at Office Depot. I was there in the middle of the day, expecting to just whip right through and get out of there. But the two open lanes are clogged with HELL CUSTOMERS who are in the process of returning 30,000 items they bought last week while telling the cashier their life stories in excruciating, sickening detail. Yay for me. One denthole finally leaves and I get the nice cashier who moves like molasses. Ok, I can deal. Also, side note: this may sound mean, but when you are African-American and your cheeks are SO RED they match the ACTUAL COLOR OF A STOP SIGN, you need to step away from the blush.

I’m just sayin’.

Anyway, molasses-woman finally rings up my purchase, which comes to just over three dollars. I hand her a five and she digs around in her drawer for change. As she hands me back my one dollar bill and coins, she says quite clearly and out of the blue, “Nine,” and then “Have a nice day.”

????

???

What?

Am I missing something? Sudden onset Tourettes? Secret German language test? A Manchurian candidate activation code?

I don’t know, but I’m going to start using it to end all my conversations. It’ll be fun! NINE!

Later in the weekend I go to Mal-Wart. As I’m walking in, there’s some young girls out there hustling up some money for their softball league. Normally I don’t give a fuck about these random money-whores that are ALWAYS begging in front of Mal-Wart whenever you try to enter, but these are young women here and my heart is not made of stone. So the young girl continues to ramble as I dig in my pocket for my wallet, “Thank you for your donation, we accept fives and tens and twenties and debit cards and Mastercard and Visa…” A budding comedian here. I give her two dollars and continue on my way. I hear her start up again behind me, and with a giant does of sarcasm says, “…we’ll accept anything, really, EVEN TWO DOLLAR BILLS.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I’M GETTING BITCHED OUT BY A GIRL SCOUT?

Give me a break.

I should’ve turned around, grabbed my money, and said, “I’m sorry, I just realized I need this money. I have to go buy some clean underwear after being around an obnoxious little shitstain like you.”

G-D!

Finally, inside Mal-Wart I’m trying to navigate around multiple icebergs of slow-moving families in the dairy section when I accidentally come between a teenaged daughter and her parents. Instead of, y’know, WALKING AROUND ME or something, the daughter instead jumps in front of my cart, sticks her arm straight out and shoves her open hand right in my face. I slam on the breaks in shock as she continues to walk around my cart, not saying a word, but STILL SHOVING HER OBNOXIOUS HAND IN MY FACE.

I was so appalled I was speechless.

You know, teenaged waste-of-flesh, I am not one of your friends you can silence with a fucking hand gesture. You get me riled up enough and there won’t be enough left of you to generate a fart. I should’ve run her over with my cart until the wheels dug deep grooves in her now-scarred, deformed, tear-streaked face.

Young people suck.

Nine!

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Blue Steele

2008-03-09T22:02:00.004-04:00

This guy was on the cover of my favorite magazines, (Not Only) Blue. If you haven't heard of it, please check it out. An Australian magazine, it was arguably THE best magazine for artistic male nude photography. Last year it went on hiatus/was cancelled (depending on what you read online). Very sad. The second picture is the one that was on the cover.

Enjoy!

Dirty Laundry

2008-03-09T21:42:00.002-04:00

I'm in a better mood now. I think my change in mood came about because I cleaned my apartment today.

This is a big deal for me.

I’m not one of those, “I scrub my kitchen floors at 4:30pm every Saturday like clockwork” type of people. Not even close. I pick up a broom based solely on my mood and nothing more. If I’m currently in a good place, then I have the energy and desire to tackle the toilet and my house looks good. But if the world has taken a shiv to my guts and shit in the bloody hole, then my house looks like the inside of a Minneapolis crack house.

Because everyone knows that Minnesota is tops when it comes to crack den chic.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression many years ago. Hence, when I get down, I REALLY get down. This, naturally, affects the state of my apartment, as your house really is a reflection of yourself. Dirty dishes don’t seem so important when you’re too depressed to get off the couch. Filthy shower? Just shrug and stand in a different place. Laundry piled high? Fuck-all if I care. I mean, do you know how many days I’ve gone “commando” because of this? I’d be more excited if I worked with Mr. Rock P. Hardon and he had wandering hands but…I don’t.

The idea of your living space reflecting who you are was mentioned, indirectly, in the Augusten Burrough’s book I was reading earlier today. He was commenting on the disgusting state of his apartment during his alcoholic period and it was odd to me just how much I could relate to his story, especially considering I’ve never been an addict. Just like him, I don’t usually like people to come over to my apartment as (above and beyond the squalor) I feel uncomfortable while they are here and an odd sense of relief when they leave. I’m not anti-social, really I’m not, just when people invade my space they eventually begin to feel like an insane swarm of gnats buzzing around my living room that I violently want to soak in bug poison and physically expel from my apartment.

Martha Stewart I am not.

I guess that reaction explains a lot about my personality in general. I genuinely consider my apartment a sanctuary from the outside world and, since sanctuaries are usually private, I like to keep mine the same way. Maybe I’m weird, maybe this isn’t normal, but that’s how I feel. I’m a loner. I like being alone. However, if there is any point where I am forced to have company over (reciprocal parties, dates, etc.) I furiously vacuum and scrub and wipe and shine the apartment until it is a gleaming, glowing example of the effectiveness of today’s chemical cleaning products.

Apparently, this sleight-of-hand works in fooling people because I’ve never had a bad thing said (within earshot) about my apartment. In fact, because I am quite vocal with my friends about the dirty depths my apartment can sink to, they are always shocked and delightfully surprised when they finally are allowed to visit. They joke and laugh around the pristine sink and freshly waxed floor as they question the silly little stories I tell them about my filthy home. I laugh right along and pretend it’s all not true.

But it is. After reading the Augusten Burrough’s story tonight I realized I’m doing with my house exactly what I do with myself. I buff and polish and sand the rough edges before I leave my apartment every morning. I coat my skin in lacquer and adjust my facemask in the mirror. I am a clean apartment from 8:30am to 5pm and it is exhausting. I have been doing this for as far back as I can remember.

And I don’t want to be clean anymore.

An early trauma left me damaged, my sense of self shattered. Later in life, I learned that to fit in and be accepted and not be punished I couldn’t be myself. Paired together, these two things left me a hollow shell, eager to be filled up with whatever and whoever I saw that was “cool” or “accepted” or “in.” I became a human sponge in expensive-label jeans. I didn’t know any better coping skills at the time, so it worked for me.

For a while.

It’s not working any longer. I’m tired of being a fake, a façade, a “cardboard whore.” (Maybe my name has a deeper meaning than I thought, although its origin has nothing to do with my past.) As I am beginning to discover who I am, again and for the first time, I find I have less and less energy and patience to devote to my being “clean.” The mask is slipping and I find I don’t care.

It’s refreshing.

Of course, as with anything, this action comes with risks. Maybe other people won’t like the “new” me. Maybe I’ll discover I don’t like the new me.

But maybe I will.

I’m beginning to see the power and beauty of a dirty apartment. There is no need to hide behind a bleached countertop or straighten an out-of-place bathmat anymore. The cleaning doesn’t make me a better person, despite everyone telling me otherwise, it just scrubs away everything that makes me unique. Because mixed in with the grime are all the gifts I have to give to the world, all my hidden potential that will stay just that – hidden – if I don’t let them out, let them breathe, let them go, let other people see them in all their dirty, imperfect glory.

And I won’t apologize for it.

Not ever again.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

This Commercial is the Shit!

2008-03-03T22:05:00.002-05:00

No, really, it is THE shit. It’s horrible. Here are some recent examples of shit-filled commercials:

The Ab Rail. The Ab RAIL!!?! Yeah, this is a real product. It’s a bench with a metal rail over it that extends from your head to your feet with handlebars attached to it that you pull and push along the rail to do “situps.” I don’t care if it actually works or not, it looks FUCKING RIDICULOUS! I guess they ran out of stupid “machines” that work your abs, like the Ab Roller or the Ab Chair or the Ab Bench or the Ab Band or the…

The new Olay commercial for some skin cream for women. It’s supposed to solve “dry skin” problems. So, to make this point, they have a group of women wearing scanty TRIBAL OUTFITS sitting in a circle in THE FUCKING DESERT waiting for the OLAY SKY GODS to make it rain and give them relief from their horribly dry skin. I mean, GIVE ME A BREAK. We have actual indigenous peoples in the world dying from hunger, but Olay thinks it’s ok to make light of that by placing sexy women in similar surroundings and have then DYING FROM DRY SKIN instead of from, you know, not-as-sexy hunger.

The commercial for Extenze, some pill that’s supposed to “extenze” your penis. If they say “a certain part of the male anatomy” ONE MORE TIME during that fucking commercial, I’m going to scream. It’s a FUCKING PENIS, PEOPLE! If you can’t say the word “penis,” then you shouldn’t be having sex. Period.

Pancake Puff Pan. Yes, because my PANCAKES ARE SO BORING that I need to make them in the shape of a ball. Oh, and don’t make them out of yucky plain pancake batter, let’s make them BROWNIE pancakes! And fill them with MEAT! And then cover them with CHEESE and BACON! It’s VOMITLICIOUS!

And another product that’s helping the obesity epidemic in the United States, Reddi-Whip! They’re new commercial has some Reddi-Whip superhero guy appearing at a family’s house so he can add some Reddi-Whip to their BREAKFAST. Yeah, that’s what was missing from my morning, supposedly-nutritious, most-important-meal-of-the-day – Reddi-Whip. Y’know, despite what IHOP has been telling you, breakfast isn’t supposed to be DESSERT. If you want that, just eat a fucking candy bar and get it over with.

There are so many more left to rip apart, to be continued...

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Random Rants 3/3/08

2008-03-03T21:59:00.003-05:00

God, I’m in a bad mood tonight. Since I am, I’m going to take advantage of it and rant about useless, wasteful stuff I’ve noticed recently that’s pissed me off. Enjoy!

Ok, that commercial for the new movie Doomsday? Looks horrible. Which sucks, because it’s directed by the guy who did The Descent and Dog Soldiers, both of which completely rocked. Maybe I’ll try it out anyway and see. Throw some of my money his way just because he’s a talented fuck.

I can’t believe both the House and the Senate are going to completely lay down and calmly let Bush assfuck them on the Telecom immunity issue. I’m so disgusted with politics in this country I could puke up a reservoir of vomit. I don’t even know what to do.

I watched The Invasion last night. It’s not even worth writing a Whatthefuckreview over, but I’ll give you my .02 cents anyway. For whatever age Nicole Kidman is (40-something?), she has AMAZINGLY perky breasts. I mean, really – obviously she’s had some work done on them, but did she have to shove them in my face for the entire movie!? She has scene after scene after scene in tight t-shirts and tight turtlenecks and tight blouses and tight lingerie and OK WE GET IT NICOLE, YOU HAVE HOT BREASTESES! Jeebus H. Christmas, it was like a gay porn movie in there!

But if only! With the amount of breast-level-focus in this movie, you’d think there be a little somethin’ somethin’ for us gay guys with Daniel Craig in the picture, but he doesn’t even take off his JACKET in the movie, never mind anything else. Whatever!

(SPOILER ALERT)

And please, we’re supposed to buy that this woman (Nicole) just HAPPENS to have a boyfriend (Craig) who just HAPPENS to have scientist friends at the CDC and Nicole just HAPPENS to obtain a sample of the (then unknown) virus and then just HAPPENS to think to save the sample in a plastic bag to give to her boyfriend who just HAPPENS to share it with the CDC and then, while talking to her boyfriend and CDC scientist, Nicole just HAPPENS to deduce an extremely rare medical condition that just HAPPENS to be the one cure to the entire plague, and the rare medical condition that helps her discover this just HAPPENS to be had by not only one of her patients, BUT HER OWN SON, who she also just HAPPENS to have had with an ex-husband who just HAPPENS to have been THE VERY FIRST CARRIER/INFECTEE OF THE ENTIRE PLAGUE.

Yeah, ok. NOT!

I started watching Dante’s Cove Season 2 on DVD. For all three of you out there who don’t know what that is, it’s piss-poor soap opera garbage made by the Here! Network for gay guys to watch. I mean, really, what did I expect – I watched season 1 and that was a horror show, why did I suddenly expect it to get better? I mean, is it TOO MUCH TO ASK for a show that’s about gay folk, has copious amounts of nudity (essential), and ACTUALLY HAS A PLOT AND/OR WRITING THAT MAKES SENSE!? This dreck is so insulting to my intelligence that it said, “Hell, no…” and left right after the credits. I get the fact that it’s all about the exposed man bush, I’m all for that, but a little bit of comprehensible plot would go a long way towards making us not COMPLETELY FUCKING EMBARRASSED to watch gay made TV shows. I get that’s it’s based on daytime soap operas, but you don’t have to copy the source shows so LITERALLY.

I realize that I’m generalizing and not all gay made shows are crap. I just wish there were more of the quality stuff out there, that’s all. I feel like I’m being talked down to, and that the writers think that ALL I’m interested in is nudity, when in fact it’s just a PART of why I tune in. We all eat cake for the icing, but I don’t want to eat a cake made out of nothing BUT icing, ok?

I'm done.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Cardboard Whore Dictionary II

2008-02-19T19:58:00.011-05:00

Ongoing feature part deux.

I tend to create words for my own usage quite a bit, usually insults, because I’m a writer and the English language is just not flexible enough to convey all the different shades of my rage. Not all of them are winners, but hopefully some of them will strike you as funny. These words are all self-created, but if you find them somewhere else then “brilliant minds think alike” and all that shit. If you do end up using them, then please let me know! Also, place a link back to this site please, so that I can get some credit for my verbal masterpieces.

Tool•fest•'08 [tool-fest-oh-eight] –noun

1. A derisive description of a normal day that suddenly becomes inhabited by Tools of all shapes and sizes that infest your life and cause harm and destruction by fucking up your every waking thought, movement, or activity. Fearing your strong homicidal thoughts, you eventually run home, cower under a blanket, and wait until the sun rises again on a new day.

Example: "How's your day going today, dude?"

"Well, let's see: I almost got rearended by a douche who was flossing his teeth instead of actually driving, my teacher at the learning annex gave me an F on the paper I wasted the last month on, and I found out my last boyfriend gave me herpes. I'd say today has turned into a total fucking Toolfest '08."

"Dude, that sucks. C'mere so I can blow you to make you feel better."

"Uh, ok. What about your crabs?"

"Yeah, I had that taken care of, of course."

Pube•no•le•um [pyoo-beh-noh-lee-uhm] –noun

1. What the floor in your bathroom becomes coated with when you don't clean it for a month. Or longer.

2. A scientific impossibility, as no human can ever shed that much pubic hair and live. Analogous to finding a live unicorn or discovering the lost foreskin of Jesus. (Please reference Wikipedia for Jesus' foreskin. Really. I'm not kidding. Supposedly some church had it on display. No, really, I'm not joking. Yeah, I KNOW! Look it up!)

Example: "Ewww, what is all over this floor!?"

"Oh, it's just pubenoleum. Didn't think I shed that much hair, did you?"

"Yuck! It's a wonder you're not naturally bald down there. But y'know, it's oddly warm on my feet, especially now that it's winter..."

Can•cer Test [kan-ser test] –noun

1. A mental test that pops into your head when you are simultaneously faced with two emotional facts:

A. An acknowledgement (either covert or overt) of your mortality.

B. A contest, goal, achievement, or some other activity of worth that stretches yourself beyond the bounds of what you previously were comfortable with or thought you could accomplish.

Example: "Hey honey, did you want to go to that nude S&M beach party this Saturday or not? I've got Helen on the phone right now and she needs an answer."

"I don't know. It sounds kinda...weird."

"Well, weren't you the one that told me last week that one of your Bucket List entries was to be hung upside down in a sling while being fisted by a group of Hell's Angels? On a beach?"

"What is this, a cancer test? *Sigh* Oh, alright, sign us up!"

Lick•a•bly De•li•cious [lik-ah-blee di-lish-uhs] –adjective

1. Used to describe someone of unbearable gorgeosity. Someone who is both visually hot and gives off so much animal-magnetism hotness that you could instantly see yourself ripping off all his clothes (if he's wearing any) and giving him a thorough tounge bath from head to toe. Concentrating on the face and other sensitive areas. And liking every minute of it, of course.

Example: "Good G-d, did you see that guy in the locker room? Those abs! That back! His calves were the size of grapefruits, nevermind the size of his--"

"Hey, I was there too, remember? Heck, I got to see him step out of the shower! G-d, he was SO lickably delicious!"

"I know, right? Too bad he left so quickly. You know, I'm a diabetic, and without my recommended daily allowance of man-on-man licking I could fall into a coma instantly. Maybe we need to get back to your apartment and fix that, like STAT!"

"Okay, that is the worst line I have ever heard. You're an asshole."

"Whatever, your loss."

"Well...y'know...I'd really hate for you to fall into a coma..."

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Fleur De Lust

2008-02-14T21:02:00.003-05:00

The fleur-de-lis (or fleur-de-lys; plural: fleurs-de-lis) is a stylized design of either an iris or a lily and is used both decoratively and symbolically. It may be purely ornamental or it may be "at one and the same time political, dynastic, artistic, emblematic and symbolic",[1] especially in heraldry.

Best use of a Fleur De Lis - ever. Enjoy!

Fucking Graphics

2008-02-12T00:07:00.000-05:00

Hey all,

Sorry about the graphics snafu - I know it makes the blog really hard to read when all the text is gray and the background is fucking WHITE! ARRGHH!

Anyway, it should be ok now. I was gonna post tonight but I ended up spending my time fixing the new graphics. Well, that and surfing the web and downloading porn.

Duh.

Also, Apple decided to put out a massive upgrade to Leopard tonight (which is cool) that I initially tried to download earlier in the evening but couldn't because it required 2.5 gigabytes of free space on my main drive and I didn't have it. I just recently repartitioned my hard drive when I upgraded to Leopard and cut down the amount of free space on my main drive because (I thought) it was just sitting there being wasted and all of my graphic programs run off the scratch drive anyway.

So I had to sit there and waste a ton of time clearing space off of the main drive to run the stupid upgrade and then put all of the stuff back.

I guess I should've left more space, huh? Doink! Oh, well.

So, no new post. But the HOT new, green, smokin' Cardboardwhore Babe is back - Woohoo!

Also, in my roaming I learned of a hot gay festival held last year in Barcelona, Spain called HEATgay. Never knew of it before but the pictures of it were certainly HOT!

Can someone please send me a plane ticket for this year's convention as I'm broke and would love to go?

Please? PLEASE!? I'll have Cardboardwhore blow you for them! Yeah!

Oh. Wait. You're gay and she's female? Shit! I really want to go!

Crap.

Y'know, I need to come up with a male version of Cardboardwhore...hmmmmmm. I mean, it's not right not to have one - it's horrible and sexist and just plain insulting...what am I working on tomorrow night? Can I fit something in...?

;)

Friday's Hotties

2008-02-09T00:04:00.000-05:00

Hey, here's a way to start your weekend off right. Or, if you're a lefty...

Anyway, enjoy!

WhatTheFuckreview: Sunshine

2008-02-05T22:51:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I haven’t done one of these in a while, but I think this movie deserves it. I rented it on NetFlix last week and after I got done watching all the extras on the DVD I just sat there and immediately knew it need to have its own WhatTheFuckreview.

Of course, SPOILERS, so don’t read if you want to be “surprised” by this “masterpiece” of “cinema.”

Ok, all right, it wasn’t that bad. I think it was more the fact that it had an incredible cast, including Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later), Chris Evans (the bohunk from Fantastic Four), and Michelle Yeoh (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon), and that it was directed by Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later) that made me really upset that this movie wasn’t better than it was. Anyways, here’s how it went down.

The movie starts off with a voice-over. Never a good sign – ever. If you can’t even follow the first rule of good storytelling – show, don’t tell – and you need the crutch of a voice-over to help you at the very beginning of a film, then you’re not doing your job. Anyhoo, it’s the voice of Cillian Murphy’s character Bob, who goes on and on about how smart he is (he’s a physicist) and how he’s responsible for the whole mission they’re on now, which is a rescue mission in a spaceship on course to the sun to save it from dying by using the gigantic nuclear reactor in their hull to somehow reignite it. Did you get all that? Good, because it flies by in about thirty seconds in the movie so you better PAY ATTENTION, limp-dick!

To sum up: Bob is bragging about how badass he is and he comes off like a gigantic dildo.

We are introduced to the rest of the crew. There’s sad girl who is a co-pilot (we’ll call her Sarah because she looks like one) who is sleeping with Bob (G-d knows why) and there’s Chris Evans who is the engineer and knows everything about how the ship works and comes off as slightly psychotic but who cares because he is so hot. We’ll call him Bohunk. Then there’s Michelle Yeoh, who’s the botanist on the ship and takes care of the hydroponics bay so they all have something to eat and drink on their long two-year journey to the sun. I like her and she seems like she’d be a nice person to hang around with but she’s probably a bitch in real life. I don’t care.

To round out the crew there’s Weasel, the communications expert, Tragic, the pilot who plots their course through the heavens and is also one of their cooks, the Captain, who is the…uh…captain and very stoic, and finally the Doctor, who is the psychologist on board responsible for keeping everyone sane on the long journey. Four years with no sex? Good luck with that!

So, they start off with some character development that is really long and takes forever and isn’t really interesting and is incredibly slooooooooowwwwwww. Yawn. I mean, I’m all for character development but this doesn’t add dick to anyone’s personality. The Captain plays chess with Bob. Bob and Bohunk get into a fight because Bob cuts into Bohunk’s time to record messages to people back on Earth. Hello? We ALL know Bob’s a giant gaping asshole just from the intro. Catch a clue, Bohunk!

Eventually, they get closer to the sun and the Doctor starts acting weird. He goes onto their observation deck and turns the shields down really low so he can get a scorching view of the sun and just sit there enveloped by the light. Other people in the crew just think the Doctor is a little strange for doing that, which he kinda is.

Suddenly, Weasel detects an incoming signal. It’s from the Icarus I! Huh, Who, What!? That’s the precursor of this ship (the Icarus II) that was sent to the sun two years ago on the same mission but something happened to it and it was never heard from again. It’s an interesting find, but ultimately not important because for them to rendezvous with Icarus I they would have to alter course and the mission is too important to do so (i.e. if they fail then the Earth is fucked).

BUT.

Bob decides that it is really important they go there after all, because Icarus I has another bomb and could come in handy if they need a back-up bomb to reignite the sun. So they decide to change course, but the navigator (Tragic) miscalculates their trajectory and some of the solar panels are damaged in the process of changing course and so Bob and the Captain have to go outside to fix them. This is actually a pretty exciting part. Bob and the Captain end up fixing the panels but the Captain dies in the process. Also, a communications antenna is chopped off during the course correction and part of it comes smashing back into the ship and violently ignites the hydroponics bay, burning up all of their food and water and oxygen-making plants.

So now they’re up shit’s creek, big time. They limp their way to rendezvous with the Icarus I, hoping to find food and water and oxygen there before they all starve/dehydrate/suffocate. It’s the feel-good movie of the year! They dock the two ships together (fantastic CGI here – it really was amazing work) and cross over. The old ship is filled with dust and everything is shut off. They find the remains of the crew on the observation deck, burned to a crisp, the shields turned completely off so the sunlight hits them at full strength. They had been doing exactly what the Doctor did, examining the sunlight up close, except not stopping when their SPF ran out. Apply every four hours, fools!

