Midwest Nasty

5/31/07


Whenever Hanni and I were in Branson kicking ass and taking names shopping style, I noticed that Branson seems to have more than its fair share of retail stores with mildly suggestive if not outright filthy names.

Such as:

and...

Branson, Missouri, folks; sexy as you wanna be.

But as any of you regular dear readers know, mildly nasty just isn’t dirty enough for yours truly. Through the magic of Photoshop, I bring you nastification turned up to 11, brothers and sisters.



Good gravy, I am delightful.

Scooped Again

5/29/07



Holy cats, ladies and gentlemen! You may remember the post I did last week concerning a church mass-mailing complete with “prayer handkerchief,” and it seems as though not a small number of you have received the same thing. Point of fact, that was one of our most popular posts of all time here at Jett Fumes. But I digress. The point is that when I came into work today one of my coworkers who is also a reader slapped the “Voices” section of the Springfield News Leader paper down on my desk. And what should I spy there, staring out at me in 16-point font?

Click here to read the whole article.

Sorry, Brian Lewis, "reporter," but from now on we’ll call you Johnny Come Lately, ‘cause I scooped your ass, homes! Oh, sure, Mr. Lewis’s article contains more “facts” and “quotations” and it appears he actually did some research to get to the bottom of where these mailings come from instead of just opening the envelope and writing snarky comments about it on a blog read by seven people, but still… Wait, what was my point? Oh yeah! Clearly Mr. Lewis and the News Leader can’t compete with my fierce journalistic skills. Like I always say, dear readers, if you want to know it first, Drunken Ramblings is the place to come. Besides, there are way more penis and poop jokes here than in the paper, where I counted only one, and that may have been inadvertent. Also, the “Classic News Media” don’t have my flair for dropping the F-bomb on your collective asses like fucking Dresden*, suck’a!

In closing, who’s the A-#1, super-cool mo-fo from the streets? That’s right. You say it loud, bitch.



*Less accomplished scribblers would doubtless have gone with Hiroshima or Nagasaki here, but I like to keep it loose and eclectic, my friends.


Bonus: The Killing Fields of Branson


Disclaimer: It has been said on more than one occasion that I am masculine only in the purest, anatomical sense. I will, in my defense, point out that I do have a hard-on for comic books, Transformers and Sci-fi, but these things really point to the fact that I’m just a nerd, not a man. So there you have it; Ryan Jett: Kind of a Dainty Lad. Therefore the following was very exciting to me, but as Hanni pointed out, might, in blog form, be literary narcolepsy. Tread carefully, dear readers.

What got killed in Branson this Memorial Day Weekend, you ask? High prices, that’s what! Okay, sorry, that was lame. However, Hanni and I did attend a family gathering at my uncle’s house in Kimberling City on Sunday and afterwards decided on a lark to go check out some of the shopping in Branson proper. I sort of hate shopping for clothes with the fiery passion of a thousand suns; imagine an oversized, linguistically gifted five-your-old with a smoking habit tagging along behind you and you’ve just about got what it’s like for Hanni to drag me around The GAP or American Eagle. But show me a kitchen supply store and I’m off cavorting down the aisles with a childish, giggling glee that can only be equaled by giving me a $1000 and turning me loose in a pornography warehouse.

Oneida, purveyors of all kitchen supplies such as plates, flatware and pots & pans, was having a huge-ass sale because the store is moving. We’re not talking about any paltry 25% off selected items, either, folks; no, this was 60% off EVERY-motherfucking-THING in the store. Plus and additional 20% off at least a third of the items. For those of you who failed math, that’s a staggering 80% off a huge selection of crap. Needless to say we took full advantage, getting all of the following…

Just to put this into perspective, you see those plates up there? Those were originally sold at Kohl’s for $9 each, then sold at the Oneida outlet for $5 a piece, and we ended up paying about $0.80 for each one. I’d say in all we got about $350 worth of quality booty for $85. I don’t know how long this sale is going on, or whether it was just a Memorial Day thing, but goddamn I had me a gift-gasm after that haul.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put in a tampon and eat some Rocky Road ice cream while watching Sex in the City.

Postmaster Jesus

5/23/07


I don’t know if any of you out there have received one of these odd Christian mailings from churches nobody has ever heard of, but they seem to come to my house on the order of about six per month. I have my suspicions that one of my “friends” has, in their infinite hilarity, signed me up for shifty evangelical bulletins and for that, gosh I just don’t know how to repay them.