They get ready to salvage what they can but suddenly there’s an explosion at the docking ring and the Icarus II is drifting away from the Icarus I. Everyone rushes back to the docking ring and it’s blown to smithereens. There’s no way to reconnect the two ships. Bob and Bohunk come up with a desperate plan to jump across the space between the two ships and into the open docking bay doors of Icarus II. There’s only one spacesuit, so (of course) BOB gets it because he’s SOOO IMPORTANT and Weasel gets all pissy and demands to have the spacesuit and now you just hate the guy because he’s being all whiny when you liked him before because they showed him getting up from a nap wearing nothing but boxer briefs and you could really see a detailed outline of his package that bounced when he walked but now you want him to die. So Bohunk and Weasel wrap themselves in insulation (yeah, not kidding) and the Doctor stays behind the work the door mechanisms (so he dies) and they shoot out into space and into the docking bay door except Weasel misses and ends up freezing to death.

R.I.P. Bouncy Balls. We will miss you.

So they continue on their mission until the computer talks to Bob (yeah, there are SO many references to 2001 that I can’t even begin to count them) and tells him that they are running out of air and will soon die. Bob’s, like, what do you mean? We calculated enough for four people to get to the sun and accomplish our mission. Yes, the computer says, but there are actually FIVE people on board now. OH NOES, THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!

Bob goes apeshit and tries to track down Mr. Mysterioso but Mr. PsychoNutbar acts first and stabs Bob and then locks him in the docking bay with no way out. Then Mr. Psycho goes and pulls all the computers off line and then stabs Michelle Yeoh in the heart just as she discovers a new plant regenerating in the burnt wreckage of her hydroponics bay. Awwwww. Then he starts to hunt Sarah, who’s hiding in the medical bay with the body of Tragic, who committed suicide way earlier in the movie. Oh, did I forget to mention that? TRAGIC DIES WAY EARLIER IN THE MOVIE. Better?

We don’t know who Psycho is as every time he’s shown on screen there’s some sort of distortion filter placed over his features. It’s an odd choice for the director to do this but it does up the creep factor. Psycho almost gets Sarah but she manages to slip away. Bohunk is down in engineering trying to get the computers back online, which involves him dipping himself in tanks of cold water. Yum! Nipplage alert! Anyway, he gets on the horn and tells Bob that the mission is too important, yada, yada, and that he should do everything he can to get himself out of the airlock and complete the mission. Then Bohunk dies by freezing to death. No, Bohunk, no! Don’t leave us!

Anyway, Bob gets into his trusty spacesuit and punches a hole in the airlock and basically vents the whole ship into space so he can escape the docking bay.

Um, that seems kinda harsh, doesn’t it? I mean, he doesn’t know if anyone else is still alive on the ship but he vents it into space anyway? What a cold fuck! Especially when Michelle Yeoh’s body FLIES RIGHT PAST HIM on its way out into space and he barely acknowledges it.

Fuck him.

Anyhoo, he jumps into the cargo bay and into the little ship that holds the giant bomb. He detaches from the Icarus II and watches it blow up behind him. So much for that ride! He then tumbles into the sun and rushes down into the center of the bomb to get it ready to ‘splode.

But he’s not alone.

OF COURSE HE ISN’T, FOOL! You can’t just have an ending without the villain showing up one more time – DUH! So the villain is revealed to be the captain of the Icarus I who went insane from staring at the sun too long and having some sort of religious conversion/psychotic break. He goes after Bob but it’s hard to balance here as the ship is tumbling and making the gravity inside all wonky. Bob falls and lands next to Sarah, who’s also here (OF COURSE SHE IS) and they have a last moment before Mr. Psycho corners him one more time and Bob gets ready to set the bomb off. And this is the part, right at the end, when the movie completely goes off the rails.

Yeah, right here.

You see, this is the part of the film when the whole movie comes together, when the subtext behind all of the action is revealed, when the REAL meaning behind the title becomes clear. And you know what? This is also the part they cut out of the theatrical release.

No shit.

You have to get this part on the DVD EXTRAS. I hate to inform the studio executive or whatever idiot fuck that was behind this bonehead move, but THIS IS NOT AN EXTRA. THE ENTIRE POINT BEHIND THE MOVIE IS NOT SOMETHING THAT CAN BE CHOPPED OUT.

Moronic dickheel.

To summarize the important dialogue THEY LEFT OUT, Mr. Psycho goes rambling about how G-d spoke to him for the two years he was trapped on Icarus I and how they shouldn’t tamper with G-d's plan (i.e. reignite the sun) and Bob yells back at him, “I’m an atheist! I don’t believe you!” and then Mr. Psycho just wearily and sadly looks back at Bob and says, “You will. You will believe when you see the face of G-d in the SUNSHINE.”

And then Bob goes inside and ignites the bomb and there’s a fantastic shot of the bomb’s ignition cascading towards Bob and then stopping right in front of him and he catches a glimpse of the stunning beauty of creation (and maybe something more?) before the bomb consumes him and heals the sun.

You see, the whole movie was really an allegory about belief vs. unbelief. Science vs. faith. Atheists vs. religious fanatics.

And the entire movie, as released in the theaters, was missing the crucial dialogue that explained all of this. And that’s why it deserved its own WhatTheFuckreview.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

My Sexual Preference: Gray

2008-01-29T20:48:00.000-05:00

I also love men with gray hair. No, not older men, but ones that have gone prematurely gray. I mean, who doesn't love Anderson Cooper?

I found this model named Gael Nicholas on his website. Isn't he perfect?

His website is located at: http://www.gaelmaxime.book.fr

I'll post more later.

I'm Seeing Red

2008-01-29T19:35:00.001-05:00

Mmmmmmm, I love redheads.

Seriously. I don't know why, but I think they are hot. A lot of people, surprisingly, don't like people with red hair.

This model's name is Red Morgan. H.O.T.

It's ok. More for me...

Leopard Needs to Change its Spots

2008-01-27T23:06:00.000-05:00

I upgraded to MAC OS X Leopard this past week and it...completely sucked. I lost a lot of my hetero MAC-love during the process, which was disappointing. They have had such a long, unequaled line of success with their products that I guess they were bound to hit a rough patch eventually, but it was a little unexpected for me being as this upgrade had been so highly touted before its release. Maybe I just bought it too soon and I should've waited another six months before purchasing it (I got it for Christmas so that would've been a little awkward - Christmas in July!). Anyway, I finally got it all straightened out but the going was rough for a while and I wasted about two whole days in the process. Here's the lowdown.

Last weekend: Saturday. I decide to bite the bullet and install my upgrade, fearful that my internet gateway to Ebay and porn would be irreparably damaged and I would be forced to live in the filthy dirt-floor and grub-eating ways of the "real world."

Shudder.

1:30pm: I start to clean off my hard drive in preparation for a clean install, backing up my iTunes to an attached external hard drive.

2:00pm: I start to back-up my porn.

2:30pm: More porn.

3:00pm: More delicious porn.

3:30pm: Porn safely backed up, I then carelessly throw all my other stuff on the external hard drive, like my art portfolio, my comic strips, my resume, my bookmarks, all of my writing including my book, etc. Y'know, shit like that. Priorities!

4:00pm: I finish, repartition the hard drive, then start to load Leopard. This takes an hour and a half.

5:30pm: Leopard loaded, I restart the computer and then plug in the external hard drive. Nothing. No icons on the desktop. Hmmmmmm.

6:00pm: I'm on the Apple forums, searching for a cure to my missing hard drive.

7:00pm: I've downloaded three programs and tried them all. Nothing. I am also missing the Boot Camp software on my computer, which is something I was dying to try. The forums suggest I reload Leopard.

So, after getting nothing on the external hard drive, I decide to concentrate on solving the Boot Camp issue and proceed to reload Leopard.

8:30pm: Leopard finishes loading and I restart. No hard drive. No Boot Camp. I begin to cry softly in the corner.

9:00pm: I'm back on the forums, looking for help. They suggest resetting the PRAM and also trying rebooting the external hard drive and/or computer.

9:30pm Rebooting.

10:00pm Rebooting. Rebooting.

10:30pm: OH. MY. G-D.

11:00pm: I fucking give up on the fucking rebooting. I load two more programs that are doing fuck-all to my system and they don't work either.

12:00pm: NO FUCKING HARD DRIVE AND NO FUCKING BOOT CAMP.

1:30pm: I give up and go to bed, after christening my new operating system with a sharp new desktop wallpaper and some fresh porn.

Sunday

9:00am: I capitulate and call Apple support, hoping they can solve my problems within a reasonable amount of time.

9:30am: I finally get someone on the phone. He is very nice and seems to want to help. I explain my issues. He puts me on hold to find out more information.

10:00am: He comes back with a list of things to do HE FOUND ON THE APPLE FORUMS. Yeah, I could've done that myself AND ALREADY DID.

10:30am: He transfers me to a "tech" for more help.

11:00am: I finally get to talk to the tech. He tries to pawn me off with the Apple forum shit and I cut him off at the knees. Ouch. He's undeterred and moves on and we try a few things for my hard drive. No dice. He suggests buying a new case for my hard drive, one that Leopard might recognize. *sigh* Another $40 for a case? Whatever. He also tells me that my computer is the model made right before they switched to Intel chips and so I can't use Boot Camp and that's why Leopard didn't load it.

Fuck.

I hang up.

12:00am: I order a new hard drive case and wait until it comes in. No iTunes and no porn until Thursday. Fuck twice over.

Thursday night

6:00pm: I open the new hard drive case and start taking my old one apart.

6:30pm: It's all set up. I boot up Leopard and turn on the new external hard drive case. Nothing. I shit my fucking pants.

7:00pm: I reboot, reboot, reboot in the hope it fixes something. Still nothing.

7:30pm: Frustrated, I go onto the Apple forums again. And check out the site of the maker of the hard drive case, looking for software solutions.

8:30pm: I find an article that says the only way I can fix the problem with my brand of hard drive is to reload the old operating system and access it from there. Are you fucking kidding me?

9:30pm: I finish reloading my old OS X on a separate partition. I boot up in it and attach the new hard drive. Nothing. AIGGHHHHHRRRRGGHHHHH!

10:00pm: Back on the Apple forums. I can find nothing new.

10:30pm: I take apart the new hard drive case and reinstall the drive in the old case.

11:00pm: I boot up the old operating system with the old hard drive with the old case with the old cords with the old fucking EVERYTHING!

11:05pm: The hard drive pops up in three seconds. MIRACLE! Porn and iTunes for everyone!

11:30pm: I finally have dinner and then pass out. The MAC OS X Leopard nightmare is finally over. For now. Unless Apple releases a fix. Yeah. I'm holding my fucking breath.

Y'think that this was something they should've fixed BEFORE they released Leopard? THAT would've been nice...and worth its weigh in PR gold.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Random Shit 1/27/08

2008-01-27T21:25:00.000-05:00

This week has been an interesting one. Nothing bad has happened to me! How weird is that?

Here are some interesting observations I've learned in the past seven days:

1) Yes, Cloverfield does make you fucking sick. "Ahhhhhhh! The monster is so scary and gross and...oh, when did I last have pork?"

2) When you clean the bathroom, you can do things with the sponge that you can't in other rooms.

Not THAT, you sickie.

I mean, when you have the bucket of cleaning liquid and hot water and are sitting there scrubbing the floors, and then cleaning the toilet, and then cleaning the sink...you are kinda allowed to continued using the same sponge.

There's no other room in the house you are allowed to do that in. I mean, you can't be scouring the floor in the kitchen and then suddenly get up and be like, "Hey, you know, these dishes are dirty. Why don't I just scrub them down with this sponge!"

EW.

I'm not saying it's the same or that you actually eat off of any surfaces in your bathroom (at least I hope not...), but it does seem pretty odd that this room's cleaning can all be acceptably accomplished by one little sponge and a bucket.

3) I watch too much TV. And porn. I bought an X-Box game (Justice League Heroes) a week and a half ago and still have not played it. Get to it, man!

4) There was an internet contest for the "Best Blog Post of 2007" and I didn't place anywhere on the list. You know why? I didn't know why. I couldn't figure it out. Some of my posts were wittier and funnier than the other guys' posts and I couldn't figure out why they didn't like me or why only a few people continue to visit my site until I sat down and really thought about it and finally came to this conclusion:

IT'S BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ANY PICTURES OF HOT MEN ON MY SITE!

I mean, yeah, DUH, but I didn't really get it for a while. Sure, people might come to my site to get a laugh or two, but it's the HOT NAKED SCORCHING MANCANDY that gets them to come back.

Or just come.

Whichever.

So what do I do about all the problems with copyrights and suing and not knowing who owns what photograph and all that shit? I don't know.

All I know is that I need to rectify this situation, STAT!

(with apologies to my one, poor straight reader...)

5) The new Bond movie's title was announced: Quantum of Solace.

Uh, say what?

Excuse me?

Huh?

Mmmmmmmhhh?

Gahhhh?

Uhhhhhh?

???

Whatever, as long as Daniel Craig takes his clothes off.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

I've Discovered Something...

2008-01-27T20:50:00.001-05:00

Okay, here it is, it's Sunday night and I'm sitting at home watching the Discovery Channel. Whooohooo!

I think the only thing I am "discovering" tonight is that I have no life.

But I digress.

So, there are two important things you should know about the Discovery Channel that I am going to share with you tonight.

1) The Discovery Channel is usually pretty good about showing native nudity within the context of the natives' natural surroundings - meaning that if the natives usually walk around without much on, the channel will be ok with showing this and not being all prudish and scared and Christian rightish. In a show that is on tonight called "Living With The Kombai," the nudity of the native people in the program is oddly and selectively shown. Every once in a while, especially in a scene with a group of natives, some of the men's privates are blurred out.

Huh?

So, what, the Discovery Channel thinks ONE penis is okay, but a whole GROUP of penises is just TOO MUCH FOR PEOPLE TO HANDLE. AIGHHHH! MY SENSITIVE VIRGIN EYES! THEY'RE STROBING WITH AN ORGY OF MULTIPLE THROBBING PENISES! I CAN'T HANDLE THAT MUCH MAN-SAUSAGE ON MY TELEVISION! NOW I FEEL FUNNY IN THE TUMMY AND HAVE URGES!

Really, people, give me a break. One or a thousand, it's still just a penis.

That said, I cannot wait until the British guys on the series strip down and go native. They're not even my type (British = pale, non-bodybuilt) but something about that accent makes them SO hot...YUM!

Or maybe all those penises rotted my brain.

2) They have a new show called, "The Feasty Boys Eat America."

Yeah.

All I can do is wish them well and leave them with a quote from always awesome RuPaul:

You Better Work.

Oh, and wear a bib.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

PS I just "discovered" that I'm actually watching the Travel Channel. Oooops!

PPS Mark and Olli (the British guys) finally went au natural except for some long gourd-thing on their penises. Holy Hairy Balls, Batman!

The Big Mo'ment

2008-01-06T21:23:00.000-05:00

There's a new ad appearing in comic books for a new candy bar. Apparently, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. is promoting a new confectionery delight that is named after his hometown of Mooresville, N.C. The candy bar's name?

The Big Mo'

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

SERIOUSLY! I know, how could they NOT know what they were SAYING!?! LOL!

So, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. is now a Big Mo'? Or does he just like to EAT Big Mo's? Can I pick up some Big Mo's at the store? Where will the Big Mo's be available?

Oh, it's just TOO GOOD! The jokes just WRITE THEMSELVES and NEVER END! Here's snippet of a recent press release:

"It's really cool to have my name on a candy bar, and it's a pleasure to partner with R.M. Palmer Company in putting this product on the shelves. I think Big Mo' will be widely accepted, not just by racing fans but by everyone who enjoys a good candy bar."

Dale, I'm SO sure it was a PLEASURE to PARTNER with R.M. Palmer on this! (Is Mr. Palmer hot? Top or bottom? Let us know, 'kay?) I'm also glad to know that Big Mo's everywhere will become more widely accepted! (Wait, is that "wide" as in "wide stance?" HA!) And enjoyed NOT just by racing fans (who knew racing fans liked Big Mo's?) but by everyone who enjoys a good ole "chocolate bar."

That would be me! I like Big Mo's!

............

Here's another money-making quote:

"The making of the candy bar withstood personal taste tests by Junior himself."

I'm sure it did.

"Our relationship with Dale Earnhardt Jr. is no doubt a partnership I am proud of," said Rich Palmer Jr., president of R.M. Palmer Company.

Soooo, when's the commitment ceremony? C'mon guys, don't be shy!

"The Big Mo bar is well received by the retailers and is sure to be a big success."

Oh, so the retailers are RECEIVERS. Got it! I'm glad to hear the RECEIVING was a BIG success! You go, guys!

"R.M. Palmer Company also launched the "Big Mo'ment with Dale Jr." sweepstakes, which will allow for thousands of award winners but one grand prize winner will get to have lunch with Junior and his JR Motorsports race team, a limousine tour of area race shops, suite tickets to a VIP weekend at Lowe's Motor Speedway, and $250 spending money."

Uh, ok, who WOULDN'T like to sign up for a "Big Mo'ment" with Dale, Jr.? LOL! He's cute AND rich! But I thought prostitution was outlawed? Also, does this contest come with a hotel room? Or is your "Big Mo'ment" supposed to take place at the Motor Speedway? That seems kinda impersonal to me!

............

And the quotes just keep on giving...

"The name Big Mo' is a play off of Earnhardt Jr.'s hometown of Mooresville, N.C., and the longtime moniker used for he and his closest friends, the Dirty Mo' Posse."

The DIRTY MO' POSSE!?!!

Oh, STOP, PLEASE, my sides are KILLING ME I'm laughing so hard!

"The milk chocolate candy bar will come in two flavors..."

Let me guess, Top or Bottom? Butch or Femme? Hairy or Shaved? LOL!

............

At this point I am beginning to wonder if they don't really know what they are saying:

"The making of the Big Mo' bar included numerous taste-tests by Earnhardt Jr., and its unique recipe and design was shaped to meet the NASCAR star's liking."

Really? It was? So it tastes like cum and looks like a dildo? Got it.

............

And here's the final one:

"The grand prize winner will be treated like royalty. It will be more than a big moment. It will be a big weekend they'll never forget."

Oh, Dale, I'd NEVER forget my Big Mo'ment with you!

Ok, I'm done.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Random Shit 1/6/08

2008-01-06T20:28:00.000-05:00

This is just stuff that has struck me as funny and/or sad recently. Enjoy!

You remember the Badcock Furniture place near my apartment? The one that had part of its sign out a few months back so that at night it read: Cock & More? I LOVED that. Well, over Christmas the other half of the sign finally died and now it reads: Bad & More.

Still funny.

Have you seen the new video on Logo for the Adam Joseph song "Faggotty Attention?" IT. IS. SO. HYSTERICAL! First of all, I love him for naming his song Faggotty Attention, although he probably did it just to get some of his OWN attention.

From the media, I mean. Although if it helps him get laid, more power to him.

My favorite part is when he suddenly breaks into some faux-Madonna-circa-Vogue dance moves with his suddenly appearing back-up dancers (where's K-Fed when you need him? ;) That shit is hysterical! If you haven't seen it yet, do yourself a favor and go to logoonline.com right now and watch it.

LOVE. IT.

Also, please don't get the idea that I'm making fun of him, because I am not. I think his voice is amazing and his talent is unquestionable. I just think whomever came up with the idea of this video should be shot and killed.

God, I'm starving. I need to eat dinner! I have more to write about, though - I should post later this week.

Out.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Christmas Sucks

2008-01-06T19:53:00.000-05:00

Hey all,

I can't believe it's been this long since I wrote on my blog! I apologize, I've been in a funk ever since Christmas, and before the holiday I was a total psycho trying to get everything done before I left on my "vacation."

First of all, let's start with that word: vacation. It's supposed to mean a time when you get away from work and the stresses of your daily life and RELAX. Yeah, well, that's a load of bullshit around Christmas. What it REALLY means is hectic trips to the mall to buy presents before you leave, giant amounts of debt on your credit card to pay for your travel and food and shit, crowded airports, disgusting travel food, vats and vats of coffee to keep yourself awake, driving three million miles to get where you're going in pitch darkness, staying at a place that makes the Bates Motel look like the Renaissance Suites (because that's all you could afford), arriving at your destination which is your old hometown which you LOATHE and wish would be violently swallowed up by the earth like Sunnydale in the last episode of Buffy, and, finally, being forced to see (some) family members which drive your already high blood pressure to new heights and make snide comments behind your back like, "(Cardboard Whore)'s being SO nice this year! I mean, unlike last year, where he was just awful. I couldn't stand to be around him."

Um, thanks?

Is it really any mystery as to WHY I am in such a bad mood when I get there? Jeebus, people, you ARE stupid! Do you really think anyone would GO on a vacation if it was advertised truthfully like this?

"Fly 3,000 miles to mingle with people you can't stand! In a setting that, every minute of the day, reminds you of your high school years! See the old high school you went to! Shop in the old stores in the mall! See the old places where you worked! Maybe even run into old, horrible classmates! Relive your most cherished nightmares in a funhouse week of "vacation" that most closely resembles a ring of hell! It's fun for everyone!"

Ooooooh, sounds GREAT!

*Sigh*

At least my sibling is uber-cool and a joy to hang out with. And my nieces and nephews are wonderful. It's all this other stuff that ruins it for me and makes each year's trip like a session on the Rack.

"Would you like me to drive the nails in DEEPER, Mr. Whore?"

"Oh yes, PLEASE! And I'll make sure to come back NEXT year for seconds!"

I can't wait.

© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Cardboard Whore Dictionary

2007-11-21T11:17:00.000-05:00

This will be an ongoing feature. I tend to create words for my own usage quite a bit, usually insults, because I’m a writer and the English language is just not flexible enough to convey all the different shades of my rage. Not all of them are winners, but hopefully some of them will strike you as funny. These words are all self-created, but if you find them somewhere else then “brilliant minds think alike” and all that shit. If you do end up using them, then please let me know! Also, place a link back to this site please, so that I can get some credit for my verbal masterpieces.

Fat•a•hol•ic [fat-uh-haw-lik] –adjective

1. An insult directly aimed at fat people in big cars who drive way too slow and stubbornly drive in the fast lane, seemingly unable to move their fat lard asses over to the right no matter how much you tailgate them. THAT’S WHAT THE SLOW LANE IS FOR, ASSHOLE!

2. An embarrassingly cruel term used by people who are late for work to describe the overweight person in the car in front of them.

Gi•gan•ta•tool [jahy-gan-tuh-tool] –noun

1. A person who has achieved greatness, going so far beyond being a mere “Tool” that they have now entered into the much-coveted and rarefied realm of acknowledged Tool royalty.