They’ve been coming for years, and up until last week the stand-out winner was a mailing with about 6 pages of oddly-fonted literature which mostly explained how to use the holy insert they had provided. Said insert was a piece of paper with a crying Jesus with his eyes closed and a crown of thorns upon his cranium. You were, and I’m not kidding here, supposed to either kneel on the picture or place it on your knees (large joints being very important for the holy magic to get flowing, I guess) and stare at the drawing. “As you stare at it you will see Jesus’s eyes start to open,” it said. It was a trick of artistry, because if you looked closely you could see eyeballs painted ever-so-faintly over the closed lids of the deity. All that was odd enough, but then you were supposed to ask God for what you wanted and mail the “Prayer Rug” as they called it, back to the “church” the next morning, like Jesus is the spiritual equivalent of blowing out your birthday candles.

I had that picture hanging in my bathroom for over a year and wish I still had it to show you, but this new round of gentile madness will do well enough. Instead of the shape-shifting visage of their lord and savior, this one included a “Prayer Handkerchief,” which is a bit grandiose for a piece of paper with a printed border:

Not only are you to, I dunno, chant and throw chicken bones on the hankie or something, but you’re to sleep on it and then mail it back the next morning, like some heavenly Tooth Fairy. But wait there’s more! After you mail in your God-kerchief complete with the appropriate form checking your particular prayer, there’s a “prophet package” you can then open (not a moment before, or else the leprechauns get you!) with important divinations for your life.

If used correctly, this talisman promises to grant wishes anywhere from inexplicably getting two checks totaling $6000 because…wait, what?!

To finally bringing you the ability to write drunken letters full of run-on sentences implying God did unspeakable things to your daughter which led her back to the glorious life of hooking:

Seriously the amount of sheer wordage per inch of paper here is astounding; I can only imagine there was a premium on paper here, as they apparently can’t even afford a computer to pump out mass-spam like any decent scam that torments you unmercilessly. I guess they spent their whole budget on blue markers for underlining. You can read it if you want to, but I thought I’d show you just one of the four fucking pages of reading material we’re talking about here:

This thing is long enough only to be useful as something to read while you wait for the end of time. I mean, sweet, merciful crap, it's like homework. I assume there’s some sort of hopeful message within the reams of gobbledygook crowding these pages, but about the only thing I was able to glean from it was that this “church” is really, really psychotically proud of being around for 56 years. Seriously, they mention it like twelve times. It’s probably a coded message for their followers to start hoarding the ammunition or something.

Now, if you'd just fill out this form and send it back to my blog, eternal life can be yours. Also, send money. Or breasts. Whichever.

No Diving; Shallow Garbage

5/21/07


We live in a disposable society, ladies and gentlemen. With particle-board furniture and mass-produced home décor, it often seems just easier and just as cost effective to pitch that bookcase with the crack in the side and get a new one. While I understand this sentiment, I’m more in the opposite court where I keep just fucking everything no matter whether it could ever be of use again. I have a crate full of random lengths of speaker wire because, y’know, just maybe I’ll need to connect a speaker to something only four inches away. I hate to even mention the cardboard boxes and metric tons of plastic grocery bags I’m apparently saving in case Jesus needs us to carry some shit when he comes back. Even I realize this is not normal behavior. But it is a far cry between my inner pack-rat and the bald-faced madness that Hanni and I witnessed Saturday afternoon.

My dear girlfriend took a bag of garbage out to the apartment dumpster and I was beginning to worry because she’d been out there an incongruously long time when finally she came through the front door loaded down with bags and objects like a miner’s pack mule. For a moment I believed that something had gone horribly wrong in the “take out the trash” plan, and she had rather desperately misunderstood the point of the exercise. But no, dear readers, as my fair fiancée explained in gleefully breathless tones, she had just hit the mother-load of all trash-scavenging. It appears one of our small female neighbors was moving out, and instead of packing various items like a person, this tower of fiscal idiocy just threw out a bunch of her stuff. And we’re not talking trash here, either, folks. Just take a look at the treasure trove of perfectly good shit this dizzy broad tossed:

Your eyes do not deceive you; not only did this dame pitch a working television, but it was actually still in the box, unopened.

Food? Friggin’ cans of food? Where are you moving that you no longer require edibles? And that’s a box of Ramen noodles with a single package missing. The madness!

The clothes were the most shocking. We literally pulled something like four or five trash bags full of clothes out of there, some with the tags still attached. And these weren’t cheap clothes; we’re talking The Limited and Express and shit.

Cast dispersions upon us if you will, but there was almost zero actual garbage in the dumpster we were diving, and letting all this perfectly good stuff just get carted off to be buried in some dump that’s probably several feet from a nature reserve or something seemed downright criminal. I mean what kind of asshole, rather than drive the 10 minutes it takes to drop by a Goodwill donation station, just chucks her clothes and food and things into the damn trash? “Oh, I just don’t want to pack it,” I imagine her saying. “Also, fuck the poor.” What a total bitch.

I like to think of myself as somewhat of an amateur detective, my qualifications including the fact that I’ve seen The Last Boy Scout twelve times and used to read Encyclopedia Brown. But aside from gleaning the fact that Mary Sunshine over there was perhaps the most selfishly wasteful human on the planet, pawing through her clothes and possessions did provide some interesting clues as to her personality. Hanni and I had no end of fun imagining this woman’s life from her leavings.

She is, for instance, if not a slut than at least dressed for the part. One particular crotch-length skirt seemed to hint at this. She’s also had several jobs which are related to the previous comment, such as Hooters girl, which wouldn't really be fairly represented unless I modeled it for you.

I’m guessing the following was a Halloween costume. Damn I’m fine.

The best scenario Hanni and I could come up with for this wanton disregard for the fact we’re trying to have a society here is that Moving Girl has joined a cult and had to discard all her worldly possessions. In the most ass way possible.

There were other things we couldn’t quite reach, as we stopped just short of actually hopping into the thing. It was too full for that anyway. But I saw at least part of a lamp and a fairly new blender which we would have taken had it not been missing the lid. We’re keeping the bean bag and some of the clothes and the food, of course. The rest goes to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. But this instance has created its own sort of problem, in that now I want to check every dumpster I pass for buried treasure. Not since Aaron and I were just inching into puberty and spent a savage amount of time checking trashcans and dumpsters on the fantastically slim chance they held discarded pornography have I felt such an urge. Now, as an adult, there’s something slightly embarrassing about being elbow-deep in garbage. But one other good thing has come of it; I can rest assured that any woman willing brave reaching into a dumpster to pull out a can of peaches is definitely the one for me.

BONUS!

This is m’lady in a fine-ass Matrix-style pleather coat this foolish broad threw away. Some alterations have been made.

Found Online

5/15/07

Hanni and I have been working rather feverishly for the past few days on getting invitations to the wedding printed, stamped, mailed and all that jazz, so I haven’t had a great deal of time to post and for that I’m sure you’re weeping, dear readers. In classic slacker fashion, today instead of an original stunningly witty blog about…oh, I dunno, poo, probably, I offer you something I randomly came across while running a Google search for “satyr.” It’s probably best not to ask why. It’s from this website, and I think it’s the cat’s pajamas; a shout-out from way back in 2000. Enjoy.

Random Interviews With Strangers #1
By JaxomLOTUS @ 10/19/2000 4:50:00 PM EST
From http://www.worth1000.com/satyr.asp?sid=9418

As part of our ongoing Random Interviews with strangers series, The Satyr caught up with EsterAr12 in "Jewish Youth Chat" on the web.

SATYR: Hello. My name is Jason Axom. I am currently writing an article for an upcoming April issue of Satyr Magazine. Currently my associates and I are interviewing people of different ethnicities and ages who use the internet. I see you are in Jewish Youth Chat Room. I take it to mean you are a Jewish Youth. Would you like to participate in the interview?

EsterAr12: yes

SATYR: Have you ever heard of Satyr Magazine before or read this magazine?

EsterAr12: i have heard of it but i never read it.

SATYR: Do you currently own a subscription to Satyr Magazine?

EsterAr12: if i never read it, then obviously not.

SATYR: What about to Juggs, Screw, or Barely Legal?

EsterAr12: never heard of them

SATYR: I feel sorry for you. Would you like to participate in the interview anyway, sir?

EsterAr12: sure I'll particapate but im a girl

SATYR: Ok. Let me ask you a few demographic questions first.

EsterAr12: ok

SATYR: Are you between the ages of 91-109?

EsterAr12: no. i am 13. How could i be that old and be in youth chat

SATYR: Of what ethnic group do you belong?