2. A person who, through no fault of their own (besides being born), you now hate to the core of your soul.

Auto Aggressive Side-Thrusting Psychosis [–Abbr. AASTP, or “AAhhhhhh, STOP!” as it is now known]

1. A little known disorder affecting people who are inconsiderate dick-like drivers. Widespread amongst drivers located in or from the northeast quadrant of the U.S. (Ed. Note: I am from the Northeast)

2. The symptom of the disease is shown by the affected driver pulling up to an intersection at an increased rate of speed, neglecting to slow down while clearly acknowledging oncoming traffic, hitting the brakes at the last minute to avoid a collision but not slowing down completely, and then continuing to nose forward in an assholish manner, thus conveying to the oncoming driver that they are “in a hurry” and “can’t stop for anyone else” and that they obviously consider themselves the “more important driver” in the intersection.

3. There is no cure for this disease, except for a horrible auto collision that will hopefully teach them a fucking lesson right before death. The only known defense against this disease is shown below.

Spock Smackdown [spok smak-doun] –noun

1. Named after a popular character in the Star Trek movie/television franchise, this maneuver is used to neutralize the effects of an encounter with an Auto Aggressive Side-Thrusting Psychosis driver. Can be used on other fuckwad drivers as well.

2. To initiate the move, the oncoming driver must immediately make eye contact with the AASTP driver. Once engaged, the oncoming driver must then raise his right eyebrow in disbelief, conveying to the AASTP driver the message, “Are you fucking kidding me? Don’t go fucking nosing your dumbass car into my intersection, bitch. I will cut you.” Once the message has been received, the oncoming driver may continue to maintain eye contact, driving home their message further and completely humiliating the AASTP driver until they are forced to look away, preferably down into their lap in shame. The oncoming driver may then finish their drive across the intersection, reveling in their complete moral, ethical, and emotional victory.

County Fair Drive-Thru [koun-tee fair drahyv throo] –noun

1. Not limited to the South or rural areas (despite the name), this is a term used to describe a certain type of drive-thru experience that makes you swear off fast food forever.

2. The clear signs of a county fair drive-thru are as follows:

a. Sudden, inexplicable stops that can go on for minutes and/or hours
b. Personnel with multiple deformities/lack of bathing/ugly tattoos/few teeth (see: Carnies)
c. Weird and unexplained noises coming from all around you (see: Speakerboxes)
d. Constrained tracks that do not allow you to leave the ride once you are on it
e. Exorbitant prices for everything, including food
f. All the games are rigged, everything you end up taking home is crap you don’t want
g. Haunting calliope music is played that chills you to the bone and causes you to see things hand-picked from your worst nightmares (see: Boredom, extreme; Side effects of)
h. The wild animal show is entertaining, although the cages/swing-sets/slides they are in look vaguely inhumane and cruel
i. All walls/floors are covered by something sticky and/or vomited
j. There’s cow poop. There’s always cow poop
k. You feel dirty and/or suicidal after entering

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Liquid Shit Experience, Part Deux

2007-11-15T23:35:00.000-05:00

Hey all you Whores!

(That’s what I call all five of you – my fans – Whores! If you want to become a Whore, there are just three simple steps you have to follow:

1) Send me a check for $25.00.
2) Locate some underwear (preferably non-stained) and put it on.
3) Find yourself a street corner and start flashing your junk! Work it, hottie!

Oh, and send me a picture of this. Please.)

Ok, well, I promised you all a conclusion to my Waltz Through (Human) Waste saga, so here it is. I don’t know if “enjoy” is exactly the right word, but have fun reading it!

The Liquid Shit Experience, Part Deux

I thought the worst was behind me. I had survived the toilet explosion and all the handling of human bodily fluids, and I had been reimbursed for my destroyed bathroom items. Everything was ok.

Or so I thought.

About a week after the incident, I was standing in my kitchen in front of the stove cooking dinner when I happened to glance over at my storage area. It’s a separate room in my apartment that’s supposed to be for a washer and dryer but since I can never save up enough money to buy them and the apartment complex already has some that we can use and pay for, I use the room to store all my collectables and crap. And let me tell you, I HAVE ENORMOUS AMOUNTS OF CRAP. That room is fucking packed to the rafters. I even installed a complete set of closet shelves that cover one entire wall and I still have shit everywhere. It’s mostly comic books and collectable toys and shit that I’m too old for and don’t need and is a complete drain on my finances – you know, essentials.

Well, since I am a giant lazy-ass, I haven’t boxed and bagged and alphabetized my comic books in about three and a half years. I’ve just been storing them in storage boxes and storage shelves and even bought some comic books boxes at one optimistic point (wow!) and then just threw a bunch of them in there without doing anything else. Those comic book boxes are stacked in the front of the storage room, placed there to “remind me” that they need attending to. Yeah, like THAT helped. Anyway, I look over at the stack as I’m cooking and what do I see? The vertical line of boxes is now crooked and leaning precariously over towards the wall.

That’s funny, I think, I wonder why the boxes would do that? I mean, aren’t they all SQUARE? Shouldn’t the stack of them be, oh, I don’t know, PERFECTLY VERTICAL? I look down at the bottom box and see a thin brown wavy line near where the box meets the floor, the cardboard now crinkling and folding and collapsing the further back I look.

SHIT.

(LITERALLY).

I race over and yank the upper boxes off the bottom box and rip it open. Sure enough, the comics inside all have wavy water damage along their bottom edges where the shit met paper. I turn the now empty box over. So much water had seeped into the box that it had started to degrade the integrity of the cardboard and, after a week of supporting the weight of the boxes above it, the box had started to collapse. Luckily I had noticed the slowly slumping box before it had entirely given way.

So I spent the next hour ripping apart my storage room trying to find what else had been damaged by this unknown tributary of the Shit River. I mean, we thought the river had been contained to the bathroom and the hallway, with the only meandering we saw went to the bedroom entrance. We never thought the shit would travel completely through the hallway closet and come out the back into the storage area. I even checked the storage room at the beginning of the toilet overflow and didn’t see anything in there.

Well, now I was furious (of course). I had shit-infested comic books (yeah, not gonna be reading THOSE anytime soon), and (as I soon discovered) some additional damage as well. A really expensive Master Replica Force FX lightsaber (yes, I am a geek; no, I do not play any live action role playing games) was coated, the packaging ruined. Luckily the lightsaber itself was fine, although I would never recoup the lost value. I also stored a shit-ton of boxes in there for my Ebay auctions to use to ship the stuff I sell – all of them were toast. I don’t know if you have ever purchased cardboard boxes before – that shit is EXPENSIVE! I easily lost a good $300.00 worth of boxes right there.

It was lucky for me that they were there, though. They were all placed vertically against the back wall and all that cardboard soaked up a metric ton of the liquid flowing in there. I can’t even imagine how much worse the damage would’ve been without them.

Sooooo, I called my manager and left a message explaining the additional damage. This was now a week after the original incident. She called back, explaining that she had already submitted a damage report and she didn’t know if she could reopen a closed file blah blah blah. At this point I didn’t care what she said, she was going to get my stuff replaced. I was still nice at this point, so she agreed to call her regional manager and see if it could be done, and all she needed was for me to drop the damaged comic books off at the office so she could take a look at them. Naturally, she wasn’t going to replace the damaged lightsaber packaging and the lost boxes. Also, she was only going to pay cover price for the comic books, some of which had gone up in value. I didn’t really expect her to do any more than this (sadly) and didn’t complain when it happened. I probably should’ve.

I went through the box of comics that night. Luckily for all involved, I had actually managed to bag almost two-thirds of the contents. What? Surprised? Me too. These comics were ok, although the bags needed to (obviously) be soaked in bleach. The remaining one-third were toilet paper. They didn’t LOOK all that bad (the water had dried by now), but the bottom two inches of each one was slightly wrinkled and, of course, there was that whole problem with them having been soaked in WATER-FILLED HUMAN EXCREMENT. I mean, other than THAT little problem, I could’ve probably sent them off to be graded and received a 7.5 out of 10 on them.

My manager told me the next day that the regional manager agreed to the additional damage, but only after she had looked at the stuff. I dropped the comics off and then went to work. She called me later that afternoon.

The call did not go well.

She starts off with some meandering and then gets right to the point: she had taken a look at the box of comics. She said while it clearly indicated that the box itself had been damaged in the “flood,” she took a look at the comic books and they “didn’t seem all that damaged to her” and so, because of that, she wasn’t going to pay to replace them.

No, really.

NO. REALLY.

My reaction was instantaneous. My brain translated what she said: “I believe that the box was damaged in the “flood” but I think the comic books weren’t so I am calling you a LIAR (to your face) and refusing to pay for them.” And then another voice in my head said, “BITCHSAIDWHAT?”

and then I lost it.

Nobody calls me a liar to my face. Nobody. It just so happens I am a pretty honest person, so much so that I have been, in past instances, honest to the detriment of my own self interests. It’s one of my (very few) core values. To be accused of lying to her, especially after I:

a) Didn’t rat out Maintenance Guy for EATING BREAKFAST while my toilet overflowed
b) Didn’t ask her to replace my $125.00 Force FX lightsaber
c) Didn’t ask her to replace my $300.00 worth of boxes
d) Didn’t ask her to replace my comic books based on current market value, not cover price
e) Didn’t ream her a new asshole for letting this happen and then acting like it’s a big fucking hassle to replace my stuff
f) LIQUID HUMAN SHIT. Nuff said.

That was it for me. The final straw. It had broken the camel’s back and then came back to fuck its dead pussy corpse.

BRING IT ON, BITCH!

I suddenly felt a calming anger fill my being, like a white pure light composed entirely of rage…

…which I then focused into a violent laser beam and incinerated her fucking soul.

I let loose with everything I had been reining in since the first brown floater had playfully tumbled over the rim of my toilet. I told her about the Maintenance Guy. I told her about the lightsaber. I told her about the ruined boxes. I told her about the apartment complex’s liability (and responsibility) in this issue. I told her about how it felt to be ankle deep in LIQUID SHIT and nobody caring. I told her about the entire shitload of collectables in my storage room and how this accident could’ve been MUCH, MUCH WORSE if I hadn’t bagged most of the comics in that box or if the water had reached the other side of the storage room (I don’t even want to think about that).

Basically, in the most controlled and sane rant I have ever had in my life, I ripped her about fifty new assholes in the space of five minutes. She was a fucking asshole sponge by the time I was done with her.

I ended with the fact that she called me a liar to my face, that even if the comic books didn’t look that bad they had still been SOAKED IN DIARRHEA and so were unusable, unsellable, and unreadable, and that if they weren’t going to voluntarily pay me for the damage then I would get a lawyer and sue them.

The manager was literally stunned by my outburst.

(You know, I have often used that word in the past, but this was the first time I had actually experienced it firsthand (well, over the phone, but close enough).)

She stuttered that she would have to contact her regional manager (again) and would get back to me soon. I said that was ok and hung up.

Three things happened as a result of this:

1) The regional manager actually drove over 150 miles to come to my town to review the box of comics and decide what they were going to do. Then they contacted the central office and talked to them. This took three days. Finally, they decided to just pay me because it would be cheaper and easier than going the legal route. Still, they made me sign a legal form stating that this was the last item they were responsible for from the “flooding” problem and that, even if I discovered additional damage in the future, I could not sue them over this incident. I thought that was pretty hysterical.

2) My coworkers were AFRAID of me! LOL! You see, I’m normally a pretty quiet, pretty mellow, pretty even-tempered guy. That’s all they know of me. I keep all of my other shit out of the office because the office is:

a. highly Republican
b. heavily religious
c. and it’s none of their business

Now they overhear me talking on my phone and threatening to sue people and saying words like “shit” at work (I was talking about “Liquid Shit” and it just kinda slipped out…) and the people in the offices on either side of me were stroking out. The walls are paper-thin so they can easily overhear everything I say and I SWEAR TO GOD’S TRUTH that a full ten minutes after I got off the phone with my rant you could hear a fucking PIN DROP from fifty feet away the offices were so quiet. I swear, I don’t know if the guy on my left was even BREATHING it was so still. And the area around my office is usually loud, with people talking all the time and the printer room across from me blasting noise and the people in the conference room right down the hall having meetings and the phone constantly ringing, etc. For ten minutes: NOTHING. It was pretty scary.

Also: very funny. I LOVED it! I wanted to run around to all those people and yell, “BOO!” HEE!

3) The apartment complex wanted me to sign the legal form in front of the manager because she was a notary and they wanted it notarized. Whatever, fine. I scheduled it for my lunch hour, knowing it would take me exactly a half an hour to get home, sign the form, and then a half an hour to get back to work. The manager (obviously) hates me at this point, so she proceeds to dick me around about the time (we were scheduled for one o’clock and then she suddenly calls and tells me that I have to be there in twenty minutes because her husband is there to take her to lunch) but I suck it up and get there in a record-setting twenty minutes. I walk into the office and it’s suddenly like I am at the Nuremburg trials and I’ve got a swastika on my ass. She’s there with the form, the Maintenance Guy is sitting there on the couch giving me the “Glare-O-Death” because I ratted him out (whatever, fuckwad), and her husband is there at the table giving me the “You-Yelled-At-My-Wife” Eyes Of Pain.

Groan.

So, I suck it up again and plaster on a fake smile, trying to make this as cordial as possible. They give me nothing. Ok, fine, you want to play it that way? I can do that. I lose the smile.

Manager lady explains the legal form, gives me a pen to sign it and then stands there. I look at the paper. Her husband starts annoyingly tapping his pen impatiently on the table, obviously letting me know that this is taking time from his precious LUNCH HOUR (yeah, mine too, fuckhole). I give him a squint and then proceed to read the document in EXCRUTIATING detail. He continues to tap away at the table, giving me mean looks. What an ASS! I finally sign it, we exchange goodbyes, and the fun is over. I walk out to my car and hear them horking it up in the office as I leave. I get in my car and back up out of the space, which is right in front of the office. As I put it in first gear, the car dies. Of course it does! Now I’m embarrassed, and frustrated because the only thing I WANTED to do in front of these people is remain calm, cool, and collected, and that’s now out the window.

So I start my car again, and shift into first. I must’ve been SO pissed at that point that I didn’t realize the large amount of gas I added and I end up violently peeling out in front of the office, leaving HUGE clouds of smoke and rubber in my wake and screeching across the parking lot like an enraged banshee.

It was so perfect I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

The End.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Random Shit 10/23/07

2007-10-23T20:19:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know I still need to write about my mano a mano title fight with my landlord over my toilet overflow and the subsequent damage it caused. Don’t worry, I will. I was busy this weekend moving my storage room around and trying to make sure anything important in there was up off the floor. Hmmm, wonder why?

Here’s some random shit to tide you over till then.

You remember I said I switched gyms to Gold’s? Well, I was in there this weekend trying to do my requisite “three-times-a-week,” and I was about fifteen minutes into my routine on the elliptical when this guy steps up onto the machine next to me. He’s pretty nondescript, early thirties, average looking, slightly balding, round face. Everything is fine as he gets into a groove when suddenly, out of the blue, he emits this incredibly loud, “HOOOOOOOOOAHHHHHHHH!”

Yeah, like Al Pachino in Scent of a Woman.

I have my headphones on, but even with them the yell is LOUD. Immediately after his scream he jumps straight up, repositions his feet in midair, and then resumes pedaling furiously.

I look over at him and stare.

What the freaking fuck?

From then on, about every four minutes, the guy repeats his yell. Nobody around us bats an eye at his strangeness so I can only assume he is a regular there? Or maybe Tourette’s syndrome is more common than I thought?

Or maybe it’s some sort of “movie quotes” game. Maybe next time he does that I should respond back with a, “KHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN!”

Yeah, that’s from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan in case you didn’t know. Man, I’m old. And a geek.

*sigh*

……………………….

There’s a church near where I live that I pass everyday on the way to and from work. It usually has some “inspirational” Bible saying on its marquee (down here in the South this is extremely common – heck, even the local ACE hardware store has Bible quotes on its sign. No, not kidding). This week they are trumpeting an upcoming event they are hosting as an alternative to Halloween called “Trunk ‘r Treat” (because Halloween is considered VERY bad for kids. Not kidding. Again). Here’s the sign they just put up:

Trunk ‘r Treat
Food, Fun, Jesus
Don’t be Evil

As if the “Food, Fun, Jesus” part wasn’t weird enough (what happened to Entertainment? Was “music” or “dance” or, G-d forbid, “movies” considered too risqué? Are they all TOOLS OF THE DEVIL? And since when is Jesus considered “Entertainment?”) but they just had to throw that last line in there for shits and giggles.

I mean, it’s all “Food” and “Fun” until somebody forgets NOT TO BE EVIL. You might be milling around the punch bowl, eating some pretzels, when all of a sudden it just SLIPS YOUR MIND and next thing you know you’re Adolf Hitler and you're invading Poland. Don’t be THAT GUY, people. You'll ruin the Trunk 'r Treat party!

To think a simple sign could save me from becoming a foaming-mouthed serial killer.

PRAISE JEEBUS!

……………………….

I had woken up with a nosebleed this morning. It was nothing major and it wasn’t all that surprising – I have had nosebleeds on and off for most of my life. I, apparently, have very thin membranes in my nose and the sinus meds I now take for my allergies/infections only make them more delicate and extremely susceptible to bleeding. The bleeding cleared up in five minutes and I was back to normal before I knew it. I had a Chiropratic appointment this morning and went there right before work. As my doctor went about cracking my neck, a bright stream of crimson suddenly shot from my nose as my head went back down onto the table.

This is probably at the top of The List of Things Chiropractors Don’t Want to See After an Adjustment. Blood coming out of the patient’s nose after adjusting their neck can’t be good.

He didn’t say anything, as it really wasn’t all THAT much blood. I probably should’ve started convulsing on the table for the effect, just to see what he would’ve done. Ha!

I do feel bad about scaring him, though.

And for bleeding on his table.

My bad.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Online Homophobia?

2007-10-12T20:50:00.000-04:00

This is an e-mail I received from Erik at another gay blog. I don't know exactly what happened but I feel like I should let people know that this, at the very least, is a possibility. Can it happen to you? I don't know, but it is frightening to think about.

"As you like restoringlove.com and its cause (love within gay couples) you can support all gay blogs against the homophobic attack that we have just experienced from our web hosting provider (siteXXXXXX.com). They closed the access to our blog saying that there were indecent photos of men. As you can see restoringlove.com has very decent photos, no pornography. The way they closed the blog with no possible negotiation was pure homophobia. And it took 4 days to recover and have everything working on a new host provider. It could have meant closing the blog if we had not made a backup last week.

Restoring Love stands for an original cause: love within gay couples. The blog was opened by Erik who wanted to save his couple that was going in the wrong direction after three years. It is now dedicated to all gay couples, providing tips and ideas to maintain love at the highest level, speaking about love and intimacy."

I think the goal of Erik's website is an honorable one, and I wish him all the best at his new home. You can find a link to his website on the right of this page.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Liquid Shit Experience

2007-10-11T20:08:00.000-04:00

So, here it is in all its glory. Enjoy.

This happened about two weeks ago, on a Sunday morning. I was home sick, having been sick for the entire previous week from a flu-like bug that I had caught at work. I had started on antibiotics earlier that week to try and head it off before it got too serious, but they didn't seem to be doing much. This was probably because I couldn't take time off from work to allow the pills to do their job because of an important project I was assigned to that was absolutely, positively due that week.

So I get up Sunday morning, tired, sick, coughing and dripping goo from my face orifices and I go into the bathroom to take a crap. Great, mission accomplished. I flush, then walk away and stop dead in my tracks. The toilet isn't flushing, but whirling around as it starts to fill up with water. Oh, shit, I think, and then lunge for the plunger. I quickly get the water level down, but the toilet refuses to clear. I'm confused, because I certainly didn't do anything in the toilet to make it this clogged, as I hadn't really eaten much for a couple of days. The toilet water finally calms down and then I hear it: the hideous noise that I remember from three and a half years ago.

I then start to bawl like a little girl.

Background: Approximately three years ago, in this same apartment, a horrible thing happened to me. My apartment is the last one in a line of three other apartments, and it's the final apartment that the sewage lines go through before being attached to the city's pipes. I also have a large tree outside my door that, apparently, has deep roots that like to grow into said pipes. Three years ago the roots clogged up the main pipe right outside my apartment, causing a blockage. This caused the sewage to stop flowing and, blocked, frantically seek out the nearest available egress, which happened to be my toilet. So, anytime anyone in the strip of apartments decided to go to the bathroom, it would flush, then immediately back up and out all over my bathroom floor. It was wonderful. Like a day at the spa...

Back then, my manager didn't really appreciate the scope of what was happening until, when the toilet overflowed for a third time, I invited her over to see it as it was happening. She freaked the FUCK OUT over seeing raw shit pooling on my bathroom floor and pretty much agreed that anything I needed to have replaced was not a problem and the apartment complex would pay for it.

This was why I liked my last manager. Well, that and she was a nice person.

Back to the present where I heard the same odd whining sound coming from the pipes as I had all those three years ago. I was pissed, as they had promised me back then that, "Yup, it is all fixed. This should never happen again."

Yeah, well, fuck you.

So I immediately call the emergency number for the maintenance guy. I mean, if raw shit on your floor isn't an emergency, I don't know what is. He picks up and I calmly, though curtly, explain what is happening and why I need him to get his ass over here pronto. His response? "Well, I was just about to sit down to breakfast..."

I stifle my immediate response (I don't care if Pamela Anderson Lee is on her knees sucking your dick through a bendy straw, just GET YOUR ASS OVER TO MY FUCKING APARTMENT RIGHT NOW) and asked him if he could please hurry.

Yeah.

Thirty five minutes later, I call him again. The toilet has overflowed two more times, dumping more brown floaters on my floor. "Oh," I hear through the phone, "I was just about to leave." JUST. ABOUT. TO. LEAVE.

He sat there and fucking ate his fucking ass fucking breakfast.

Ok, now "Nice" is off the table. Nice has left the building with no forwarding address and no cell phone. In fact, Nice has decided, as he rides off into the sunset, to burn his trailer down behind him with you still left inside and your skin now violently on fire. I calmly ask him when he will get here, and again explain the immediacy of my problem. He sounds confused, and then asks me why I keep flushing the clogged toilet.

He didn't listen to a damn thing I said.

This is such a huge thing with me. I know, we all have a tendency to ramble on occasion and I can forgive people if they tune me out sometimes when I'm talking about stupid things like TV shows and movies. But, on most occasions, what I have to say I consider important enough to make the effort to burn some calories and flap my gums. When someone doesn't even have the courtesy to listen to what I am saying, ESPECIALLY IN A FUCKING CRISIS, I wonder why I even bother opening my mouth - ever.

Either that, or he's a fucking idiot. I'm going to go with "B."

I cringe and explain the problem to him AGAIN and ask him AGAIN when he thinks he'll get here. He replies that it will be another thirty minutes. I acknowledge this and then hang up the phone before I say something I might regret.

Thirty minutes later and five more toilet overflows, he has STILL not arrived. I am about ready to go RED-FUCKING-POSTAL on his ass at this point. He finally shows up, but doesn't go directly to my apartment. No, he decides to start banging on people's doors to try and stop them from flushing until they can fix the problem. Great idea, I think (Oh, and the person who fucking suggested this to him? That would be ME) but he doesn't even have the sense of courtesy to come to my door to tell me he's here? I mean, at that point it was crystal clear I was rabidly FURIOUS and I'm sure he wanted to avoid me like the plague, but still.