EsterAr12: IM jewish. I am in JEWISH youth chat. those are dumb questions

SATYR: Do you have any African/American or Spanish/American lineage in you?

EsterAr12: no

SATYR: Good.

EsterAr12: What do you mean good?

SATYR: Would you like some African/American or Spanish/American lineage in you?

EsterAr12: What is that supposed to mean

SATYR: In what tax bracket would you put your family's total food consumption per year when compared to that of a fictional minority?

EsterAr12: I dont know what the hell you are talking about

SATYR: High, medium, or low?

EsterAr12: I said what do you mean when you said "good"?

SATYR: What percent of your free time would you say is spent online?

EsterAr12: 50%

SATYR: In other words, you are online alot?

EsterAr12: yes

SATYR: Do you type with your left hand or your right hand?

EsterAr12: right hand

SATYR: Do you find it hard typing with one hand?

EsterAr12: I type with both hands. i didnt know what you meant.

SATYR: Please try to be as descriptive as possible when answering the questions. ok? What do you mean you type with two hands?

EsterAr12: IT'S EASIER THAN TYPING WITH ONE HAND

SATYR: In other words you find the conversation more stimulating when both hands are moving?

EsterAr12: I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN AND THATS GROSS

SATYR: I am not sure I understand. What did I mean?

EsterAr12: WHATEVER .IF YOU SAY ANYTHING ELSE GROSS TO ME IM GONE

SATYR: Well, then you wont be featured in October's issue, young man.

EsterAr12: I am a girl ! go on.....

SATYR: OK. Have you ever visited the Bronx Zoo in New York before?

EsterAr12: No. I have never been to NY

SATYR: Have you ever visited the Empire State building in New York City?

EsterAr12: No I just told you I have never been to NY

SATYR: Have you ever visited the Statue of Liberty?

EsterAr12: I just told you I have never been to NY. stop asking me dumb questions Whats your problem?

SATYR: If you do not mind, I am asking the questions. Not you. The Statue of Liberty isn't located in New York City.

EsterAr12: then where is it

SATYR: The Atlantic ocean. Now may we continue?

EsterAr12: yes

SATYR: How old are you?

EsterAr12: 13

SATYR: Have you ever been married or been in a very serious relationship?

EsterAr12: no Im only 13

SATYR: Please explain.

EsterAr12: im to young to have been married & growing up in an orthodox jewish home I dont really date seriously

SATYR: Good answer. I suppose you mean that had you grown up in a less religious or non-Jewish home you would probably have been married by now?

EsterAr12: NO I possibly would be dating. Are you retarded?

SATYR: Have you ever considered using an online dating service?

EsterAr12: IM ONLY 13

SATYR: Have you ever been to a marriage counselor before?

EsterAr12: no IM 13 & never been married

SATYR: You already stated that fact several times, young man

EsterAr12: IM A YOUNG WOMAN & YOU KEEP ASKING THAT TYPE OF QUESTION

SATYR: My apologies. Should i switch to another question format?

EsterAr12: YES

SATYR: Im switching to a format normally used for another type of chatroom. OK?

EsterAr12: ok

SATYR: Have you ever found yourself desiring cats?

EsterAr12: you mean to own?

SATYR: Yes. That too.

EsterAr12: what do you mean "that too?"

SATYR: Have you ever been invited to participate in any multiple partnerinvestment swapping?

EsterAr12: I have to GO BYE

SATYR: Do you sleep with your socks on?

EsterAr12: you are gross

SATYR: I guess at an impressionable age of 13, a fine young man like yourself has now begun to develop and worship idols?

EsterAr12: NO. im a girl. Goodbye

SATYR: Goodbye. Look for this interview in the up and coming April issue of Satyr Magazine. I, Jason Axom, and my colleagues thank you for your time.

Diamond in the Rough

5/11/07


I presume that just about every town has at least one business that’s been there just for friggin’ ever and, despite all logical reasons to the contrary and no real visible means of income, stalwartly refuses to go out of business. It just sort of lingers on and on like nursing-home-grandma who won’t just die already so we can get our damn inheritance and have a fancy coke party. You find yourself passing it and wondering “just who the shit is frequenting that place anyway? Are they selling drugs out of there?” It’s the diametric opposite of that one location in your town that is sort of the revolving door of retail; every few months a new business opens up there and you think, “oh, a pet store; that’s a good idea,” and the next time you pass it it’s selling used tubas or something.

I have come to the conclusion that “Diamond Video” is Nixa’s forever-holdout business. It’s perhaps the last privately-owned video store in the country, and it’s been sitting there in a tiny strip mall since VCRs exploded onto the scene in the early 80s. I remember going there as a kid because it was the only game in town unless you wanted to haul your ass up to Springfield or peruse the terminally paltry selection at the supermarket. My family got a VCR relatively early, and I can still remember advertising displays in Diamond Video of VHS vs. Betamax!* The store made sense back when rental super-chains were still just cresting the horizon, but with juggernauts like Movie Gallery, Blockbuster and now Netflix, I had predicted Diamond Video would go the way of the dodo sometime around the turn of the millennium. And yet there she still sits like an elderly holdout to a bygone era. Not only a privately owned small business, but a seemingly successful bulwark against the two or three rental chain stores that now dot the town. And it does my heart some good to see the familiar retail face there year after year, like an old Native American who refuses to be kicked off his land no matter how many federal men in dark suits throw dead weasels into his well. Besides, I have some fond memories of that place.

Diamond Video is responsible for my first real foray into the land of soft-core porn, gods bless them. The year was probably 1992 and I was the tender age of 14. My friend Aaron and I had walked past the VHS jacket for 2069: A Sex Odyssey numerous times at old Diamond Video, but heretofore hadn’t had the cojones to actually take it up to the counter for rental. Usually we just averted our eyes and made a beeline for our umpteenth rental of Transformers: The Movie. But one fine summer day when our pubescent hormones were running particularly high we shamefacedly carted the box up to the counter as if we were ex-convicts requesting kiddie-porn and actually made the purchase before sprinting for the parking lot.

Upon arriving back at his house, with trembling, sweaty little hands we popped this jewel of adolescent wonder into the VCR and…! What followed was 2 of the oddest hours I can recall in my life. Two fourteen-year-old boys, sexual ferocity just reaching the pinnacle of their lives, watching a deeply strange, quasi-sexual 1977 movie filmed in West Germany (the Hollywood of Europe!) about female aliens from the planet Venus who come down to earth in order to harvest human sperm to revitalize their civilization. Oh, and neither of us had quite figured out how to masturbate yet. So I got to heap staggering sexual frustration on top of the pile. Frankly, the movie could have been animated toenails dancing to the Nutcracker and I probably still would have gotten an erection; they were coming on the order of about 3 an hour back then, but whenever the movie was over I just kind of sat there like warm pudding, wondering if maybe there wasn’t a hole in a tree somewhere in the backyard which I could romance.

Why anyone...ever, would want to harvest anything from this guy is beyond me.

I’m sure the frustration only lasted long enough for us to embark upon a plan to remove the gunpowder from old fireworks in order make a bomb out of a prescription pill bottle, but it sticks out in my mind as a distinctly surreal event in my life. No worries, though; I belatedly learned the clumsy mechanics of self-stimulation in less than a year and haven’t slowed down since. Viva la masturbation!



*You remember Beta, right? I find it fascinating that one theory (Wikipedia) as to why VHS eventually crushed Betamax has to do with the fact that pornography was more readily available on VHS, and porn drives the advancement of new technology. The internet, for example; or as I like to call it, “the global porn palace of happy time in my pants.”

Celebrity Jett Fumes

5/8/07



Here at Jett Fumes I get a wide variety of readership, all the way from some guy blundering in because he searched for “disturbing Hasselhoff video,” to me, because I like to Google my own name. But every once in awhile I get a reader of some note, and far be it from me not to shamelessly self-promote by trotting out any quasi-celebrity that happens to stumble in here before realizing his search has gone horribly awry.

You may remember a few months ago I had an interesting conversation with Robert Fiveson, director of The Clonus Horror, when I panned that huge pile of dog-vomit that was The Island for being a total rip-off of Fiveson’s movie. (Read all about it here in Clonus Island and Fiveson’s response in Clonus Island II; Electric Boogaloo.)

Keeping with that trend of my huge popularity with people who made that one movie, well just look for yourself:

MS said...
Hey Ryan,Nice article.......this is Myrl Schreibman the producer of THE
CLONUS HORROR I like what you wrote...stay in touch I am at UCLA

Myrl is an Adjunct Professor at UCLA’s Department of Film, Television and Digital Media. He wasn’t responding to my post about The Island being a rip-off and just all ‘round shitty film, Schreibman was commenting about my post concerning Rob Liefeld’s questionable drawing abilities. (Robbed Blind.)