He finally comes in and I show him to the bathroom. At this point there was a solid two inches of liquid shit pooling around on the bathroom floor, pouring out from under the door, seeping into the carpet in the hallway, and slowly creeping its way into my bedroom. Lovely. He just looks at it and nods. "Yup. Well, the Stanley Steemer guy will be here in twenty minutes or so. He'll clean up the stuff."

Glad to see you care, fuck stick.

And then, as if by a MIRACLE, he goes outside and finds the sewage overflow pipe and pops it open, thus stopping the toilet shit waterfall. Hmmmmm, imagine what damage he could've prevented if he had actually arrived FORTY-FIVE MINUTES AGO LIKE HE SAID HE WOULD. MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD AS MUCH LIQUID SHIT POOLING AROUND ON MY BATHROOM FLOOR AS I DO NOW, HUH?

JEEBUS.

So, Stanley Steemer gets here and the guy is actually nice, although he only has two teeth left in his head and he's in his thirties and has a strong rural southern accent and is wearing a wifebeater. I feel kind of bad that he literally embodies all the worst southern stereotypes in one person. Still, he gets the job done, sucking up shit with his giant vacuum hose and explaining to me how the chemicals he was putting into the carpet were guaranteed to kill all viruses and bacteria present, "even including AIDS."

Wow, that made me feel SO much better!

They finish and my house looks like a disaster site. My closet was hollowed out (BY ME) in a rush to get it out of the way of the oncoming wave of diahhrea. I also lost all of the stuff that was on the bottom shelf of my bathroom closet, which was soaking wet with...shit and piss...and that I had to carry OUT OF MY APARTMENT.

BY MYSELF.

BAREHANDED.

Also, the Steemer guy sucked up the floors and steam cleaned the carpets but he did nothing to clean the actual toilet, which at this point was entirely CRUSTED with used toilet paper and runny chunks of shit. I mean, according to the maintenance guy before he left, it was possible the apartment complex would hire some Merry Maids to come out and help me with the cleaning - but not until Monday.

MONDAY.

So at this point I'm ready to either pass out or cry, but instead of doing either I hop into my car and run down to Target to get: A) Replacement stuff for my bathroom, like a bathmat and a trash can and other assorted stuff I NEED that was lost in the Great Shit Flood of '07 B) BLEACH C) Rubber Gloves D) Any other cleaner that will kill shit (literally...)

I then spent the next two hours on my hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom floors and walls and baseboards and toilet and shower and pretty much anything else I could coat with bleach. All through this ordeal I was still, of course, burning up with fever and exhausted and sick. I would've loved to have just gone back to bed and collapsed into a healing fever-dream but, I mean, I don't know, something just wouldn't let me ignore (until Monday) a SEWER-SMELLING, SHIT- AND PISS-ENCRUSTED COMMODE in my bathroom!

I guess I'm funny like that. Weird!

To place a fart-filled cherry on top of my diahrrea dessert of a weekend, my manager decides to start giving me grief about paying for the bathroom items. Yeah, like I purposefully decided to clog up the toilet pipe and, subsequently, have to handle MY NEIGHBOR'S DELICIOUS ASS EJECTIONS, all so I could get a new bathmat.

Uh-huh. Makes sense to me.

Next up: I find more damage than just in the bathroom...and deliver a serious smack-down on my apartment complex. It's good, y'all.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Wednesday of Liquid Shit

2007-10-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

Ooooh, remind me to tell you about my dealings with liquid shit later this week. I was supposed to write about it tonight but I watched Bionic Woman instead. So sue me. I really couldn't help it - that show is too fucking awesome! I love the fact that she just kicks ass every week. Plus, next week she kicks the shit out of Isaiah Washington. Hmmmm, a dream come true...

Ok, things that have happened to me this week so far:

I went to Orlando on "vacation" and ended up being rained on the entire time. Sucks.

Talked to my landlord about the aforementioned "liquid shit" crisis. She ended up insulting me by insinuating that I lied to her about what was damaged in my apartment, so I went apeshit insane on her over the phone. At work.

Now my coworkers are scared of me. Hee!

I switched my gym to Golds today. Ok, yes, I changed gyms for the cheaper rate, but also for the fact that all the hot guys go to Golds. I can't wait to see all the delicious eyecandy around me! YUM! I must remember not to stare...

I bought the new Puddle of Mudd and Alter Bridge CD. FINALLY! I've been waiting for POM to come out for FOREVER! It's really good, too. Haven't listened to AB yet but I'm sure it is just as loud and awesome as POD. Seether's new one comes out in two weeks as well and I JUST CAN'T WAIT! I've already got my ticket to see them when they come by here in November. I saw them last year and they fucking kick ass live. CAN'T WAIT!

I shopped some while I was in Orlando (what else could I do - it was RAINING!) and went to an actual West Elm store. Ohhhhhhhhhhh...like a dildo to a porn star, I was sucked (HA!) into the greatness that is West Elm. All the cashiers were gay and cute and helpful, and all the products were bright and shiny and expensive. It was gay heaven.

I ended up not buying anything, but I am going back in November so I have time to decide what I want. In addition, an Ikea is opening up right next door to West Elm before I go back, so when I get there I am going to be doing some serious Mastercard ninja shit.

Help me. Please?

Alright, I need to hit the sack. But I will write about my Liquid Shit Attack tomorrow night! I promise!

It's worth the wait. Trust me.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Random Shit 9/29/07

2007-09-29T23:46:00.000-04:00

Here I am, home alone tonight on a Saturday night. Like that isn't sad enough, I'm sitting here watching HGTV while I fold my clothes. GOD. (Really, I only watch for all the cute carpenter guys on all the shows. I mean, are there ANY ugly carpenters in the world? Not on HGTV, apparently! YUM!) So, I'm folding my laundry when this douche-crack of a show called Designers' Challenge comes on and these people on there decide they are going to renovate their daughter's room. Ok, whatever, I don't care. Then the voice-over guy tells us, the disbelieving audience, that these insane fucking hiptwits have set aside FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS to redo their daughter's room.

What. The. FUCK!?

Seriously, these delusional bonghounds are going to spend fucking FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS on a bedroom their daughter will outgrow in three or four years!? How much CRACK do they fucking OWN?

JEEBUS.

These people are certifiably insane and should be shot on fucking sight. That's all I have to say.

Other things that happened to me today:

Was shopping for clothes and overheard this exchange between a husband and wife who were shopping nearby.

Man: "I don't know. I don't think that shirt is gonna work. My skin tone is really yellow as it is and with the yellow in that shirt it's really gonna make me look too pasty. We need to look for somethin' brighter, like a blue, somethin' that'll set off my baby blues."

Ok, WHAT?

Since when did straight men begin using terms like "skin tone" and "baby blues?" Oh, and since he was just alllll kinds of redneck, complete with trucker hat and hillbilly accent, that just made what he was saying even more bizarre.

The next quote was overheard at Mal-Wart. Both my cashier guy and the lady who came up to talk to him were African-American. She sighed, draped herself over the bagging stand and started to complain to him while Mr. Cashier was ringing me up.

Lady: "I'm dead."

Mr. Cashier: "Why? What's up?"

Lady: "I was working returns. You know what I realized today? I hate dealing with black people."

...

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Britney Dream -- TOXIC!

2007-09-28T23:12:00.000-04:00

Ok, yeah, I'm just being lazy now, I know. But I got sick (YES - AGAIN) and have been sick going on almost two weeks now and then something else happened that I will relate in another post (it involves more bodily fluids!) and I'm just getting my life (and apartment) back in order so it's been a trying time.

Of course, when is my life NOT a trying time?

ANYWAY, I promised one of my friends that I would relate my Britney dream so here it is in all of its fugly glory. Enjoy!

It begins on the stage of a movie or video shoot. Britney is there, starring in it, of course. I am there to play her latest love interest/boy toy/fuck o' the moment. I can't sing a note and can't dance worth crap so I have no idea why I am there, but there it is. Britney is in the make-up chair getting ready so I know I have plenty of time before we need to be filming (cause, well, you know...) so I decide to wander around the set. I can't tell if we are actually IN an old medieval castle/house or if the stage is just built to look like one but I wander around this old creaky mansion with winding staircases and red velvet drapes and thick carpets and shiny gothic candelabras. After I get upstairs I see some movement in a room off to my right and peek inside, only to see that some filming on the movie/video has already begun with some of the non-principal actors. There's some guy in the middle of the room gesturing off stage and I immediately recognize him. It's Number One from Star Trek: The Next Generation! You know, Jonathan Frakes.

Ok, seriously, side note: Gross. He is a human enema filled with fat. Disgusting.

Sooooo, I quickly retreat from the room so as to not make any noise and ruin the shot. I wander downstairs to find that Britney has finished in the make-up chair and is now wandering around wearing nothing but a towel. She corners me in a...well...corner, and starts to grope me and whispers in my ear that she finds me hot and sexy and wants to fuck me right there.

Side note again: Ew. For too many reasons to mention. Y'all.

I manage to extract myself from her, wondering who her management is that forgot to tell her that, HELLO, I'm GAY, and would not be interested in fucking her. She doesn't take no for an answer and continues to follow me around and tease and bait me as we get ready for the next shot in this large, vast ballroom-type room. I don't want to call her out right there on the stage in front of the crew and tell her I'm gay because that would kinda make her look stupid and it's something her management should've taken care of. I fume and let her grope me all the while roiling in disgust. At least she didn't have Cheetos breath. That I remember.

So while she's molesting me in the middle of the ballroom, Mr. Star Trek himself shows up for the latest scene. Apparently he's in it too. I immediately see an escape angle and try to pawn Britney off onto Jonathan Frakes. I mean, sure he's old and fat and married, but I also figure she's young and drunk and indiscriminate so they'll make a perfect match! I get them to start talking and soon enough she's falling all over him and he seems to just be soaking in the attention. Whew! I'm saved!

But then, after we shoot our ballroom scene, we go into the next room, which is the bedroom. The bed is large and fabulously lit, with tall bedposts and billowing curtains swirling in the breeze around it. Total 80's hair metal sex bed. Britney jumps right in, immediately naked but my view luckily blocked by all the billowy curtains. I immediately say a thankful prayer to the G-d of fucking curtains. Jonathan Frakes looks back at me, shrugs, and them proceeds to strip bare-ass naked and jump into bed with her. EW! What is wrong with my mind that it would torture me like this!? I mean, you would think I was taking some serious hallucinogens but no, I'm not so lucky. Maybe I should START taking something to block these things from ever happening. Note to self: Call doctor tomorrow about prescription for psychedelic bong inhaler.

So now the director is looking at me like, Go On! Get In There! I sigh, and then begin to shimmy slowly out of my clothes, all the while looking at Jonathan Frakes' naked, pale, flabby, acne-scarred ass and thinking, "Well, maybe he's really, really, REALLY hung or something."

And then I dove into the bed and, luckily for me, woke the fuck up.

And now Star Trek is dead to me.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Car Accident

2007-09-09T18:47:00.000-04:00

Wondering where I have been, all eleven of my loyal readers? Well, the title of this post answers that question for you. Yes, I was involved in a car accident.

No, it wasn't my fault. I'll explain.

I was on my way home from Sonic with a delicious hamburger smothered in bacon, oil-soaked onion rings (the best!), and a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard (or whatever Sonic calls those things). Peanut Butter Cups are my favorite chocolate candy, so I could not wait until I got to slurp down its sugary, peanut-buttery goodness. I zipped home, which was only a five minute drive from Sonic. I noticed as I pulled onto the main street that runs by my house that a giant truck behind me was rudely beginning to tailgate. Normal tailgaters I can handle, but this guy was in a class all his own. This guy, with his giant Compensationmobile (TM) truck, was riding my ass like a greased porn star at a bareback convention. I could identify the brand of his cologne, he was driving so close. Heck, I pitched a tent on Brokeback Mountain for our anniversary, we were so close. He was also driving erratically, acting like some hyperactive bladder-deficient puppy trying to get around the mean old door in front of him, blocking his way out.

I remember thinking as I got close to my turn that if I didn't give him plenty of warning there might be some trouble, i.e. he could fucking hit me. Not forty feet from my road I was forced to step on the brakes as a car in front of me slowed down to turn. At that point I thought I was a goner, but Mr. Truck managed to slow down at the last second and avoid me. Apparently, though, that was all the restraint he possessed, as forty feet later I applied the brakes and hit the directional and he plowed directly into my trunk, not even bothering to slow the fuck down. Luckily for me, we were all still moving slowly from the earlier slowdown and I wasn't thrown too far forward at too fast a speed, only enough to completely crumple my bumper, accordion the metal side panels, skew my rear axle (he didn't hit me straight on, but bent it to the right), and slam my head and face into the steering wheel.

Nice.

Oh, and as a side benefit, the impact of the crash sent my delicious blizzard flying through the air, splattering it all over the front of me, my steering wheel, my gear shift, my windshield, my carpets, my coin tray, and my seats with a delightful mix of half-melted ice cream and Peanut Butter Cup pieces. Yum!

Needless to say, I was pissed. Mr. Penismobile immediately moved his monster truck out of the way and pulled off into an adjacent parking lot. I was stuck there for a few minutes as the cars behind Mr. Truck moved to go around me and gawk at the damage. The entire time, as my head cleared and I realized what happened, I let out an explosion of profanities, letting my face get beet red and blistered from my fucking rage. My years living in New Jersey have not gone to waste. I have been told occasionally by my friends that I have quite a "road-rage" face, and that when it appears I look psychotic and deadly and that I scare people. This pleases me to no end. One time a frail old man cut illegally across a parking lot and almost hit me and I bitched him out so severely that he fled the parking lot in fear.

I love that story because it is true.

Anyway, Mr. Schlong-150 sees me chewing a hole through my windshield in rage and actually looks afraid. Of me! And this guy is a construction worker! HA!

I finally join him in the parking lot and get out of my car. He comes right over, apologizing for the accident and admitting it was his fault and asking if I was ok. Since he was nice and admitted he was at fault (because he SO was) I calmed down a little. He started to head over to his car to get his paperwork and I immediately said I was calling the police and started dialing before he could answer. I'd been in an accident years ago where I didn't call the police (MY FAULT) and trusted the woman to tell the truth and later she fucked me over and lied to her insurance company and it turned into he said/she said and I never got my fucking money and she should burn in hell for that but I'm not bitter about it or anything thanks for asking. So the minute this accident happened, I was dialing the fucking police as fast as my digits would allow.

Then we exchanged paperwork and settled in to wait for the cops. Reminder: This is the South in the summertime. It's 100+ fucking degrees and I'm standing there chatting with this guy while rivulets of sweat gush down my back. Just as I'm about to pass out from the heat (it's been ten minutes), Mr. Truck's girlfriend pops out of the Weinermobile and sets herself in the bed of the truck with the latest issue of US Weekly flopping in her hands and her Daisy Duke cutoffs almost showing me the entirety of her world. As she hikes her wifebeater up around her giant cleavage, she puts a sneer on her brightly painted lips and crabs, "Geez, how long is this thing gonna take?"

Ohhhhhhhhh, noooooooooo. HE hits ME and she says WHAT? I gave her a look, shades of rageface beginning to appear, and Mr. Truck's eyes go giant. He rushes over to her, scooting her off the truckbed and into the cabin faster than I can blink, soothing her with the soft sounds and the pleasing tones of somebody holding a velvet-covered crowbar in reserve. I smile, satisfied.

After another ten minutes I retreat inside as well, greeted with the smell of slowly bubbling icey jizz on the seat and liquid chocolate smears on the carpet. Wonderful. Mr. PolicemanJarheadBuzzcut finally shows up and is all business. We exchange information, he talks with me, then talks with Mr. Truck, examines the mutual damage and then retreats to his car to write up the report which takes FOREVER. I sit in my pool of jizz and chocolate diarrhea and fume impatiently. The report is finally made and Policeguy comes over to talk to me first. He turns out to be a really nice guy, despite my horrible assumptions earlier, and asks if I am ok (I was only dizzy at that point) and offers to call an ambulance (not needed) and he talks a little about the history of this area (it is a notorious accident spot) and actually makes a joke (shocking) so we got along well. I ask about the other guy and Policeguy says he will get a ticket for reckless driving. I am happy that he got a ticket because he really was driving dangerously but I don't say anything like that to Mr. Policeguy. We wrap things up and we all leave.

You'd think that was the end of it, right? WRONG! Have you not been reading my other posts?!!?! Do you REALLY think things would be that EASY? Long story short, I got ill a week later, ending up not being able to walk without becoming dizzy and nauseous, and having to call my Chiropractor on a weekend to help me. He said either my C1 and C2 vertebrae were severely out of whack or I had meningitis and could die. He popped the vertebrae back in and then told me if I didn't get any better in 6 or 7 hours to go to the hospital immediately. Luckily for me, it was just my neck and I started to get better later that evening. Still, it'll be a few more weeks before my neck is back up to speed and then I had the question of what to do with my car...

The insurance company wanted to total it, I needed my car to get to, um, WORK, and we were finally able to come to an agreement. Then, because my car was 9+ years old, I decided that maybe this accident was a sign and it was time to get a new car. So I started to research new cars and decide which one I wanted/could afford (I had never bought a new car before) and then I had to go and test drive them and then think about them and then negotiate with the salesmen and work out the financing and it took forever but I finally got a new vehicle.

SOOOOOOO, this is the long, long, LONG reason why I haven't been around here for a while. Plus, I've been working on my finances (a horrid mess), and catching up on some movies I missed (Hot Fuzz is AWESOME!), and going out with some new people (very nice), and dealing with more "stuff" with my Therapist (upsetting, as usual) so I've been busy.

I promise I'll be posting more frequently now. At the very least I have to tell you about my dream with Britney Spears...

No, I am not kidding.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Quest For Fire (or something...)

2007-08-02T22:50:00.001-04:00

Yes, I'm kinda crazy.

I'll admit it. I'm a writer - we're all nuts. Here's a recent example:

Wednesday after work I decided to go to Tar-gay to get a new vacuum cleaner. See, right away you can tell I'm gay because a straight guy wouldn't even own a vacuum. After struggling in bumper-to-bumper traffic for twenty minutes to get there (there was an accident) I went in all ready to purchase the vacuum I had already picked out online. Then I got there and all my plans were shot to hell. I mean, how can one cavalierly make such an important choice? I could have this vacuum for YEARS! It could be a more permanent fixture in my life than a fuck buddy!

So I spent the next thirty minutes standing in front of the vacuum display contemplating my options. Yeah, I really did. Do I want a extendable hose or a SUPER-FLEXIBLE extendable hose? Onboard tools? Front light? Adjustible height? Hepa filter? Telescoping attachment? Duster? Power paw? (um, whatthefuckisthat and stupidestnameever - combined!). Yes, yes I want them all!

But wait - do I really want to spend $150 on a vacuum? Or do I get the $50 model and then "magically" have $100 FREE to do with as I please!? I DON'T KNOW!

I f i n a l l y decided (to the relief of ALL in the aisle with me) and compromised with a mid-range model. Then I checked out and left Tar-gay, still unsure of my choice.

But my day wasn't over - oh no! I went on to Best Buy to see if I could get the latest Puddle of Mudd CD because their official website said it finally came out this week. At first it said it came out last week and I went to the store all excited and got nothing. SUCKS! This week I had already gone to another store on Tuesday night and the guy behind the counter said the CD came out but they didn't get any copies. Whatever, guy behind the counter with intestinal worms. Eat it!

So I walk into Best Buy but can't find the CD on the shelves. Anywhere. So I search out an Associate to see if they could help me. Hahahahahaha! I said the words "Associate" and "help" in the same sentence! I made a funny! This guy sees me coming and actually MAKES A FACE OF DISGUST as I approach. Um, it's your JOB to help me, ASSHOLE. I ask him if the CD is out and he walks over to his computer and, instead of looking up their inventory (which I have seen them do before), he just goes to the Best Buy homepage and searches for it there. Great - I could do that MYSELF, DENTALDAM. Thanks for trying. He then proceeds to tell me that not only is the CD not out, but that they have no CD listed coming out in the near future. Since the guy at the other place told me the CD was out, I reply, "So, you just don't have it then?" He looks at me, superior- and cunt-like, and says, "No, they don't have a CD out," basically calling me a liar to my face. It is ON, BITCH! I retorted, "So I guess Best Buy isn't carrying it." And he comes back with, "No, like I said, they haven't released anything." And then his head turns into two mounds of quivering flesh because he is such an ASS!

I stomp out of there, royally pissed. I am now so furious, so determined to get this fucking CD, that I will travel to the ends of the fucking EARTH to get it. Even if I have to travel to the lead singer's house and steal a fucking copy right out of his hands at GUNPOINT, I will do it. I get in the car and race over to another CD store. As I drive I entertain myself by trying to come up with a new swear phrase that fit the guy at Best Buy. I mean, "Fuck you" and "Go to hell" both have a certain quaint quality to them, but they just don't fit his exceptional level of douchiness. Ass monkey? Taint trainer? Jizz jock? I liked the rhyming but the phrase wasn't coming together. As I approached the next store I finally got it. Yes! My new swear phrase was:

"Go suck on a shit-filled ass bong."

Success!

But then I entered the store. No CD. I ask the guy behind the counter if he knows anything. He's actually nice to me, but can't find anything online that says the CD was ever released. Now I'm even more pissed, if that's possible. I get in the car and go to ANOTHER store waaaaaaaay across town and look again. NO CD. I finally concede defeat and go home, still angry but now hungry and tired and almost out of gas.

As I am heating up dinner I go online and check the band's website. The front page still says, "New Album In Stores July 31st!" AIGGGGGHHHHHHH! I then click on the forums. Sure enough, buried in the comments, is a statement from the band saying that the new album has been delayed until "...sometime in September or October." Why the FUCK wasn't that on the front page!? I was tempted to write them an e-mail until...I read in the forums that, to tide their fans over until the album is released, a three song EP was released to iTunes. I immediately rush over to iTunes and download the EP and revel in Puddle of Mudd goodness.

And that, my friends, is a typical Wednesday night for me.

Like I said, yes, I am crazy.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Homosexual Whisperer

2007-08-02T22:26:00.000-04:00

I was in Mal-Wart earlier this week doing my grocery shopping and overheard this conversation in the Electronics department. This was the same day "300" came out on DVD and Mal-Wart was selling a special two-pack version of the movie that contained a DVD of "Alexander" for free. Remember that the two guys speaking were macho jocks - kinda rednecky college guys wearing t-shirts (one sleeveless) and both had tattoos on their arms (one had a tribal band).

Jock 1 (sleeveless and tribal): Oh, 300 is out! Fuckin' awesome, man!

Jock 2 (tight T-shirt): Get the widescreen, get the widescreen.

Jock 1: Shit, they're sold out.

Jock 2: No, they have a two-pack. Alexander! Yeah, BABY! Yeah, BABY!

....

My question: Do these guys have any idea how gay those movies are?

Alexander = gay
Greek culture = gay
Muscle guys in briefs, dripping wet, running and flexing in slo-mo = gay porn

Enjoy the movie guys! I'm sure your girlfriends will appreciate your renewed vigor!

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

High School Gymnasium

2007-07-29T19:37:00.000-04:00

I know this is a weird subject, but one I have been thinking about a lot lately so forgive me if I just vent a little.

The community I grew up in didn't seem that much different from anyone else's, but I have come to realize after talking to many of my friends that it was more cruel than usual. My high school, unlike many others I have heard about, didn't split the middle school and high school into two different schools. My high school went from seventh to twelfth grades.

This really sucked.

Now, academically, it made for some awkwardness. I was in some advanced classes (math, history, english) which was nice. These classes also happened to include all the upperclassmen who were a few grades behind in those subjects. The older classmen (mostly jocks - hate to stereotype, but in this case it was true) really hated being in those classes, especially with younger geeky guys who didn't play sports and were brainy. Yeah, I was dead meat before I even stepped foot in there. My only saving grace was that I could bargain away my help on tests (no, not cheating, but helping them study for it) in exchange for not getting my ass kicked.

However, that didn't help me any in gym class. At all.

For some reason my school, while being virulently pro-jock, pro-sports, pro-cliques, pro-"class spirit", pro-"people with money", it was also EXTREMELY homophobic. Yeah, like you have NO IDEA. I don't know why it was that way or how it got that way but it just WAS. I mean, if you didn't wear the right jeans with the right shirt with the right belt with the right notebook with the right car with the right house with the right parents making the right amount of money, then you were out. I mean EXCOMMUNICATED. Your social life was OVER until you corrected whatever was wrong with your life that made you such a gigantic loser. It was inconceivable how shallow and disgusting that entire community was, and it has literally taken me years to deprogram myself from that Stepford community. When, on the occasion I need to go back there to visit people who still live there, I have a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that never leaves me until I put distance between me and that shit-hole.

The gym memories, however, haunt me wherever I go. To me (other men may feel differently or have dissimilar experiences) the place was a very important training ground for what it was like to be a man. And my experiences in that place taught me that, as a man, I was a gigantic failure.

Let me elaborate.

The high school (and by default the gym) was one of the epicenters of the community. On weekends people went there to use the pool, to take swimming or softball or soccer or tennis or handball lessons, to use the track, etc. Now I'm not just talking the students - adults went there as well. This was the first time, as a young man just hitting puberty and confused as hell as to what was going on, that you got to see your neighbors naked and figure out what the final end product of all this change was going to look like. You got to see how adult males interact with each other when they were naked. You learned the all-important "guy rules" of the locker room (keep your eyes above a certain level at all times, don't talk while at the urinal, etc.). You got to see which of your peers were further along with puberty than you were. All of this was important in learning how you should behave as a man. Most guys have many different experiences to discover this, as they play sports and go camping and have close relationships with their Dads. I did not. This was the one and only experience I had being this close to unedited raw male interaction.

Most of the jokes done by the upperclassmen were harmless - they usually are. Snapping towels and jokes about dicks and hiding people's underwear are all typical stuff. But the homophobia on display at that high school still shocks me, and I now live in the deep South so I know what hard-core homophobia is. It was, seriously, like some sort of Salem witch hunt, and if anyone was actually suspected of BEING gay (nobody there ever admitted it in the entire time I was there), then they were a social outcast of the highest order. You couldn't even talk to them in the hallway anymore, nevermind hang out with them on or off school grounds, otherwise you would be painted with the same brush and were now believed to have somehow contracted "The Gay" from all that contact.

My first experience in the gym was the first year of high school in seventh grade. We had swimming in the fall/winter months and I had never stripped in front of other guys. A trick we had learned from each other at Saturday swim practice was to hook our towels on two points of the lockers to form a sort of hanging screen around ourselves to change in. I was shy, having no body definition and being pale as a ghost and also extremely short. I liked the screen method. Then I tried the towel trick a few times in actual gym class, and got weird looks. Real men apparently don't do that. The next time I did it, I caught a small hell. It hurt even more because the abuse was from my friends who used to do it themselves in swim class, but were now apparently "too cool" to do it.

Ok, first lesson learned.

Across the many years there were multiple incidents that I won't talk about here. None of them good, but they are also not important. Save them for another day. Needless to say, during this time I was learning that I was gay through my emotions and feelings during gym class. I was in denial, of course (who wanted to admit to themselves that they were the one thing considered the most horrific in the entire school?) and dated girls my entire time there. I also snuck peaks during gym class at the upperclassmen, some of whom were quite gorgeous. Of course, if you were ever caught actually LOOKING at anyone while they were naked, G-D help you. Seriously. There were murmurs about me rustling around the school at the time, but no conrete evidence and since I was obviously dating at the time, the rumors stayed just that - rumors.

Until one day.

There was this one upperclassmen who was in phenominal shape that I had a huge crush on. He was a bodybuilder (didn't know that term at the time) and was built and tan and ripped. He was also extremely handsome, and had pretty much anyone and everyone drooling all over him. He, being the stud that he was, would always take a locker in the first row of the gym, visible by anyone who walked in and out of the gym at any time. He always took him time undressing and dressing, letting everyone bask in the glow of his obvious body superiority. He was hot and he knew it.

The first row of lockers was also where people sat at the end of gym class to wait for the bell to ring. I got up there late (of course) because I hated sitting there with all these other guys just waiting for one of them to notice me and start ripping me to shreds. Well, there was hardly any place to sit but one small open space near the end of the row of lockers. I took it, sitting down and being careful not to come into contact with the guy next to me. Yes, this is not a joke. If there was, in any way, contact between you and the guy next to you, there would be homophobic hell to pay. I sat and waited and prayed for the bell to ring. Another guy further down the lockers caught the bullies' attention and they ripped him a new one (something about his underwear being the wrong brand, hence "weird," hence "gay") while I sat and waited. Then the impossible happened. Mr. Upperclassman came back from the showers, clad in a towel. Now, I must say, I had never actually seen him naked before, as I had never used the front lockers for changing (for obvious reasons). He must've been running really late that day, as he was usually changed and ready when I came up front. He walked over and stopped right in front of me, indicating that his locker was behind me. That was why this space was left open. Shit. I squeezed myself further over as far as I could without touching the guy next to me. It felt like I was literally between a rock and a hard place. Sure, I wanted to see him naked, but not in the front row of lockers with the entire class sitting there. I started to sweat in anxiety, praying for that damn fucking bell.

Mr. Upperclassmen took off his towel and started routing around for his deoderant. He was so close! And so naked! I snuck a peek. Yup, just as big as I thought. They guy next to me moved a little and gave me a nasty glance, forcing me to move a little closer to Mr. U. I snuck another peek. Oh, my goodness! Mr. U started to look more than a little uncomfortable. I was gathering that he had not planned on running so late and even he was a bit nervous standing naked in front of a whole class of guys. He brushed his hair quickly and dove in for some underwear but, for some reason, couldn't find it. I snuck another peek. He became even more nervous. He caught me looking again. That was the final straw. He exploded, venting all his nervousness and anger at me.

"GEEZUS, GIVE ME SOME FUCKING ROOM! WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING FAG? DID YOU GET A GOOD LOOK?"

I turned bright red and immediately shot down the bench into the guy next to me, heedless of contact as the worse thing that could happen to me, just did. I died from shame as the whole gym class turned deadly silent and all eyes were on me.

Then the fucking bell finally rang.

Of course.

My high school life was now over.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Sign

2007-07-29T19:34:00.001-04:00

This is a sign I saw outside at a restaurant earlier this week:

"Kids Eat Free Clowns"

Well, at least they're free.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Apologies

2007-07-24T18:53:00.001-04:00

Yes, I have been absent on this blog for almost two weeks.

No, I am not dead. Yet.

I've been trying to get so many things in my life straightened out that something had to give and this blog was it. I will try and get back on a schedule so it doesn't happen again. You, my three loyal readers, deserve the best I have to offer.

So, what's been happening? Well, I've been trying to rewrite my query letter before I send out another batch of submissions to agents. It seems my last one wasn't doing the trick so I think I need to "amp it up" a little bit. We'll see how that goes.

I've also been trying to get my apartment clean, which sounds easy but it is not. I've let it go for so long now that it has turned into a monumental task. I got a lot done last weekend so I should be in good shape for this upcoming weekend.

I've stuck my toe back into the dating waters again. I know, scary, right? I've tried online services before (twitch, shudder) with horrible results, but I think this time might work with a little more screening and a little less involuntary receiving of photos depicting assorted men's genitals. Uh, I would like to GET TO KNOW YOUR NAME FIRST before we exchange pictures of our penises, ok? GAH! The memories, oh the memories...

Anyway, I met someone this past weekend for coffee and things went well so I'm in an optimistic frame of mind at the moment. That could change at any time (but I hope not).

I've also been trying to find some G-DDAMN dance music that is halfway decent to bring to the gym. I can't believe it is so hard to find something that doesn't:

a) sound like it was made in 1982.
b) doesn't have the same fucking back beat that came standard on the Casio keyboard I got for Christmas. In 1982.
c) doesn't have the same "gay" sound that every producer apparently thinks gay men like but makes me want to stick my head in a meat grinder. Rescued from the dump. Originally made. In 1982.

I try and listen to the "Dance" channel on Comcast to pick up on something new, but that's usually a lost cause as they just repeat the same stuff over and over and over. Either that or all the shit they play is TRANCE, which is nice if I wanted a bong hit and a long nap, but not something that'll get me moving at the gym. I did finally find something on iTunes, but we'll see if I still like it a week from now. Where are all the good Techno/Dance artists? I bought the new Chemical Brothers but was severely disappointed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Soooooo boooooooring. And their last album was SO good! What happened?

Anyway, I've also been sick (what a shock) and have been a big fat lazy ass as well. How lazy, you ask? Well, when you're too lazy to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and just settle for a jar of peanut butter and a knife, you're TOO FUCKING LAZY.

Geez, I miss my rantings. I really do.

I'll be back soon.

Love and kisses and inappropriate groping,

Cardboard Whore

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Other Guy's Package

2007-07-08T21:42:00.001-04:00

This happened a few hours ago.

I was leaving Mal-Wart after doing my weekly grocery shopping. I notice a guy approaching the entrance from the parking lot. He is young, fit, on the shorter side, has close-cropped blond hair, a nice face, wearing a loose-fitting red shirt with some sort of logo on it and green shorts. He is on his cell phone and casually talking while walking quickly towards me. I am slowly moving toward him, having just pushing my cart through the front doors of the store and beginning to come to a stop for the traffic in front of me.

The first thing I notice is the incredible...vigor in which he is walking. Very strident, very quick, very purposeful. He must be meeting someone. Or had an immediate need for some random piece of shitty shit. Either/or.

The second thing I notice is the incredible amount of activity that is going on in the general area of his crotch. Something seems to be moving and bouncing and straining around. Something defiantly pressing against the very edge of the fabric, like two wild cats in a burlap sack.

A...very...TIGHT...sack.

I quickly come to the realization that Mr. Shorts had:

A) Definitely left home without wearing underwear.

B) Wore shorts that were very, very, VERY, very thin...

C) ...and stretchy. Definitely stretchy.

D) Was incredibly, startlingly, deliciously HUNG.

E) Huge, actually. Loooooong and thick. I would say a show-er, obviously, but if he was a grow-er also...wow.

F) Had absolutely no idea any of this was happening.

My eyes were glued to the front of his shorts. How could you NOT look? I tried not to be obvious, as I was the only person standing in front of the Mal-Wart as he approached, but it was like trying not to stare at a nude beach. Free show! FREE SHOW!

My mouth remain open as he approached. Oh, the places we'll go, I thought!

But all too soon Mr. Shorts passed me by and entered the Mal-Wart, never to be seen again.

*sigh*

I miss you already, Mr. Shorts. Same time next week? I'll be there if you will!

PS Wear the same outfit. For some reason I think it works on you.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The UPS Package

2007-07-08T20:55:00.000-04:00

I order a ton of shit online.

It's usually something stupid, like urban vinyl figures (again, if you don't know what the heck I am talking about I'm sure Urbandictionary.com or Google can catch you up) or some Star Wars vintage toy, or maybe some porn. Mmmmm, porn...mmmmmmmm...

mmmmm...mmmmmmmmmmmmm..mmm...m...m...

Ahem.

Anyway, this last Thursday I was expecting a package from KidRobot.com for some Japanese urban vinyl figures. I had been tracking the box for a week (the box was coming to me UPS Ground from like, Alaska or Zimbabwe or The Moon) and I was relieved that they were finally fucking getting here. UPS usually just chucks the packages on my doorstep, heedless of thieving neigbors or destructive kids or sudden rainstorms (thanks, UPS!) so I try and time it so the day packages are delivered I go right home after work. Sometimes I go to the gym and don't get home until much later and at that point I just say a prayer and sacrifice a goat and hope for the best.

Well, Thursday I DID go to the gym and when I got home my package was sitting there on the doorstep just like I had hoped it would be. It hadn't rained, so I knew the contents would be non-soggy - which means little Odin's life wasn't in vain. I brought the box inside, and it was heavier than I thought it would be. I went and got my scissors and sliced open the box, eager to see what I had ordered (the pictures never do them justice). I ripped out the packing material and found an interior box with striped, multicolored birthday paper wrapped around it.

Huh, that was weird. I mean, it's not my birthday until the Fall and I couldn't figure out why KidRobot would cover all their items in wrapping paper. Still, if that's what floats their boat...

I lifted the wrapped package out of the box and placed it on the floor. What I initially took for a packing receipt taped to the front of the package was actually a card, hand-lettered with the name "Jodi" neatly spelled on the front.

Huh. Again.

I don't know anybody named "Jodi." Why would KidRobot send me something labelled "Jodi?" And why is the box so fucking heavy?

Whatever. I rip open the package and there's a clear box inside filled with all sorts of art items. Pencils, paper, erasers, etc. were all inside along with another card and some assorted loose pieces of paper. I pop open the box and take out the pieces of paper. There's a gift certificate to Fandango on top. I'm thinking maybe KidRobot gives you one when you place an order, sort of a "thank you" for your business, which was extremely nice of them...until I read the top of the sheet and it says, in clearly printed bold letters, "Happy Birthday, Jodi" and I FINALLY REALIZE THAT I OPENED SOMEBODY ELSE'S PACKAGE.

DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHH!

I honestly don't know where my brain was. I was SO CONVINCED that this was my package that I completely IGNORED ALL EVIDENCE TO THE CONTRARY.

Sadly for me, the correct address for the package was in my apartment complex. AWK-WARD! I waited until the next morning and snuck it over and left it on their porch early enough that they weren't awake yet.

I did leave a note apologizing for my rude behavior but, yeah, that was all kinds of shitty.

Still, was there any way I COULD'VE explained what happened?

I think not.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Papergirl

2007-06-29T20:11:00.000-04:00

You know how there are certain moments in your life that end up defining you? Things that happen that cause you to develop a certain way, events that you had no idea were even to be expected or prepared for?

This is one of those events for me.

I was talking to my therapist this week about events in my past that may still be affecting my (mostly negative) outlook on life, and one of those events I shared with him was this one.

Enjoy.

The event happened in junior high school. I was thirteen or fourteen or fifteen at the time (I don't recall exactly). I was a typical young, white, American geek - short and small, but wiry, with nice brown wavy hair and an open, friendly smile when I thought to smile, which was rare. I was very quiet and played D & D and loved video games and read voraciously. Every year my parents and my sister and I would take a trip over to Benny's (a northern state version of K-Mart, which we also had but never went to) and we would all get new bikes for the upcoming year. It was right before summer and my sister and I were all excited about using our new bikes on the upcoming summer break. The year before this, dirt bikes had been really popular and I had gotten one. This year the tastes had changed and everyone was into ten-speeds. I was in junior high and desperately wanted to fit in and so I wanted what everyone else had.

We got to the store and looked around and my parents picked out their bikes first (yes, they got bikes as well - they liked to bike after dinner for exercise). My Dad got a brown bike and my Mom got a blue bike, complete with a basket on the front. It was very cliche, but true. They both got ten-speeds. My sister picked a ten-speed as well, a purple one. Now it was down to me. I walked up and down the aisle of bikes, first looking at the dirt bikes, then inching my way over to the ten-speeds. My Dad could see that I was interested in one of the ten-speeds so he had the guy pull one off of the rack and had me get on it.

The bike, which was the shortest one they had, was too tall. I had to jump slightly to get on the seat, and when the bike was stopped I had to hop down off the seat so my legs could reach the ground. This caused a problem with the crossbar, which came up level with my crotch. Obviously, the bike would require me to be extra careful in my dismount, unless I wanted to damage the family jewels. This was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

My Dad didn't see it this way. He decided that I was too short for a ten-speed and that I would have to get something else. This was not an option, because ALL THE OTHER KIDS were getting ten-speeds that year. I couldn't be the only one left out. I was already an outsider as it was, being geeky and unathletic in a town that prized itself on its cliques and labels and shallowness. This was just another nail in my social coffin. I refused.

So my Dad agreed I could have a ten-speed, but with one exception. I had to get a girl's ten-speed bike because the bar was angled lower and that way I wouldn't be damaging my "goods" when I dismounted the bike. Well, as you can imagine, this didn't go over well. I cried, I screamed, I pleaded with him to get the ten-speed MALE bike. None of it worked. He said that I could get the girl's ten-speed bike or nothing at all. That was his final offer. I imagined a summer without a new bike. I imagined doing my paper route with no new bike. I imagined all my other friends with new bikes and me NOT HAVING ONE.

I got the bike.

Weeks later I started riding my new bike on my paper route. I was always trying to expand my route by getting new customers and, as luck would have it, a new house on my route had just recently been sold and people had moved in. I stopped and talked to the new family (and their three younger kids) and they agreed to sign up with me to get the paper. Victory! I marked them down and continued on my way.

Now, during that summer I took a lot of flack from my friends about my new bike, but I tried to let it roll off my shoulders and hoped that the teasing and insults would eventually die down. It wasn't like I hadn't been called a fag before, as the high school I grew up in was typically homophobic and anyone who wasn't on the football or baseball teams and was remotely geeky or unstylish was immediately labelled as such. Different was NOT a good word there.

Finally, the "event" I mentioned above came about. It was on a cold winter's day when I swung by the new family's home to collect my fee for the paper. The Mom answered the door but didn't have any money on her. She asked one of the kids to get her purse but the kid ran away screaming. She started calling for her husband to come to the door, saying, "Rick, can you get my purse for me? The papergirl is here and I need to pay her."

PAPERGIRL.

She had seen my bike and thought I was a girl. I was too mortified to speak. My face turned red and I seriously wanted to run away from the door in tears. I tried to say something and all that came out of my mouth was a whisper, "...paperBOY...it's paperBOY..." but she didn't hear me over the kids. Finally she got her money from her purse and counted it out to me. I dug in my pocket for change and she thanked me again, thanking the papergirl. The look on my face must've said volumes because one of their kids, who went to my school and I had seen on the bus, stopped running around for a moment and looked at his Mom and yelled, "Mom, that's a boy. He's a BOY!"

She apologized but the damage had been done. I finally realized what an embarrassment I had been making of myself by riding that bike all over the neighborhood. I was just devastated.

Every time I rode that bike from then on I would remember what happened, and I didn't get another bike for a whole year.

And people wonder why I'm in therapy.

PS The paper route wasn't entirely a wash, however. Two doors down from the "new" familiy lived a really hot young couple who were rich and wore expensive clothes and were in fantastic shape. The guy, in particular, wore expensive dress shirts that were always sharply pressed and nice dress pants that were a little too snug in the rear. Or maybe his rear was a little too toned for those pants. Anyway, one OTHER fateful day that same winter I knocked on their door to collect money. I knocked and I knocked but nobody came to the door. I was just about to leave when the guy suddenly wrenched open the door, looking frantic. I could see why he was in a tizzy, as I had obviously caught him in the shower. He had answered the door wearing nothing but a towel, water dripping off his fantastically muscled and quite hairy chest. He quickly apologized and asked if I could wait while he went to get money. I agreed and he left, leaving a pool of water in his wake and not a lot to the imagination as his towel was QUITE small. It was at that moment a little fairy came down from Heaven and settled on my shoulder, tapping me with his glitter wand and saying, "You know, sweetie, I have something to tell you..."

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Most Unexpected Erotic Moment

2007-06-24T20:31:00.000-04:00

Ok, yes, I'm a total square.

I've said this a million times and it's true. However, I have to relate to you this one occurance that happened to me that I STILL remember to this day as my Most Unexpected Erotic Moment.

Now, I'm not talking sex. Or porn. Or whatever else turns you on. With all of that, what's happening is pretty expected, as you kinda know why you're there and what you want. No, I'm talking about something that happens unexpectedly and spontaniously that makes you stop and shudder and go "ooooohhhhhhhuuuugghhhhhmmmmm!" Something that haunts your dreams for years to come. Yeah.

Let me set the stage: I'm at a strip club. This was the last night of my trip and I wanted to do something fun. I found out that the town I was in had a strip club where they went fully nude (uh, yeah - if it's not nude why bother?) and I thought that would be a great time. I had only been to a strip club once before and I really, REALLY enjoyed it. When I went before we got to the club around 10pm and stayed until it closed, which was entirely too short of a time for me (time really flies when you're looking at naked men dancing)! So, stupid me, I thought I would get there earlier this time so I would have more time to gawk at the dancers.

Yeah, let's think on that for a minute.

Ok, time's up. Realize the mistake I made? Good. You're way ahead of me, because I was TOO CLUELESS TO SEE IT.

Nobody goes to a strip club right when they open. NOBODY.

N O B O D Y.

I get there at 8pm and the guy at the door is basically like, "What the fuck?" when I ask to be let in. First clue: IGNORED! I get in there and the place is empty. Not just empty, deserted. No dancers. No bartender. The overhead lights are fully on, the place is deadly silent.

Again, could've died.

I finally find the bartender and order a couple of drinks. I needed them. Desperately. The bartender says the dancers will start up "soon." Thirty minutes go by and my drinks are empty. I look at my watch and start to cry. A hot shirtless guy comes out onto the stage and my hopes begin to rise and...he proceeds to begin MOPPING THE FLOOR WITH A BUCKET. No, I am not kidding. Another hot shirtless guy comes out...and starts to refill the bubbling watertanks on the side of the stage. I have now cut off my face due to the burning shame. A few of the dancers come out of the back room and walk right behind my chair to go and talk to the bartender. Certainly, they must be busy discussing my coronation as Reigning King of Loserdom. I sigh and try to sink lower into my chair, which is not physically possible at this point because I have already sunk DIRECTLY INTO HELL.

But then it happens. The moment I was talking about. As I sit in my hell-chair, another group of dancers (who are all built and scortchingly hot and not wearing shirts, btw) walk behind my chair and one of the guys, I don't know who, must've seen me and decided to take pity on me. As he walks past, he silently reaches out and lightly runs his finger all the way across the back of my bare neck.

Hoooooooooooooo.

I must say, to this day, that gives me the chills. Probably due to a combination of things: my burning shame, him being unexpectedly kind, me not expecting anything to happen at that moment, him being one of the dancers and sizzling hot, the lightness of his touch, the intimacy of the action, etc. I don't know exactly what it was that set me off, but it WAS hot.