Unfortunately I don’t have a way to contact Schreibman, as I couldn’t locate an email address, but if you happen to read this, Myrl, drop me a line at wxaine@hotmail.com.

I think if this has taught us anything it’s that I am awesome, dear readers. What? You’ve never had a director and a producer of any movie ever write you an offhanded couple of sentences, now have you? That’s what I thought.

Beware the Peehole…and Ninjas

5/7/07


Everyone knows that posting videos is the dry-hump of blogging, but once in awhile I run across something that demands to be seen. For those of you out there who still remember the Chopper Dave debacle and subsequent rebuttal, rest assured the following vids have independent stamps of approval.

Peehole Spiders

Arachnocil (Peehole Spiders)

Add to My Profile More Videos

Ask a Ninja

Ever had a question that you felt only a master of the dark arts could answer? Wonder no longer! For unknown reasons probably having to do with my inept web ability, embedding was unsuccessful, so click here for wisdom from the Pacific Rim.

Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room

5/4/07


I desperately wish I was one of these people who seem to be able to switch between smoker and non-smoker status at will. I have friends who can go days or even weeks without a cigarette, and then maybe one night out will smoke five or six and seemingly have no desire for one the next day. The fact that my brain is addicted to nicotine like a Washington official is to hookers while other people shrug it off like a ratty coat fills me with envy and irritation.

I have been charged by my soon-to-be wife with quitting smoking by our wedding date which is rapidly chugging down the tracks. We’re getting hitched at the end of June and, to date, I have really done nothing at all in the way of quitting, other than the fact that I have managed to wean myself down to 6-8 coffin nails per day. While a dramatic improvement over the pack-a-day habit I used to enjoy, my fair fiancée is less than impressed. Do I want to quit? Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, I want to quit in the same way that most people want to give more to charity, or the way a clergyman wants to stop banging little boys; you know it’s something you should do, but the action just feels so good.

There are few pleasures in this life greater than that first smoke of the day, or firing up a cancer stick while downing an ice-cold martini. It just jazzes all my senses up to 11 and rewards me with a liberal dose of good old dopamine. Speaking of which, I have thought of suggesting to Hanni that I only smoke when I drink, but let’s face facts, here, that conversation would probably go something like this:

Me: What if I just smoke when I drink?
Hanni: But you drink all the time. You’re drinking right now!
Me: (swallowing) Ahhh…wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah; you wanna have sex?
Hanni: (Sigh.) I’m going to sleep. And take off my underwear.


I think I could sell her on the idea of maybe 5 smokes a week, were my addictive brain and questionable willpower able to handle that. I doubt it is. I know I should quit for my health and…well I guess that’s the only reason, really, other than the fact that it doesn’t make you smell particularly nice. But wanting to quit? That’s a horse of a different color. The other day I saw an old man of maybe seventy outside a convenience store puffing away and I thought briefly, “am I a sucker for giving these things up? There’s no history of cancer in my family; maybe I’d beat the odds.” Of course, the old guy could have been 45 years old for all I know, his face and skin ravaged by the stratospheric amounts of carcinogenic air he’d inhaled over the decades. Plus, there is a history of heart problems in my gene pool, and cigarettes are no friend to the old cardiac pump.

I’ve only been smoking for about 10 years; starting relatively late in life at 19, something Hanni mocks me for in and of itself, so no permanent damage has yet been done to my Greek god-like constitution. It’s tough to give up something you really enjoy when there are no detrimental signs as of yet. Then there’s the fact that I’ll be a non-smoker. Smoking is part of my identity, I’ve done it for so long. It would be like deciding to never again use my lewd nudity for comedic effect, and gods know nobody wants that. That’s one thing drug addicts have the most problem with; imagining a life without their vice. And I confess, it’s hard for me to picture myself sans a flaming fag in my fist. (Enjoy that little play on words, dear readers.) What the hell am I supposed to do on break at work? Sit in the lunchroom and watch Regis & Kelly with all those other people I’d rather punch myself in the balls than talk to? Perish the thought. Sometimes the only thing that can get me through a grueling work day is calculating how much longer I have to wait before I can go out and have a smoke; punctuating the 8-5 boredom that is the adult day with a tiny smoky oasis three times daily.