Of course, the rest of the evening got better. The overhead lights were finally turned off. The music started. Other people showed up. I got to know some of the dancers. I discovered the VIP area.

But nothing sticks in my mind more than that moment.

Yeah, like I said, pretty vanilla.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Week's Random Thoughts

2007-06-24T19:42:00.000-04:00

I've had a weird week. But that's nothing new - I always have a weird week. Here's what I saw:

Gym Attire: Yeah, I'm not usually a clothing Nazi at the gym. I'm sweaty and purple and not looking my best so I don't really care what I have on. I'm thinking other people are in the same boat as I am. I mean, as long as the guys continue to wear the shirts with no sleeves so I can drool over their muscular arms I'm happy. But this lady I saw this week...oh, no. She was in her fifties - fantastic body for being in her fifties, btw - short and thin with grey hair in a nice bob. She was wearing a plain black leotard. This, normally, would be fine except she was wearing a MADONNA-type leotard, as in one that comes to a very small, very definite V at the crotchal area, leaving a TEENY TINY little swatch covering her privates. AND, she had no tights or pantyhose or anything else on to help cover herself.

I feel like I really KNOW her now. On a DEEPER level. Well, at least her crotch. We're best friends now.

Sign I Saw at a Local Automotive Center: $10 off all Fluid Exchanges.

Mmmm, tempting...and SUCH a good deal!

Commercials That Bothered Me This Week: That stupid commercial for the LG Steam Washer. Ugh. That lady walks through FILTH to get home and then doesn't even take a shower? She just steam "cleans" her dress and is then ready to go out again? I don't think so. If I was her husband, I'd be telling her to go and scrub that stinky mess off o' yo ass before she goes anywhere with me. Plus, cameltoe much? As she's walking home her dress has a tendancy to...ride up...and again, there's TMI between me and her crotch.

That Smirnoff Ice series of commercials where the guy is "ready for anything." Not all of them bother me, just the one where he has the trident and then his pool gets invaded by some multi-tenticled squid creature which (seems to me) proceeds to drag half of his guests down to their deaths. Now I don't know, but to me multiple deaths = not a good party. Maybe I'm just crazy. Plus the creature is just too gross for a "light and funny" commercial. Solution: Clean your pool more often, asshole!

Another Sign I Saw This Week at a Local Exercise Equipment Store: Watersports are HOT right now!

Ew.

Watched Another Gay Movie: Um. Yeah. Supposed to be funny, right? I know I shouldn't be offended, but the stereotypes in that movie...wow. I don't know what to say. I know it was exaggerated for comedic effect, but some of that stuff isn't too far off the mark and, really, did we need an onscreen demonstration of "Belgian Chocolate?"

No, no we didn't.

James from Boy Meets Boy was hot, though. Really hot. And mostly naked.

Saw the Commercial For "My Sweet Sixteen, The Movie": Since when did sixteen-year-old girls become gay men? The commercial was full of old stereotype chestnuts like "Oh, no she didn't," "Oh YES she did" and some snaps up (in formation) and then there was some hair-pulling and bitch fighting and it was indistinguishable from a typical night's programming on the Logo network. Kidding. Still weird, though.

God, I'm just rereading this post and realizing what a boring fucking life I lead. All those people across the country out celebrating Pride festivals and parades this week (and month) and all I do is sit at home watching TV.

*sigh*

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

I Want To Go To Paris

2007-06-24T19:07:00.000-04:00

No, not THAT Paris.

Although, I wouldn't mind a free trip there either! No, I'm taking about Bob Paris, the famous bodybuilder guy who came out as gay a few (hundred) years ago. If you don't know who he is, stop reading right now and go and look him up. If you like muscular guys...mmmmmm....dreammmmmy...

But let me say this also: the guy is so perfect he makes me want to vomit. Puke. Release my inner lunch. Exfoliate my lower trachea. I hate him and his perfect calves.

There, I feel better! Don't you feel better? I do. Good.

Anyways, this whole obsession with Bob Paris started with a recent vacation up north. Not to the actual northern states like New York or New Jersey, but to a state more northern than where I currently live, which is Florida. Yeah, pretty much every other state falls into that category. Thanks for playing!

One of my friends showed me this awesome store that sold used books and CDs and video games and DVDs and pretty much every other cool entertainment media product you could imagine. I have a store like that down here, but they don't sell any books (which I adore - I would never stop buying them if I could fucking afford it) and all the used bookstores in town tend to cater to the "eighty-five and older" crowd. Seriously, the paperbacks are from 1970 - if you're lucky. We actually have one used bookstore in town that sells almost nothing but romance novels.

Really.

So, I went a little crazy in the store. I bought a ton of graphic novels and CDs and was perusing the books when I came across a photography section. I am a HUGE photography fan, I have a truckload of books by many different photographers and I am always looking for more. I came across a copy of Herb Ritts' book about Bob Paris and his boyfriend-at-the-time Rod. Nice! Wow! Hot pictures done by Herb Ritts (who is a Photography God) of two impossibly hot guys! YUM! Then, my friend who knows me all too well, comes up to me with an exercise book by none other than - Bob Paris. Of course I had to buy it! It was (apparently) BOB PARIS DAY here at the store and who was I to argue with that?

Yeah, well, I was to learn that there's a GOOD reason why Bob Paris looks so frickken good - BECAUSE HE WORKS LIKE A FUCKING SLAVE TO GET THAT BODY.

Good Lord Almighty, I have never been so exhausted. I started his "exercise program" (i.e. Guantanamo Bay Torture Regimen) last week and I am fucking wiped out. All the time. Seriously. And I'm not even in that bad of shape. I've been going to the gym two to three times a week for over a year now. But this thing is kicking my ass. And you know what the saddest part is?

I'm at the book's "beginner" level. I have two more levels to go.

I want to die.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

WhatTheFuckreview: Curse of the Golden Flower

2007-06-15T20:13:00.000-04:00

Ok, I have to admit, I saw this movie months ago when it came out in the theater. But my painful acid flashbacks started up again when I saw the DVD on the shelves recently and I could not, in good conscience, let other people rent this movie without giving them a WARNING!

Of course, SPOILER ALERT, but you already knew that. Besides, I'm only trying to save you some pain here, people.

Ok, now that we've got that out of the way, let's get down to business. You know how pretty much every year since the release of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon there seems to be at least one "martial arts fantasy" art-house movie released per year in the U.S., inevitably starring either Chow Yun-Fat or Jet Li. Some of them are good, some of them are ok, (this one, well...you'll see), and none of them are as good as CT,HD (toooo lazy to type it out again)! This was the one we got stuck with late last year, with all the commericals touting how "wonderful" it was and how "elegant" the story was and how Gong Li as the Empress gave such a powerhouse performance. Ok, yeah, whatever. I don't care if Captain Crunch gives the emotional performance of his career in it as long as it has flowy robes, some people with swords, and some kick-ass martial arts. The commercials certainly seemed to back this up, showing a scene with Chow in full regal armor attacking another guy, whole armies of warriors charging towards each other, and NINJAS! It has NINJAS in it!

It can't be bad if it has NINJAS in it, can it?

So I went to the theater all ready for some Ancient Chinese Ass-Whoopin'! (apologies) But the beginning starts...with character development that seemingly goes on FOREVER. There's this King (Chow) and Queen (Gong) who live in this palace and have three sons. One is a goody-goody who lives in the palace with them totally sucking up to the King, one has been dishonored and sent off to lead some troops in Nowheresville, and one is a fuckwit that nobody cares about because he is a total assclown. Also, for some reason the King hates the Queen and wants to kill her, but instead of actually, you know, KILLING HER, he decides to poison her with some drug he puts in her "medicine" that she needs to take 8,000 times a day with her tea. Oh, THE TEA.

DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE TEA.

Anyway, the Queen runs around the rainbow-colored palace (which will now and forever be known as The Gay Pride Palace) taking her tea and then having sweaty seizures afterwards because of the poison. You see, she knows the tea is poison yet still drinks it because...I haven't a fucking clue. It makes no sense. So nothing even remotely interesting happens for a good hour except watching the Queen take her damn. fucking. tea. every. ten. fucking. minutes. OH. MY. GOD. If I had to see her drink that GOD-BLASTED TEA ONE MORE TIME I was going to reach through the screen and KILL her myself!

Eventually something else does happen: the Goody son gets caught trying to sleep with a "lower caste" woman and the King is disappointed in him, yada yada yada...I drift off again. WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PICK UP A FUCKING SWORD? ANYONE? ANYONE?

No, but they'll have some more TEA! Joy!

Then, FINALLY, some old girlfriend of the King's shows up, all pissed off. She wants to kill him because she used to love him but he didn't marry her (instead he married the Queen -- and you see how well THAT turned out. King=not smart) and then when she was pregnant with their child he refused to acknowledge the little girl as an heir. Also, the "lower caste" woman Goody son is trying to sleep with is none other than the daughter of Old Girlfriend and is really HIS HALF-SISTER!

EW!

So Old Girlfriend teams up with Bitchy Queen who lives in The Pride Palace (are you sure this isn't a gay flick?) and they hatch a "plan" to get rid of the King. They call back the Exiled son, who is a real momma's boy, and tell him that the King is poisoning the Queen. He is appalled, so he joins up with Bitchy Queen and Old Girlfriend. They plan a coup of the Pride Palace and assemble an army to help them take over. BUT, the Goody son learns of the plan (because stupid Bitchy Queen TOLD HIM ABOUT IT - Uh, DUH!) and runs and tells the King because he is a total goody-goody which everybody already knew! Like I said: DUUUUHHHHHH! So the King assembles all three of his sons in his throne room: Goody, Exiled, and Assclown and tells them, basically, not to fuck with him or he'll kill them. This is the (sparse) fight scene you see in the commercials that is totally unlike the actual movie in every possible way.

Then, 300 hours into this flick and so sick of TEA that I can never drink it again without giant stress goiters popping out of my ass, we get an action sequence. That is actually pretty good. Really. Of course, it would have to be FUCKING TERMINATOR 2 TIMES A BILLION TO EVEN REMOTELY MAKE UP FOR THE TEA TORTURE but, of course, it is not. Still, the King's ninja warriors attack the home of Old Girlfriend, killing pretty much everyone. That was cool. She tries to escape to the "safety" of the Pride Palace and join up with Bitchy Queen's troops, but the King planned for that and lures the Queen's army into a trap in the courtyard of Pride Palace and slaughters everyone, including Old Girlfriend and her "lowly caste" daughter. Exiled son is still in the throne room and hears his troops being killed.

Then Assclown decides to make his move and unexpectedly kills Goody son with a sword, proclaiming himself the new heir to the throne now that Exiled son is permanently shamed by his actions. The King ain't havin any o' that shit, and beheads Assclown immediately because he killed his favorite son.

Again, DUH.

The finale has the three survivors (Exiled, Bitchy Queen, and King) sitting around a table discussing their options. The King is devastated because his favorite son is dead, the Queen is devastated because she didn't get to kill the King and all of her allies are dead, and Exiled is devastated because he's still alive AND horribly shamed. The Queen begs the King to spare Exiled's life because he's the only son they have left (and he's her favorite). The King is about to kill Exiled son but says he'll spare his life -- but only if Bitchy Queen continues to eat her poison. GOD NO NOT THE TEA AGAIN! OH MY LORD WHY WHY WHY MUST WE SEE THIS AGAIN? The tea set comes out, she takes her piping hot cup o' death and then shakily sets the cup down. The King asks her why she did all of this: she must've known that all of her plans would become known to him (especially when SHE GOES AND TELLS GOODY SON ABOUT THEM HERSELF) and that her plans would only result in death. Her reply? "Yeah, I know." The King just shakes his head. "You really are insane!" he screams. She just pauses, shrugs, and says, "Yup."

Then the King knocks the cup of poisoned tea across the screen AND THAT'S THE END OF THE MOVIE.

Seriously. That's it. The King gave the Queen poison, which made her go insane, which made her come up with all these crazy plots, which got all but one of their sons killed and devastated an entire empire.

That was really smart.

Solution: if the King didn't want his Queen to go BATSHIT INSANE then maybe he should've layed off the POISON JUICE. Also, here's a tip: if someone is insane because, you know, you're pumping them full of crazyade, then maybe you should KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON THEM and stop them before they...oh...I don't know...FORMENT REBELLION AGAINST YOU IN YOUR OWN KINGDOM BECAUSE, AGAIN, THEY ARE INSANE?

Oh my Lord above, this movie is all kinds of stupid. Please don't rent unless you don't mind being sadistically bored to death, or don't mind copious amounts of dumb, or you really want to live in a Rainbow Gay Disco Palace, or you really, really, REALLY like tea.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Swamped!

2007-06-11T19:44:00.000-04:00

Sorry about not posting this weekend - I was sending out more queries to agents and Sunday afternoon just got away from me. I didn't even do laundry, which made for a VERY interesting outfit today (complete with one white and one black sock - not kidding!). I'm currently doing a load of laundry right now and watching The Daily 10 on E! while also blogging. Yes, I'm multi-tasking!

Oooooh, the Spice Girls are reuniting. I can't wait.

Not.

Anyway, I'll leave you with this tidbit that happened a few months ago that I never QUITE forgot - it's just too funny.

On my street there is a furniture store named Badcock Furniture & More. They're a really big chain in the south and pretty much any city of a certain size has one. One night a few months ago I was driving home at night past the store and happened to catch their sign, all lit up for the evening. Except that, apparently, some of the bulbs had died and gone dark. The sign now proudly read for all to see: cock & More.

NO. JOKE.

I must've laughed hysterically for a good ten minutes after seeing that, expecially down here in the South. I was half-tempted to crank call them:

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Cock and More?"

"What?"

"Yeeeeaaaaah. LOVE your sign, by the way. Hey, do you have any 14" extra-large flexible butt plugs in green? My boyfriend really likes the color green."

"WHAT!?"

Ha! That would've been priceless. But not as priceless as what happened next. You see, since I live on a main road in town, there's NO WAY people could've failed to notice the sign as they drove by, but I guess no one felt the need to go in and TELL THEM ABOUT IT.

The sign stayed that way for over two weeks.

And I laughed EVERY time I drove by.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Looks CAN Kill

2007-06-04T22:20:00.000-04:00

I accept the fact that I live in the deep south and that things are not exactly the same as the cities up north where I came from. However, this particular oddity (one of many, believe me) still confuses me to this day, and I hope somebody, someday, can eventually explain it to me.

The mall near where I grew up was never empty. Sure, stores moved in, stores moved out, stores were under construction but there was never a time that I could remember when you went into the mall and there was just an empty space where a store should be. Never. It just didn't happen because most of the time stores were so desperate to be in the mall that they waited until one left/folded and immediately moved in right after them.

However, when I moved down south I found out things were different here. There were whole WINGS of the local mall that were partially or completely deserted. Some mall stores were NEVER filled, and I shopped at that particular mall for years. Often, the empty areas would be filled by temporary stores or even local ones - also another thing never seen up north. Some of the locally-run stores would have rusty racks and cheap cardboard signs and no store decor and then they were probably surprised when they eventually failed. Did they not understand the importance of image? That if the store looks cheap, then in the mind of the consumer it IS cheap? And, sometimes, that's not a good thing?

I mention this because a store just opened down the street from me that, frankly, boggles the mind. This new store is located in an ancient, run-down strip mall that has been in decline for years. Ever since the main Winn-Dixie store moved, the mall has been looking rough. Known in the newspapers as a place where drug deals are made. You know, a plain ole' hole.

At the very front of the mall is an old NAPA Auto Parts Store building, with the yellow awning and exposed grey brick and big sad sign with the broken bulbs exposed. Approximately two weeks ago someone stuck a printed cardboard sign over the exposed bulbs that said, "Dresses for Less." Stuck over that sign was a piece of neon cardboard with the words "Coming Soon" hand-lettered in marker, which quickly ran into an indecipherable mess once the first rain hit it.

Soon enough, trucks were dumping off racks of clothes at the front and it looked like a tiny bit of renovation was going on inside the building. Then, one week later, the "Coming Soon" cardboard mess was taken down and new, crudely hand-drawn neon signs were haphazardously slapped up saying, "Now Open."

Seriously?

Do they really think anyone is going to shop in a dilapidated old auto parts store with rusty racks of clothes and a runny neon cardboard sign out front? I'm all for a bargain, but I don't think I would shop at a place where if I came out NOT RAPED I would consider it a rewarding shopping experience. I shop at Goodwill but I've never been in one that looked so sad, so cheap, and so pathetically disgusting that I felt dirty after shopping there.

Dresses for Less, though, not so much.

I give it a month, tops. Or at least until the first shooting.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Coming Up Empty

2007-06-04T20:54:00.000-04:00

Last night I was way bored.

Of course, out of the 3,291 channels I pay over $100/month to see (to the detriment of things like food, clothing, and heat), there was nothing remotely interesting on. At all. So I thought I would take a whirl through the wilds of the On Demand menu once again to see if anything interesting had popped up since the last time I was there. I eventually ended up discovering the Adult On Demand menu, which had successfully eluded me until now.

Huh.

Now, I don't usually look at the Adult On Demand becuase A) I didn't know it existed. The last time I checked, the Adult channels had their own zip code in the high 800 channels and there were 4 or 5 or 6 different channels that played roughly the same movie over and over and over twenty-four hours a day. B) I would never pay their outrageous prices. $14.99 for three hours? With no idea what the actors/actresses in the movie look like? I don't think so. C) No gay content. I live in the hinderlands of the South, so I really didn't expect to find any gay content either. I was frankly shocked when we began to get the Logo channel, and was pleasantly surprised when the teeny, tiny button all the way at the bottom of the On Demand menu for the Here! movies (pay per view, of course) appeared. That's pretty damn progressive for us.

So I dialed through the options, not really caring what I found until...OHMY. Stop the PRESSES and raise your FLAG! There was a section entitled "Men" and all five of the specials/movies in there were LABELLED AS FREE!

WHAAAAAAT!!?

AM I IN HEAVEN NOW, MOMMY?

I don't know why they were free and I didn't care. All I saw was the little "free" sign and another one that read "expires 6/07" and I was cracking out some tapes to make me some copies.

Later that evening I sat down to watch the specials/movies, all of which were made by Playgirl TV. I have only watched (and bought) one of their products before, a solo tape that had a guy named Chase in it that I thought was one of the most perfect physical specimens I had ever seen, so of course I had to buy it. He was serious deliciousness, y'all. The guys in the tape I had were (for the most part) very attractive and the situations were hot so I was expecting something good out of these new tapes. I started on the first special, a one-hour solo video that included many guys I recognized from the web's various well-known gay porn sites. Uh...? I had heard that most of the guys that appear in Playgirl were, in fact, gay, but I though that was just an internet urban legend, so I was shocked at the sheer number of gay guys on display. I know some of them are "gay for pay," but still...? Do the people at Playgirl not realize gay men are a huge part of their audience? And that we might know these men from other places? Not that I was disappointed, mind you. It was just a bit disorienting to see a guy obviously being displayed as a woman's sex object knowing full well two nights ago you had seen him writhing in joy as someone's bottom bitch.

Ok, still, whatever, it's FREE PORN, stop yer whinin'! Then I got to the part where the first guy...finishes. Or I guess I did, because I didn't see anything. Weird. Maybe I just missed it. Rewind. Nope, it's not there. Guy #2 steps up to the plate...and the scene fades to black right before he brings it on home. On and on it went. The next special contained couple scenes that were really hot, but every scene ended with the guy finishing inside the girl. As I started on the third movie, I came to the only logical conclusion:

Playgirl doesn't show cumshots.

I know, this IS all kinds of stupid. I mean, you're watching PORN for goodness sake. Two people are NAKED and FUCKING right in front of the camera. The guy can be shown having FULL-ON PENETRATION with the girl, but somehow a "finishing shot" is "TOO graphic?"

What sort of lame-assed muthafuckin' crap is this?

People, it's like having the Christmas season but no Christmas. Or winning a wonderful Carribean vacation but then never being allowed near the beach. Or scaling Mount Everest but being turned back five feet from the top. Or, maybe, like having hot sex AND NOT BEING ALLOWED TO HAVE AN ORGASM.

Playgirl TV, you have to understand something. Men don't know the sex scene is over without the all-important cumshot. It's like a road map for us - we understand that the only way to our final destination lies through the town of Orgasm Falls, WI. There are NO detours. NO roundabout shortcuts. NO extended overpasses. THE EXIT LANE MUST BE CLEARLY MARKED.

Jeebus H. Crisco, you'd think Playgirl TV has never met a gay man before. If you're confused about what we like, Playgirl TV, just ask one of your "models." They should know.

Needless to say, I'm SO glad I didn't pay for this.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Flying the Friendly

2007-05-31T20:34:00.001-04:00

I have to recount this utterly embarrasing thing that happened to me on my vacation.

I was stuck in Orlando with a three hour layover. Boooorriiiiing! I tried to get a magazine but they didn't have anything interesting at the newspaper store. I tried people-watching, but there was only so long I could stare at the one cute guy in the terminal before he got skeeved and I started to come off like a stalker. I tried to read the book I had brought with me (The Secret? What was I THINKING!?) but that was boring me to tears. I tried to sleep but the hyperactive salesman sitting next to me kept jumping up and down in his seat and screaming into his phone about his important trip to Fort Lauderdale and how he had been sitting here since noon because the airplane he was booked on had no air conditioning and how they were trying to fix it and how excited he was about their upcoming snorkling trip and how he must've had FIFTY CUPS OF COFFEE THIS MORNING TO BE SUCH A PSYCHOTIC SPAZ and how the quiet guy next to him (i.e. me) was going to bludgeon him to death with his own briefcase and how he couldn't WAIT for that to happen!

What made it weirder was this guy was easily in his early fifties.

I guess some people never grow up.

All that to say I was already in a bad mood when I opened up my fifty dollar bottle of water I bought at the airport (guaranteed to be liquid-explosive free!) and placed the cap on the seat next to me and started to eat one of my powerbars I had brought with me. I opened one of the graphic novels I had also brought with me (fuck The Secret!) and proceeded to read all about Spider-Man and his amazing...ly disgusting black costume that was some sort of alien symbiote that wrapped around his skin like The Blob. That is just gross! I mean, HELLO, I thought Peter was smart? You don't let some unknown THING that MOVES ON ITS OWN anywhere NEAR your body, let alone ooze its way up your leg and wrap itself around your CROTCH.

D-D-DUH!

Anyway, I finish my bar and am all set to put the cap back on my water (don't spill a precious, precious DROP) when the cap starts to slip its way down the seat next to me. I make a grab for it and it slips further. I try again and it drops off the inside edge and onto the floor, waaaaay in the back. I lean forward, determined not to get up off my seat and still grab the cap. I can't reach it, so I bend even further forward, twisting and contorting my arm and I almost have it...

...when I lose my balance and do a perfect face plant right into the carpet.

Yeah, I could've died.

The salesman next to me actually paused his phone conversation to get a good look at my antics. I struggled up from the floor on my hands and knees, my water bottle oozing everywhere, my face red from the impact with the floor. Water had spilled all over my jeans so I looked like I peed my pants. I quickly sat down and tried to forget what just happened. I waited for the inevitable laughter to start up but people were polite enough to do it quietly. I sat there, hoping my plane would be leaving soon, looked at my watch and sighed in despair.

Two hours.

Let me tell you, it felt like forever.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Glory, Glory Hallelujah!

2007-05-31T20:10:00.000-04:00

Ok, I'm back.

My vacation went really well. I had a LOT of fun and got to meet some really nice people.

Anyway, I have to say my therapy appointment today was...interesting. As I recounted the assorted meetings and parties and drunken exploits of my vacation, I discovered that there was a problem in communicating with my therapist. You see, he's a happily married straight man. Some of the terms we use in the gay community are not really known outside of our tribe, which I did not discover until today.

Today I had to explain to my therapist what a glory hole was.

Much like the discussion I *almost* had with my mother about scat, this was turning out to be a situation I had suddenly dug myself into and could find no delicate way out of. Not that I have ever experienced this particular kink (please remember people, I am as vanilla as they come), but someone who knows someone who knows someone (yes, really!) had experience with it and it SOMEHOW pertained to the story I was telling my therapist...in a long, roundabout fashion.

I need to learn to cut my stories shorter. For reals.

So there I was, sitting across from my poor therapist, tounge-tied as I tried to explain the mechanics of a glory hole. Seriously, I don't know how it could've gotten any more awkward unless I had suddenly popped in an "instructional" video or began sawing a hole in one of his walls. He eventually got what I was saying. I think.

How do I get myself into these situations again?

PS Don't know what a glory hole is? Lucky you! (kidding!) Please go to www.urbandictionary.com to learn aaaalll about it. FUN!

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Porn: Gay or Straight?

2007-05-21T21:14:00.001-04:00

I make no secret of the fact that I love porn.

What's not to love? The people are incredibly attractive, the situations are incredibly hot (or incredibly dumb, depending on the "script"), and the flesh is incredibly abundant. Yay!

Recently, one of my friends asked me what porn movies I had just purchased and I mentioned one with the straight porn star Julian Rios in it. My friend was all, "Straight porn? Ewwww." My reaction was one of confusion. I mean, Julian is one incredibly hot guy - what's not to love?

The comment got me thinking: What is the percentage of gay guys that enjoy straight porn?

For me, it doesn't matter if the sex is gay or straight as long as it is hot (not "fake" hot, but the blazing hottness that only happens when the two performers have great chemistry together), the guy is attractive, and the situations aren't completely stupid or too kinky for my taste. Sorry, S+M and a lot of other scenes are just not for me, as I'm pretty vanilla (Ooooh, Internet Fantasy #1 - demolished!). Being into photography as well as being an artist, I am probably more concerned with the quality of the lighting and direction and composition of the scenes than most people would be, but these issues are not absolutely necessary for a good flick (that's for sure). The inclusion of women and their breasticles and vajayjays doesn't really phase me in the least as long as there's a good-looking guy on screen, doing what he does best.

As I got more curious and questioned my friend further, he said that when the camera cut to the women and their "parts" it was such a buzzkill that it totally killed the mood for him. Huh. I mean, I guess I can see where he's coming from - if women's "parts" are not to your taste, then seeing them "up close and personal" might take you out of the mood. Personally, the "let's get SO CLOSE I can see who you were in a past life" camera shots don't do much for me in general, and certainly don't make ANYTHING look all that attractive. I understand the need to get close, but If you are so close the view looks like some sort of liquid-filled alien abortion then YOU ARE TOO CLOSE. Remember directors, this is TWO PEOPLE making love here, not a random collection of pulsing pieces-parts.

So I'd really like to hear from you, my fellow gays. Are you in the "strictly gay porn" camp, or the "gay and straight porn" camp? Or is there some catagory I am missing?

Let me know!

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

WhatTheFuckreview: The Gravedancers

2007-05-20T14:20:00.000-04:00

Ok, this is the first in my series of WhatTheFuckreviews (not to be confused with my Homoreviews) where a movie I watched tragically veers off the path of an interesting movie, goes down a rocky slope of confusion, crashes into the water of sadness, jumps a shark, continues sinking, gets sucked into the underwater volcano of unintentional hilarity, and perishes by being smothered by the fat ass of an overweight mermaid of the absurd.

Follow all that? Good. Let's begin.

I initially was attracted to this movie by the ads I saw on the Comcast On Demand menu. This movie was a part of a set of eight movies recently released by Lionsgate Films and After Dark Pictures on DVD and On Demand. The ads state that "every year movies are created" that are "too graphic for theaters" and "too scary for the general public" so they usually go unreleased - until now. This set of eight films is supposedly "the best of the best" of the recently made horror films that are "banned from the public eye."

OooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooh!

Ok, I'll bite. Besides, it was only $2.99. How bad could it be?

Um...

WARNING: Please do not read further if you don't want to know the plot. Actually, let's put "the plot" in quotes, ok? That's better. And more accurate. Also, don't rent/buy this movie. EVER.

The movie starts off good. There's a woman in her bedroom, creepy music, dark shadows. Something invisible suddenly attacks her. She screams and fights, but the (ghost?) pummels her senseless (it's quite intense and scary) and then whips a phone cord around her neck and drags her screaming down the hallway before it pitches her over the railing and hangs her in the stairwell. A lone black envelope falls from her dead fingers and hits the floor.

Wow, that was a good! I like horror movies and I watch a lot of them and I'm all for the slow build (especially if it is mucho creepy!) but sometimes just getting to the point is good too.

We then switch to a funeral, where we are introduced to our cast. The main guy (Harris) is played by Dominic Purcell (recently seen in Prison Break) who is uber-yummy and a total stud but also never takes his clothes off throughout the entire movie so boo/hiss to the director. His wife is played by the woman who played Glory on Buffy the Vampire Slayer so we'll call her Glory. I like her. The two other main characters are some assy guy (let's call him Bud) and some semi-slutty girl (let's call her Angie because she looks like a low-rent Angolina Joile). Bud, Harris and Angie were all friends in college but have drifted apart since then. They are brought together because the fourth member of their group of friends has recently died (hence the funeral) in a car accident.

We get some background - Angie used to be in love with Harris, but now Harris is married to Glory, Bud is secretly in love with Angie, blah, blah, blah. Nobody cares! After the funeral, Bud decides to go back to the graveyard to pay his final respects to his friend. He wants Harris and Angie to go too. Now, how many people would go back to a graveyard in the middle of the night to pay their respects to their friend. Anyone? I didn't think so.

They go, Bud finds a weird black envelope on his friend's grave (REMEMBER THE BEGINNING? OOOOOOOOOH!) and then opens it. It contains some weird rhyme, so he decides to read it. Seriously, how stupid is that? Why doesn't he start randomly spouting verses from the Necronomicon while he's at it? DUH. Then they all get drunk and start dancing to a boombox in the graveyard. On top of the graves.

These people? Not smart.

Then things start to heat up. Glory gets some odd crank phone calls. Doors start to open and close on their own. The piano on the first floor of the house starts to play by itself, then stops when someone enters the room. The cat freaks out in the house. These are all standard horror movie tricks but can still work if done properly. Then the director does the whole "ghost cam" trick with us "seeing through the eyes of the ghost" as it floats around the house which is really cheesy and my first clue that this movie might be a clunker.

Then the wife, Glory, gets attacked by some creepy corpse-woman in her bedroom. Ok, cool. Her husband goes upstairs to confront the woman and the door creaks open invitingly. Oooooh, I'm getting a boner! Then the cops barge in because their home security system alerted them (MOOD KILL). Glory is convinced the woman was Angie (even though she looked like a corpse) because Angie apparently stalked Harris a few years ago and broke into their house before. Ok, psycho much? They rush over to Angie's house to confront her. It's all dark. They break into the back and the place is ransacked. Water is dripping and they only have a flashlight to guide them. The walls are covered in cryptic black writing. They find Angie in her bathtub, naked and bloody and beaten and screaming. They rush her to the hospital.

Ok, now we're getting somewhere.

Angie is held for a psych evaluation. She'd been raped and bitten repeatedly by her attacker (which we know was a ghost) and was almost catatonic at this point. Then some woman doctor goes into her room to talk to her and Angie is hiding under her bed, telling her to leave before the ghost gets pissed. Too late, the ghost savagely attacks the doctor, beating her senseless and then tossing her through a window. Angie just screams the whole time. Eeeek!

Then Bud calls up Harris, telling him he's being haunted as well. Harris and Glory go over to visit Bud, only to find out Bud's called in some paranormal investigators from the local college to investigate. Do local colleges even HAVE paranormal investigators? Whatever. Long story short: the investigators find out the truth of what is going on.

It seems stupid Bud read a spell (the black envelope) in the graveyard (nice going, BUD) and then they all danced on graves. Apparently, the spell causes the people whose graves they danced on to come back from the dead and haunt each of them. Bud danced on the grave of a kid who was a pyromaniac, Harris waltzed on top of some piano teacher who chopped up her husband and his floozy with an axe, and Angie boogied on top of some psychotic rapist/dungeon/slave/Silence of The Lambs guy. They have until the rising of the next full moon to survive the hauntings.

Ok, now we've got the plot. Next comes the filler. There's some long story about a way they can cheat the spell's "curse" by digging up the bodies of the deceased and then re-burying them. If they do that, it should put them to rest again. Ok, I guess I can buy that. They all go to do this, including Angie. Um, wasn't she just RAPED and BITTEN by a GHOST? I'd be a psychotic, blubbering mess after that, but she has one cigarette and seems to be just fine. Oooookay?

There are some cool effects in the graveyard - the piano teacher's corpse comes alive and attacks Harris, the rapist sucks Angie into his casket and then starts to sink it back into the earth with her inside it. That was just plain creepy. Anything with the rapist guy is creepy. The pyro storyline was a dud, though, because basically everything just caught on fire. Whatever. I didn't sign up to watch Backdraft!

The finale starts with all of them inside the paranormal investigator's house (a big, creaky mansion covered in oodles of mood fog, of course) still being haunted (the re-burying didn't work, obvs). This is where the movie reaches its peak, and then wildly begins to fall apart. Angie is the first to die, in an incredibly creepy scene where the rapist ghost is finally revealed (I mean, the special effects for that ghost were awesomely, spine-tingly gross - if the whole movie was just about that creature, it would've been great). Then Angie's body is hijacked by the piano teacher's ghost and she becomes ultra sick-looking as well. Like I said, so far so good. I'm on the edge of my seat, eating this up. They try to escape, but the ghosts block all the exits. Bud dies, in a fire, but we finally see the pyro ghost and he was icky as well. Glory and Harris are chased around by the now axe-wielding Angieghost. She doesn't walk, but kinda jerks/floats around in this way that was very well done, trailing streams of blood behind her. They get to the roof, Glory jumps off and somehow (I think not) survives a three story drop to the ground below without breaking anything. Harris is still running around, trying to avoid Angieghost and makes it to the ground floor, still carrying piano teacher's head (which didn't get buried with the rest of her body, that's why she's still here (SEE: useless filler)) when Glory flies through the front entrance in their Hummer, smashing through the walls and (of course) running right over Angieghost.

What a coinkidink! HUH!

I mean, that MIGHT really happen.

IN A SCRIPT.

Anyway, this is where the movie blissfully, joyfully jumps right over the shark.

Harris gets in the car and (of course) Glory can't get the car to go into reverse (SEE: Horror Movie Cliche 101) so they sit there while Angieghost tries to reform itself. Tension! Will she reform into the same cool, creepy form that they used before? Oh silly, why would they do THAT? No, they decided to up the ante and have her appear as a GIANT, TEN FOOT TALL FLOATING CORPSE HEAD.

I wish I was kidding.

Glory finally gets the car into reverse and now the GIANT, TEN FOOT TALL FLOATING CORPSE HEAD chases them out of the house and across the yard, smashing through walls and metal gates and finally dissolving as the first rays of sunlight hit it.

But it ain't over!

As Harris tries to rush the head over to a convieniently dug pit (?) to try to throw it in and "bury" it again, the Angieghost rears her ugly head again in the form of a TWENTY-FIVE FOOT TALL GHOSTLY HAND that rips its way out of the ground and grabs him around the waist, trying to drag him down into the depths of the earth. WHAT? What's next, a seventy-five foot tall EAR? A hundred foot tall PENIS? (Actually, a hundred foot tall penis would be welcome by me in any movie. Just sayin'). Glory then screams, some no-name player arrives "just in the nick of time!" and throws the head into the conveniently dug pit, and the ghost disappears, vanquished.

Shitty wrap-up, Harris and Glory are still madly "in love," we find out the groundskeeper of the cemetery was the source of the black envelopes (?), credits, mercy.

So, there you have it. A good movie with potential somehow gone horribly, horribly, HORRIBLY wrong.

Whatthefuck?

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

SHHHHHH...it's a SECRET!

2007-05-18T21:56:00.000-04:00

Okay, I need to spill.

I'm sending my book proposal out this weekend to agents! I know I've never mentioned my book here on the blog before, partially because I don't want to jinx it, partially because I didn't think anyone would really be interested in hearing about it, but I'm too excited to stay silent!

I've been working on this book (and proposal) for a year and a half now and it's finally ready to go. I have the book edited, the synopsis written and edited, the cover letter written and edited = finished! I'm just so excited someone besides ME is going to be reading it. Sure, my friends all read it (thank you, friends!) and they liked it (the check's in the mail, guys ;) and my Editor read it (thanks, Editor!) and she liked it (I'll buy you dinner, I swear! ;) but this is the first time I will get outside feedback on something this big. It's kind of scary. And a little bit exciting.

Ok, a LOT exciting!

It's not like I haven't written before. I've been writing short stories forever, and have even placed in a few contests with my work so I know I'm not TOTALLY without mad writing skillz. My sense of humor was well-honed during my foray into comic strips, which I did for about two years and had both of my strips printed in a local newspaper. One of my strips even got picked up by a syndicate (briefly). That was a LOT of fun, but it didn't pay shit and working at my horrific job (see previous post Why Does G-d Hate Me) to make ends meet while I was waiting for my "big break" got really old, really fast. Plus, most of the syndicate owners were older men and didn't get my sense of humor AT ALL. Ha!

Y'know, come to think of it, maybe I should post some of my old strips here. I wonder...is that something you (my three LOYAL readers) would like to see? Let me know - send me an e-mail (see my profile).

I'm really excited about this!

Wish me luck!

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Vacation: Take Me Away...

2007-05-18T21:45:00.000-04:00

Next week I go on vacation.

It's only a short trip to visit some friends up in North Carolina for the Memorial Day weekend. Still, I'm looking forward to it because I can get away. Not seeing the same things over and over and over can sometimes be the best thing.

But really, you know I'll be doing the same things up there I would've been doing down here, just with different people and a different setting. We'll probably go see a movie (Bug looks really good. And gross. And good) and go to the comic book store (we've all been involved in the business in one way or another) and go out to eat a lot (I love that! NO COOKING!) and hang out with a bunch of gay friends (FUN!) and maybe go to a dance club (Fun, but I don't dance for the simple reason that if I did, people would be blinded from the agony of seeing me move. See, it's a humanitarian thing!) and go shopping (DUH!).

So, when I put it that way, why am I going on vacation again?

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Ripley's Believe It or Not: Pimple Edition

2007-05-18T20:56:00.000-04:00

I feel bad about not posting this week. I've been sick and haven't really felt good enough to post, but I still feel guilty.

Anyway, I'm writing tonight about weird medical ailments. Why is that foremost in my mind, you might ask? Well, I shaved a couple of days ago (I only shave every three to four days because I am a lazy ass) and I developed this pimple on my neck. It turns out this was some sort of super-pimple, because I've tried everything to get rid of it and it's still there! I tried cream - nothing. I tried to pop it - it came back stronger than ever. I tried to hide it - it turned bright red so everyone would notice it.

Damn you, super-pimple!

But this incident reminded me of something that happened to me waaaaaaay back in college. If you aren't good with medical descriptions, I suggest you go watch Antiques Roadshow or something else non-bodily-fluid pertaining.

Back in college, I woke up one morning and I could barely hear out of my right ear. Now, hearing was important, not only for its regular uses (Being a New Jersey resident at the time, I needed to hear the other drivers' helpful swear words to know how to avoid an accident) but also because I was going to art school and needed my headphones to keep from quietly going insane in class. Eight hours is a long time to go hearing nothing but your fellow classmates shifting in their chairs and farting.

Sooooo, after a few weeks of this partial hearing loss (what can I tell you - I was lazy back then as well as extremely broke) I got up the nerve to finally get a hand-held mirror and see what was going on inside my ear. The only thing I could see was this large...sac of fluid that was blocking my ear canal. So, naturally, I got a pin and popped it.

What? Not a good idea?

Sure enough, large amounts of thick, yellowish liquid comes pouring out of it. Gross! So, of course, I squeezed it harder. Ewwwww! More fluid came out. Gaaaahhhh! I wiped it up and then, seeing that the sac was smaller, thought it would eventually go away and my problem was solved. Of course, two weeks later, the sac was even larger and had now blocked off almost all of my ear. I finally decided to go to one of those walk-in clinics for help. It only took me a month and a half to get there. Not bad. What can I say, I really hate going to the doctors.

When I finally got ushered into the back and saw a doctor (which took forever), the doctor freaked me out because HE freaked out when he saw my ear and claimed he had never seen anything like it! Great! He then sent me to an ear specialist to get another opinion. I could see the doctor bills stacking up right in front of my eyes, but at that point even I was convinced something needed to be done.

I went to the specialist two days later and the guy took one look at my ear and laughed. I love it when doctors laugh at your condition! It really IS funny that I'm now deaf! I finally got him to calm down and explain just what the heck he found in my ear. He explained to me that, contrary to popular thought, the pimples you get on your face and back can actually develop anywhere on the human body that has skin. Basically, I had formed a giant pimple in my EAR.

I know, gross.

So the guy proceeds to give me anesthesia and then starts to scrape, scrape, SCRAPE out all the pus-y gunk around the pimple. I, of course, have a perfect front row seat to hear ALL of this. Then he grabs a scalpel and starts to cut away at the pimple itself, trying to get down to what he called the "kernel" of the pimple so that it won't come back. He finally stops and pulls something out my ear resting on the edge of the scalpel: it's the kernel and, no joke, IT'S THE SIZE OF A DIME.

Ok, even I was grossed out at that and it takes a LOT to gross me out. I really don't see why he felt the NEED to show it to me. I mean, if I had some horrific parasitic tape worm, I sure hope they don't save it for me so they can shove it in my face when I wake up in the recovery room. I think I'M FINE without knowing what it looked like, thanks! No need for a photo in my scrapbook!

Well, after all that my ear healed up just fine and I've never (knock on wood) had another thing like it happen. I didn't even incur any hearing loss (that I can detect, anyway). But the experience did make me sweat a little when the doctor said you could get a pimple ANYWHERE on your body.

There are some place I'd rather not think about.

Gee, aren't you glad I blogged tonight?

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Gym Yum

2007-05-11T21:04:00.000-04:00

I went to the gym tonight.

I usually go on Friday nights because most of the really buff, super-gym guys don't go on Friday nights (probably because they have DATES. Remember them?) so it's a better night for my fragile ego. It was still quite crowded with some really good looking guys, and (of course) the die-hard gym rats who look spectacular but seem to do NOTHING ELSE but work out. I am not exaggerating when I say that EVERY time I go, no matter the time, the day of the week, the die-hards are there. I would look pretty darn good if I worked out that much too, but don't they find it a little...boring?

Anyway, I'm always complaining to my friends that I never seem to catch a break in the locker room. I mean, I don't want to come off as a perv, but if you're out on the floor exercising and see a really good-looking guy, you always hope you might run into him after in the locker room. Preferrably when he's coming back from the shower. Naked.

I mean, really, who doesn't like a little free eye-candy?

But that never happens to me. I always run into the good-looking guys on their way out, or I don't run into them at all, or I run into the really old, really wrinkly farts changing next to me who are trying to scan my package just because I'm a young guy. Gross. Put it away, grandpa, nobody's buying. I don't care if it's so huge you need an extra pair of pants, I don't want it. SIZE IS NOT EVERYTHING. Especially when it's attached to a fugly face.

My (rambling) point is that I almost hit the jackpot tonight. Almost. I was on my way to the showers and this guy suddenly pops out of the steam room right next to the hallway. He is GORGEOUS - tall, blond, tan, college-age jock, rippling physique with huge arms and an awesomely defined chest. Wow. As he opens the door, he's casually wrapping a towel around his midsection, which almost gives me a peak at his goodies. He then looks up at me, finishes wrapping himself up, and passes me in the hallway.

*sigh*

G-d can be such a tease sometimes.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Drive-Thru Disaster

2007-05-11T19:55:00.000-04:00

Ok, what the hell is wrong with people?

Is it that hard to use a drive-thru window? Is it that complicated? It's not rocket science, people. I mean, it's not, oh I don't know, an ATM MACHINE, which is like deciphering ancient Sanskrit to some people. It's simple. There are very few rules. You'd think it wouldn't be all that hard, but you'd be wrong.

I went to "The King" this morning for some delicious faux-croissants, delectable oil-soaked tater tots, and styrofoam-encased coffee. MmmmmmMMMMM! I, unfortunately, got stuck behind some rich fucktwat in a ginormous SUV with her chatty friends, all dolled-up for a day of shopping, tea parties, and (probably) later-in-the-day upper crust lesbian dildo action.

What? You know I'm right.

First of all, Twatqueen took FOREVER to order. What could she POSSIBLY be saying to the drive-thru lady that took so long? I mean, HOW MUCH information does she need to order a fucking sandwich?

"Yes, is the bun on the Meatnormous Sandwich whole wheat? Oh, no. That won't do. Well, how about the Croissandwich, does it come with real cheese? No, I can't have the artifical cheese because it ruins my porcelain complexion. How about the coffee, is it fresh ground?. No, I don't mind holding up the line for ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE WHO NEED TO GET TO WORK because I'm a spoiled rich bitch who, during college, decided to become a rutting splayed-leg WHORE to get my husband's money so I never have to work again. Then I let myself get fat and began sucking like a leech off his wealth while contributing absolutely NOTHING to society as a whole. Oh, what was I talking about again?"

AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEGGGGGRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHH!

Then she committed the second cardinal sin of the drive-thru: she didn't fucking MOVE UP WHEN THE CAR IN FRONT OF HER ADVANCED FORWARD. I hate that! It's SO inconsiderate because, if she bothered to look in her rear-view mirror to check (which of course she didn't), she'd notice that if her car doesn't advance forward then I can't get close enough to the microphone stand to PLACE MY ORDER. I either end up screaming my order from fifteen feet away or sitting there, waiting, until she decides to pull her well-manicured THUMB OUT OF HER ASS and figure out how to use the gas pedal.

I waited for as long as I could (maybe...ten seconds) before I said something, knowing she could hear me because it's Florida in the morning and everyone has their car windows open. I looked straight at her rear-view mirror and said, calmly but deliberately, "Jesus, lady, just move your fucking car forward already."

She looked up, shocked. I gave her my best, "There is no question I will get out of my car and hurt you if you don't do as I suggested" look, and she promptly moved forward. For her own safety, she didn't pay with a credit card so nobody had to die. She did take a long time paying, but moved a little quicker than I normally suspect she does. I like to think I had something to do with that.