Any suggestions, ladies and gentlemen? Anyone out there who’s kicked the habit with a little probably unhelpful advice to share? I’ve toyed around with “the patch” and it does quell the need for nicotine, but not the want to smoke. I’m thinking of taking up a fancy pill habit to compensate.

Happy Cinco de Nunca

5/1/07


With Cinco de Mayo rapidly approaching I found myself sitting on my couch with a large quantity of liquor in my hand, anxiously awaiting the coming of another holiday where I don’t have to hide my horrific alcoholism from the world. And then I got to thinking about the fact that United States citizens celebrate Cinco de Mayo at all. Well, to be fair, I was thinking about downloading midget porn, but American celebration of the fifth of May was right up there.

Let me first start by saying that Cinco de Mayo is not “Mexican Independence Day.” Technically that happened on September 15th, 1810 when Mexico, following in the footsteps of its northern brethren who would soon violently annex portions of her country, declared independence from Spain. No, Cinco de Mayo is actually the celebration of a battle that took place in Puebla, Mexico on May 5th, 1862. 4000 stalwart Mexican soldiers defeated a French Napoleonic army of twice that number that had invaded their shores under shady pretense and set about extorting and ransacking the place. Not only that, but it prevented Napoleon from supplying aid to the Confederate States for at least another year during this little scuffle we Americans like to call The Civil War.

So perhaps that’s why we celebrate Cinco de Mayo here in the US of A. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding; it’s just another excuse to go downtown in slutty attire and make some bad decisions. (Or in the case of us guys, some mercifully charitable decisions.) Just like St. Patrick’s Day, New Year’s Eve, and, if you’re me, Days That Are on the Calendar, we will take just about any thinnest filament of an excuse to pour euphoric poisons down our gullets in celebration of something we couldn’t give less of a shit about. Not that I’m complaining; I love paper maché cacti and tequila shooters as much as the next hombre.

No, what I’m proposing is including more region-specific celebrations in our American repertoire. What were you doing last July 14th, for example? Don’t recall? Wouldn’t it be nice to have another liquor and explosives-filled holiday hot on the heels of July 4th? I say we should start celebrating the French “Bastille Day*,” which commemorates the storming of the Bastille on July 14th, 1789; widely regarded as the symbol of French uprising to become a modern democracy. Let’s not forget, if it weren’t for our fiery little Franco friends America never could have beaten the British in the Revolution and we’d all still be speaking English. Surely we owe at least as much if not more to them the French than we do to our Mexican friends. So break out a bottle of champagne and fire up a firecracker shaped like a baguette this summer dear readers; Vive la Revolution!

Feel like being charitable to the only country in Europe still speaking to us? Well then let’s add Britain’s “Guy Fawkes Night” or “Bonfire Night” to the list! November 5th each year the limeys celebrate the fact that Catholic radical Guy Fawkes failed to blow the ever-living-shit out of King James I and Parliament with barrels of gunpowder because they were sick and tired of living under oppressive Protestant laws. You’re gonna love this one, because to celebrate the English build effigies of Guy (called, aptly, “guys”) light them on fire along with a slew of bonfires, and then launch fireworks as a “reminder of the gunpowder Guy Fawkes had hidden in the cellar of Parliament.”[1] Booze, food, explosives and flaming effigies? Where do I sign?!

Here’s a good ‘un for you, “Boxing Day.” I’m sure you’ve seen it languishing there on your calendar on December 26th and thought to yourself, “I wonder what the shit that is?” Quite simply, it’s the day after Christmas, celebrated in the UK and its Commonwealths including Canada. Near as I can tell it’s just an excuse to have another day off, as the meaning behind it has been lost to history, though there are several ideas as to what it signifies.

Apparently many retail stores use it as an excuse to have Boxing Day Sales in a feverish attempt to squeeze one more dime out of the pockets of patrons, but it’s often used as kind of a second Christmas Day in order to visit other family and friends you might have missed on December 25th. I say bravo, because attempting to hit Hanni’s parent’s house, my Mom’s house and my Dad’s house all on one day leads one to sort of wish God had just left Mary’s womb the hell alone.

These are just a few examples of how we Americans could pad our holiday calendar until we’re ostensively working only eight days a year. Feel free to come up with your own excuse to imbibe spirits and behave like a marauding Viking.


*Actually called “Quatorze Juillet” (“14th of July”) in France. Oddly it’s only known as “Bastille Day” in English-speaking nations.

[1] http://www.woodlands-junior.kent.sch.uk/customs/guy/england.htm