I pulled up to the window to pay the cashier. She was frazzled and rushed and I really felt for her. The people there work really hard, don't get paid much, and probably get treated like shit from most of the customers. I always make sure to say thank you and be polite because it is the least I can do. She handed me my sandwich and then stopped, surprised, as she had two bags in her hand instead of just one. I could hear her mumbling to herself, "I sure hope that lady got all of her order..."

But I know she didn't. And, I'm sorry to say, that made my day.

Hee.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Are People At Your Work Gay?

2007-05-09T21:55:00.000-04:00

I don't know! I wish someone would tell me!

People ask ME all the time, but I think my Gaydar has been broken since birth so I have no idea. Sometimes I have an inkling, but it usually ends up wrong. Like this guy at my last job. Everyone TOTALLY thought he was gay, but it turned out he had a girlfriend and he eventually got married to her. When we finally asked him about it, he said he got labelled "gay" all the time.

*sigh*

So recently I was talking with one of my friends at work and we ran down all of the men we think are suspects. I can't vouch for the women because if I can't even flush out a fellow gay, I'll have NO luck finding the lesbians. Please remember that I live in a red state (Florida - ahem, RURAL Florida) and I work at a highly conservative business. If there are fellow gays, they're either in deep denial or in deep cover. Here's what we came up with:

Guy 1: Married, no kids. VERY metrosexual in dress and actions. Wore a lot of cologne. One day I swear I thought he was wearing makeup. Had one of the conch shell/surfer-type necklaces he wore all the time. Was kinda flirty with everyone (men and women) so I couldn't pick up on his vibe. Everyone thought there was something going on with him, but he left before anyone got an answer.

DECIDING FACTOR: Ran into him at a recent production of The Full Monty. The audience (naturally) was crawling with gays. He was there with his wife. Hmmmmm. 4/5th Gay.

Guy 2: Married, no kids. Works in a tech area. Very conservative in dress. Older. Had not a clue about him until I saw him at The Full Monty production. He's very involved in the local theater community, actually runs one of the local playhouses. I had never talked to him in the past but when I saw him there and got to talking to him (very nice guy) his mannerisms were...well...wow. Think Carson Cressley on Queer Eye. Yeah, I was completely confused. My friend thinks it's just because he hangs around so much with the "theater" people that he picked up their mannerisms. Another person I heard from thinks it's sad that his wife is in love with her big gay husband.

DECIDING FACTOR: Works a lot in theater. I have met guys in the past who were very flamboyant and yet said they were straight and slept with women, so I'm going to have to give him the benefit of the doubt. 2/5th Gay.

Guy 3: Not married, no kids. Nice guy, very handsome, dresses very well but not in a metrosexual kind of way. The way he speaks and acts is definitely on the...indicative...side. Almost a slam dunk but then people say he's very religious. Hmmmmm. That could have sent him fleeing into the dark recesses of the closet from whence he'll never return!

DECIDING FACTOR: I don't know. The way he acts - I mean, heck, even I picked up on it. 4/5th Gay w/a Religious Mental Block.

Guy 4: Married, no kids. Very nice guy, quiet, his wife works at the business as well as his mother-in-law. Definitely dresses on the metrosexual side. Worked as a receptionist before moving up into his new position. I met him when I was being hired and immediately thought, "Hello, fellow gay guy!" But then he got married. To a woman? And then I find out his family and the family he married into is SUPER, SUPER, SUPER religious. He's totally screwed. I feel bad for him.

DECIDING FACTOR: There isn't any. He'll either never figure it out, or come to terms with it in twenty years. 100% Gay w/a Religious F-ing Lobotomy.

Guy 5: Not married, no kids. Nice guy, tall, kinda studly. Definitely thinks he is the grand stud of the IT department, which he probably is. He shaves his head and dresses really nice (not metrosexual) and initially talked about his ex-girlfriend alot, but now not so much. Really into art and has lots of his own paintings in his office. All the single girls in the office swoon over him and I have been asked more than a few times if he plays for my team or their team so they can figure out if he's approachable and available. I honestly have no idea. I wouldn't go after him because he is not my type - he's good looking, which is ok, but he really KNOWS how good-looking he is. I can't compete with that.

DECIDING FACTOR: Artist. Dresses nice. Don't know. 2/5th Gay with a Question Mark.

Wild Card Guy 6: Ok, I had no fucking clue about this one at all, until one day someone mentioned there was a rumor going around about this guy. Really? He's married (for a long time), has 2 or 3 kids, nice, but "I'm definitely someone's dad" kind of bland. Glasses. I ran into him at a local art festival and he seemed REALLY interested in saying hi. Maybe he's just friendly? I've only worked with him briefly a couple of times. I don't know, it was mildly weird. Then someone mentions this rumor at work and I was like WHAA...?

DECIDING FACTOR: Fucked if I know. Anyone have a clue?

So there's the rundown of my gay, gay, GAY, gay workplace. Anyone have a comment/advice/insight into all of this feel FREE to e-mail me about it (my e-mail is in my profile). I would love to hear from you.

And you wonder why I'm dateless. Maybe we need signs, or a secret handshake, or special gay tattoos visible only under a special light like they use on CSI to find sperm spooge on the walls of hotel rooms! Yeah, that'll work.

Ok, maybe not.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Spider-Man Has No Visible Panty Lines

2007-05-07T00:02:00.000-04:00

Yes, really.

In the new movie, when Peter Parker finally decides to get rid of the evil black costume, he peels it off and ends up stark naked. Hee!

Naturally, they don't show anything.

I just thought it was hysterical that they felt the need to explain why Spider-Man obviously has no VPLs (Visible Panty Lines). But they have yet to explain why Spider-Man looks like a neutered Ken doll up front. While going commando?

It's the simple law of tight clothing, people: something's going to show. That's why Batman wears a codpiece.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Casual Night of 70's Racism and Partial Nudity

2007-05-06T00:32:00.000-04:00

I was watching The Eiger Sanction tonight because it was one of those "free" movies you get on Comcast Cable On Demand. You know, when you pay something like $50,000/month for cable and internet service and they feel like they have to give you SOMETHING for all of your money so they unearth the most wretched movie garbage they can find (or movies that are SO overplayed people never want to watch them ever again) and give them to you to watch for "free." OOOOOOH, thanks COMCAST!

Of course, I am a sucker for this because I am SO cheap I won't actually pay for a good movie, so I troll the offerings looking for the least offensive piece of crap to watch while I am folding clothes. I want something that is pretty good, but not SO good that I want to stop folding clothes and actually watch it. Not as bad as Ernest Goes to Vietnam, but not as good as the 2007 Mr. Fully Nude Muscle America pagent. Filmed in 3-D.

So I noticed this one 70's movie in the list and decided to give it a try. The Eiger Sanction was filmed in 1975? (too...lazy...to...go...to...imdb.com...) and starred Clint Eastwood, who also directed it. About thirty minutes in, Clint is on a plane after completing his first mission and runs across a very flirtatious stewardess (remember - 70's. They were still called that.) and starts to get to know her. He asks her her name and she tells him: Jemima.

Now, this is the first African-American we have seen in the movie thus far, and her name is JEMIMA? As in AUNT JEMIMA?

!?

Seriously, I don't know. Maybe I'm getting all bent out of shape for nothing but, man, that just seems wrong. Of course, the scene before the plane ride Clint was impersonation a "gay" man with a simpering voice and a lisp, so maybe I shouldn't be that surprised. He probably got all "method actor" about getting into character beforehand. "Okay, my name is Mr. Queenyfag McFlamerville and my motivation is to be as sterotypically offensive as I possibly can. Must...limp...wrists...and...talk...in...high-pitched...voice. Good! Now sashay those hips! Add some lip gloss and rouge! Work it, girl!"

*sigh*

UPDATE: I finished watching The Eiger Sanction tonight. Pretty good movie, but I have a couple of additions to my comments about the casual racism/homophobia of the film. They did eventually explain the "Jemima" name (yes, she was named after Aunt Jemima, as a sort-of reverse pride for her mother) so that was...better. But whatever good will they built up was shattered when they introduced a person that Clint was supposed to kill. He was a gay man, OBVIOUSLY, as he sneered and lisped, smoked (imagine!), wore disgustingly sleazy leisure suits, had a revolting pornstache, made inappropriate remarks to the male waitstaff, had a bodyguard that was overly buff and hired just for the eyecandy factor (ok, that part was fine ;), and had a little dog named, get this, FAGGOT!

NO, I AM NOT KIDDING.

I mean, really, give me a break. Of course, since the man was gay and this was the seventies, he had to die. But Clint was nice enough to spare his dog. So thank you, 1970's super-enlightened movie, for letting us know that the life of a gay man is LESS IMPORTANT than the life of an ANIMAL.

END UPDATE

Well, after those award-winning "Black History Month" and "Gay Pride" moments, I ended up quitting The Eiger Sanction to watch some crappy movie on the Sci-Fi channel called "Hauntings." It was surprisingly delicious! I came in the middle (oh, not really! ;) of the story, and it was some nonsense about past lives and ghosts and haunted rooms and crap. Whatever. The best part was when the main guy (who was an ok actor but had a fantastic chest) sat around waiting for the ghosts to attack him so they could catch it on film. The "scientists" had him take off his shirt to place heart monitors on his chest and then, instead of, oh I don't know, GETTING DRESSED, he just sat there shirtless for the rest of the evening! It was SO OBVIOUS that they hired him for his fantastic chest and they wanted to show it off as much as possible. Ha! Then, after he sits around shirtless all night, he finally goes to bed - shirtless. And wakes up in the middle of the night - shirtless. And walks around the house as the ghosts send him visions - shirtless.

It was like watching a PG-13 version of Skinamax After Dark.

And you know what? For folding clothes, it was just about perfect.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Poem From Another Life

2007-05-06T00:25:00.000-04:00

Here's a poem I recently found in an old journal of mine. Now, I took a course in poetry writing in college, but I am no expert, so please be kind. Here it is:

I Drown

I spanked the swimming pool
in guilty pleasure
it rose up; surprised
in a wave of sparkling glee
poised
then rushed back
for more of
my
particular
abuse

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Homoreviews "Smoking Aces"

2007-05-03T23:59:00.000-04:00

I know, the last post wasn't funny at all. Like I said, rough day.

So, for my five loyal readers (you know who you are!), let's lighten it up a little, shall we?

Let's Homoreview Smoking Aces!

Ok...well..let's see...uh...

Hmmmmm.

Alright, I'll admit it! You got me! I was in Mal-Wart last weekend and I had wanted to RENT Smoking Aces earlier that day because I heard there was some male nudity in it and I was hoping, pleading, praying to whatever deity would hear me that it would be Jeremy Piven naked because I really find him attractive. OR, Ryan Reynolds who, post-Blade III buffness, is just super-hot. But, instead of travelling half a mile and going to rent it, I just lazily placed the DVD in my cart and BOUGHT it instead.

WHAT THE FUCK?

I NEVER do things like that! I travel to eight different stores to compare prices on toothpicks. Seriously. I think the idea of Jeremy Piven's naked ass corrupted my brain or something. If he ever went full-frontal, I would be instantly lobotomized.

Anyway, after that horribly embarrassing explanation and build-up, I feel like I should tell you the movie was homo-lishious, but, well...it wasn't. The one nude scene was a five second clip of some random guy getting tortured (i.e. electrocuted) while naked. Reaaaaaallly didn't make me hot, but if it works for you, great! Jeremy Piven played some coked-out Mob kingpin, so he was wearing a Hugh Heffner red daycoat and had gigantic bags under his blacked-out eyes for the entire movie. Not exactly revving my engine either.

Ryan Reynolds did play a police officer, so he wore a hot uniform. Too bad he never took it off. I mean, what, no scene in the steam room? Accidentally spilled coffee on his shirt and pants and socks and tie and underwear? National Naked Cop Day?

There is one good action scene (ONE) when all the characters congregate in the lobby/stairwell/elevators of a swanky hotel. The scene ends with a killer shoot-out that had some deadly stunt work that was quite spectacular. But that was it. The whole movie built up to that one scene, then didn't know what the fuck to do with its characters and sorta whimperd off to a "-the hell?" ending.

Sorry to disappoint. Man, I need to watch some better MO-vies!

I will see Spider-Man 3 this weekend. In the scene in the commercial where Tobey Maguire starts to rip off his black costume, do you think he goes commando?

I didn't think so either.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

The Gift of Understanding

2007-05-03T23:23:00.000-04:00

Today was a really tough day for me.

I was extremely upset about a conversation I had with someone early this afternoon and yet I was unable to properly express how I felt. Later, I became completely numb about it as I went through the rest of the workday, joking with coworkers and smiling as I busied myself with work. Nobody would've guessed I was bleeding inside.

See, that's where my talent lies -- in lying. Not in the good ole', "Your guacamole tartare tastes great, I LOVE IT!" kind of way, but in masking my emotions. I lie every day of my life. I skate through the day, making everyone around me believe that I'm just great, that nothing could possibly be wrong with me. Even some of my best friends have no clue. Until I miss a day of work, or don't go with them to some function on the weekends, and then they usually assume it's one of my many, many medical ailments acting up instead of something else. I usually agree with their assumptions and let it go, instead of telling them the truth. That I was in bed all weekend, too depressed to move. Or that I didn't care if my apartment got disgustingly dirty because I hated myself. Or that today, when I finally got home from the gym and had a chance to really think about the conversation I had today, I fell apart on the couch and cried for a very long time.

Why do I do it? Lie? Because nobody wants a friend that is that needy. Nobody wants a friend who's an emotional wreck. They're no fun. Who would invite them to dinner? I wouldn't. Bleh.

However, sometimes I need that connection. How do you ask your friends for that? Do you even have the right to ask? They have lives, family, people they love and that need them. No, I don't think so.

Today someone gave me a gift, a gift that no one has ever given to me before. It was a gift of understanding. Someone finally understood me, all of me, the whole me, the too-fucked-up-to-see-the-light-of-day me. And after they saw it all, they were still willing to love me.

Yes, love. I know, it surprised me too. Not sex. Not anything like that. A unique communication between two people that said, essentially, that I value you as a human being. That is a rare and wonderful gift.

And I was too afraid to accept it, and that is what made me cry.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

I Got Dissed (For No Reason)

2007-04-30T20:52:00.000-04:00

You know how some people at work end up not liking you because of a difference in personality, or that your laugh grates on their nerves, or your hair is the wrong shade of brown, or your cologne is too peppery, or something stupid like that? Well, there's this guy at work and he obviously doesn't like me and I have NO CLUE what I did to him!

This guy is friends with my boss, really good friends - he stops by my boss' office all the time to talk about sports or the market or running or biking or other manly, sweaty things. Which is all fine by me, because I don't have any desire to talk to anyone about any of those things, ever. I see him in the halls alot, but I almost never run into him in the halls alone, you know, just us face-to-face. But a few weeks ago that happened to us and so, trying to be nice, I looked him in the eye (Iike the Man Code says you should) and said "Hey." Nothing fancy, just a short hello. He stares right back at me and says nothing. NOTHING! He looks at me for another second and then drops eye contact and keeps right on walking.

Ok, so obviously he doesn't like me.

I told someone else this story and they thought that maybe he didn't hear me. Fair enough. Of course, my mind was racing about what he could possibly know about me that he didn't like. I mean, most people at work have heard through the rumor mill that I'm gay, so that could be it. I heard that he was Mormon, so maybe they have a hate on for gays? I don't know much about their religion, but since most religions hate gays I'd guess that's a safe assumption. The only bad thing I can remember ever saying about him (at all) was that for someone who literally bikes a couple miles or more everyday he was surprisingly...doughy. Ok, that was kinda mean, I'll admit it. But it's true! If I did that much cardio, I'd be a walking skeleton! And I would probably love it!

I don't know, maybe I was just grasping at straws. But before I made a mountain out of a molehill, I was going to try again and see if that one occurance was just a fluke. Maybe he was having a bad day.

Well, today we met in the hall again. I heard him coming my way becuase he had just wished one of the secretaries A GOOD EVENING so I know he wasn't suddenly struck mute. He came by, I said, "Hey," and he stared at me and then kept right on walking.

WHAT AN ASSHOLE.

Now the next time I see him, he'll be lucky if I don't explode a nice wet fart in the general direction of his smug, fat, doughy face.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Progressive Insurance Commercial

2007-04-28T23:09:00.000-04:00

Have you seen the new Progressive Insurance ads? I don't know if they are regional or not, so forgive me if they are not showing in your area.

They recently got rid of the curiously hot and sexually ambiguous grey-haired spokesman guy (awwwww...) and now their new commercial features various voice-overs reading of a bunch of supposedly "real" letters people wrote in to the company to "thank" them for doing such a "great" job with their auto insurance. Now, I have a long-standing grudge with Progressive because a few years ago some stupid lady (we shall dub her "Bitch") rear-ended me and her insurance company was Progressive. They treated me like shit and refused to give me any money to fix my car because, somehow, HER rear-ending ME was MY FAULT.

WHAT?

"Yes, officer, I used the crystal I had hanging from my rearview mirror to somehow hypnotize the driver behind me and force her to rear-end me. Yes, even though it would cost me hundreds of dollars to get my bumper fixed because it is made out of cheap plastic instead of, you know, REAL METAL, I thought it would be fun to be involved in an auto accident because I was really bored. Yes, you're right, I am a total fucking twat, why do you ask?"

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

Anyway, the part in the new commercial that sends me over the moon is when some stupid lady starts reading her letter and she comes out with this gem: "I just love your company because it really fits my lifestyle. Thanks, Progressive."

Wh-HUH? The company fits your LIFESTYLE? What, are you a lesbian and they give you a free lube and dildo change every 30,000 miles? You have mad scrapbooking skillz so they give you free lavender-scented photo corners everytime you visit the office? You were born with a kinky foot fetish so you're allowed to lick the worker's toes everytime you get in an accident? I have NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THAT SENTENCE EVEN MEANS!

I hate bullshit commercials that say nothing. Sorry about the rant, but that commercial gets my goat every time. I mean, yeah, if you want to solicit my business that's fine, but at least make some fucking sense and don't dazzle me with bullshit while you insult my intelligence.

Shit.

Progressive is fucking dead to me.

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

Saddest. Gay. Ever.

2007-04-28T22:43:00.000-04:00

I went into the comic book store today to get my new comics for the week. I know, already this makes me uber-sad, but it get worse. The guy behind the counter, Dave, asked me if I had any big plans for the weekend. I looked at him like he had spouted twelve heads and one of them spoke mandarin.

I mean, I NEVER have plans. Well, that's not true. I have "plans" to sleep in on Saturday, then run my "errands," which usually consist of getting breakfast somewhere fattening (Burger King, Brugger's Bagels, etc.) so I can completely blow my diet for the week and make all my work at the gym obsolete in one gigantic grease-filled orgy, then move on to "shopping" for useless stuff I don't need thereby spiralling myself further into debt, and then finishing off my trip with a few actually useful stops like the bank, post office, barber, etc. and maybe hitting the video store for a rental or catching something at the movie theater. Then I come home, "exhausted" from my strenuous trip around town doing absolutely nothing, and collapse into a chair, spending the rest of the afternoon reading my comic books and then taking a well-deserved nap.

After the nap, I get up, usually around 7pm or so, and have dinner (something kinda-healthy to offset breakfast) and then putter around the house doing some light housework or laundry or other chores that need to be done. If I'm REALLY lazy (like I haven't been already), I'll just ignore the housework and sit around watching crappy tv and eating junk food and surfing the web all night until it's time to go to bed.

I am the saddest gay that ever lived.

I mean, where are the orgies? The underwear parties? Coke and crystal-meth fueled dancing followed by wild sex with four strangers in a van? Heck, how about a lone blow job?

Nope, that is not my life as it is now, nor ever was. When I was nineteen (when all of that was SUPPOSED to happen) I was diagnosed with bone cancer and spent the next three years just trying to stay alive. Sad, but true.

Still, it sucks when the guy working at the COMIC BOOK STORE looks at you with PITY in his eyes. Gah! If that's not a wake up call, I don't know what is. Maybe I need to take up a hobby or something.

Y'know, I could always become an internet slut. Now there's a career path I never thought of...

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.

G-d Bless America, Dammit!

2007-04-28T21:51:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I went into the Large Toy Store 'R Us today. I was looking (sadly) for some of the new Star Wars figures that I heard were out everywhere else in the country but not (of course) in our backwater state. I actually found them, but they had already been severely picked over and the only ones left were either the severely lame or physically destroyed figures.

Oh, well.

But while I was there, I saw the most perfect, most incredible gift for some/most of the people I work with in my office! I know I've mentioned before that I work in a really conservative, highly Republican office. Don't get me wrong, I really like the people I work with, but we couldn't be more diametrically opposed on the political scale if we tried. There are a few "stealth liberals" like me who work there that I have come to know, but most of the people there are G-d-fearing, super-patriot, George Bush-lovin' Republicans. This makes me want to place my hand in a stapler and push it down many, many times until I bleed to death or the pain goes away.

Still, I don't want to come off like I hate these people, because I don't. I don't ridicule their faith (even though I am kinda athiest right now - thinking about trying Buddism though, because I really like meditating) becuase anyone that HAS faith has my respect. The little imp inside me would love to say something that blew their minds a little though. I mean, when someone said this past week that they were "praying" for some advice from Jesus, I would have loved to turn to them and say, "Oh, I know. I really wanted to win the lottery this past weekend, so I sat down and prayed to my Boyfriend's Hot Perfect Ass that it would come true. Sure enough, it did!"

I kid.

Anyway, I saw this item at the customer service desk and I just thought it would be PERFECT for some people at work. It was a 12" tall plastic replica of an American flag, complete with real cloth flag that was fully extended to make it look like it was waving in the wind. On the carved plastic base was some typically corny, super-American quote which I quickly forgot. But the best part was when you turned it on! Oh, yes, it wasn't JUST a statue, oh, NO! The flag actually started to wave like it was suddenly caught in a faux breeze, and the base began blaring 1 of 3 different songs, the first one being "God Bless America."

It was the most white trash thing I have ever seen in my life.

Seriously. The "motor" they used for the "flag waving" action was so cheap, and so LOUD, it almost overpowered the fuzzy song blaring out of the cardboard speakers in the base. It sounded like, "GOOOOODDDDDDrrrwwwaaaarrrrrrrrrBLESSSSSSSSAMMMrrrrrwwwwaaaaarrrrrMMErrrrrwwwwaaaaaarrrrrrrRRICAAAAAHHHHHrrrrrwwwwwwaaaaaarrrrrrr."

It literally sounded like the poor lady singing the song was being electrocuted in a bath tub while located on a highway undergoing severe construction. With, maybe, mud slides in the background. For added flavor.

Seriously, I was so tempted to buy it, but they wanted $19.95 for this Made In Bangalore By Differently-Abled Shellfish piece of shit! It is an insult to the good people of Bangalore that this is even on our shelves. I mean, couldn't we put this money towards world hunger? Poverty? Disease? Does anyone REALLY need this?

Still, I hope they have a white elephant gift exchange at work this Christmas. Hee!

© 2007 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.