Hooked on Xenophonics

Have you ever had such a night where you look back on your day and realize, "Nothing exciting happened today." How many of these days exist? I will not remember this day, because it was unremarkable. And if I don't remember it because it was so dull, isn't that like I'm taking a day off my life?

Meanwhile, though, I'd like to thank the Canadians, and apologize. Evidently, a Canadian (or, to put this in perspective for the American readers, 20% of the population of the average Canadian town) read my blog and enjoyed something. They even left a comment (SIDE NOTE TO THE LAZY FAT FUCKING BASTARD AMERICAN BLOG READERS: Why can't you leave a comment? What are you good for, but sitting on your ass and doing a whole lot of jack shit? I write and write, and I give and give, and all my fellow Americans can do is a whole lot of nothing?).

My blog has gone international. Do you know what this means? This means I'm FUCKED, because the only language I know is English. What happens when our Arabic, Japanese, and Korean friends all get on and look at my blog. How will I be able to compete? Fucking A.

If I were xenophobic, I wouldn't even have this problem. Fucking foreigners. That's why they're ruining this country. We can't stay competitive with them foreign people out there.

SOLUTION!
Our president would probably be pretty good at doing something like this. It's a simple plan really (and not really that unbelievable if you look at the president's track record; he could actually do this tomorrow and nobody would blink). This wouldn't even have to involve war (though it technically could, because W loves to kill things, that sneaky little devil!). We wake up one day, turn on the news, and the president declares that everyone in the world is an American citizen. This would be cool for many reasons:
1) Those Arabic, Japanese, and Korean people would now be American, and would be striving to fit in and fit the mould of a model American. REAL Americans speak English, and only English.
2) Foreign blogs couldn't offer any advantages because there WOULD be no foreign blogs, because everyone would be American.
3) The US would now have far more sources for tax revenue. We'll be the richest, biggest country in the world! Think of all the money we'll make!
4) No more defense department! Turn the pentagon into a shopping mall! No more border patrol (WHAT BORDERS?!). Think of all the money we'll save!
5) We wouldn't have to spent a penny on foreign aid. Think of all the money we'll save!

A Message From an Important Guest

I just got a call from Isaac Newton. He said I was being a big bitch, because I hadn't called or emailed in a while. He said the only way I could make it up to him was for me to let him put up a message for everyone on my blog.

I told him, "Isaac, I can't do that. It's my blog."

He said, "Bitch, fuck you. I discovered calculus, I invented motherfuckin' gravity. If I can do that, you know I can fuck you up."

So, without further ado...

Isaac Newton Speaks
Hey, all. I'm Isaac Newton. My friends call me Newty, and the bitches call me dynamite in the sack. Step up, bitches, if you want to disagree.

I felt it was important to talk about the universe and shit like that. See, everyone thinks I'm dead because I was born in 1642. But I didn't die, I've just been chillin' in the 5th dimension. The 4th dimension--yeah, that's some crazy shit. But us smart motherfuckers--we're all fuckin' sitting around in the 5th dimension. Einstein? He's chilling in the 5th dimension. Socrates? He's usually in the 5th dimension, but they've got lower-fat ice cream in the 4th dimension.

The universe is big. It's full of lots and lots and lots and lots of shit: walruses, stars, bitches, hoes, 9's (as in 9 mils, bitch), planets, black holes, black hoes, cuff links, and sausage links. Okay, my list is somewhat incomplete, but I'm just naming some things off the top of my head. The universe includes everything, so it includes at least three or four times more things than the list I just mentioned.

There's a widespread myth about the universe that needs to be dispelled. Some people think the universe is round. It's not. The earth is round. The moon is round. My balls are round. But the universe is not.

The universe is in the shape of a large dildo.

It's true, so fucking true. The religious right knows this. They're suppressing the truth. They know it's shaped like a huge rubbery one, but they want you to think it's round--because that's the wholesome view of the universe. But it ain't round. It's shaped like a huge cock.

That's right. Digest that.

And now you ask what's outside the universe, and how can it have a defined shape if the universe encompasses everything? I knew you'd ask, because you're a nosey fucking prick. Mind your own business, fuckhead.

Peace out, bitches.

WITHDRAWAL OF PREVIOUS POST: An Alternate Reality, and I Left My Wallet on the Other Side

10:32 PM.

I've removed this post.

My legal advisor called and said I'd posted material of a subversive nature, and warned me that I may have broken laws in at least 17 of the 50 states.

If you have any questions, please click here. I take this issue very seriously. If you were offended by the post before it was removed, contact me at once so we can reach a mutually acceptable compromise.

Thank you, God bless you, and go fuck yourself.

Welcome to the Neighborhood, Asshole

I think I felt an earthquake today.

I was sitting here in my apartment at my desk and then everything kind of shook. But nothing broke, so does that count as an earthquake? Also, nobody else seemed to say anything. This may have been my second quake. I'm a survivor. Of course, maybe it was more my imagination. Then I'm still a survivor, but a survivor of my own stupidity. And this is something I do every day.

The first quake was equally disappointing, by the way. I was sitting there and everything sort of moved back and forth. I was at work. I stood up and the building swayed under and around me. And while everyone else was panicking, I decided it'd be wise to pull the fire alarm. That way, I knew I'd able to get the rest of the day off. When FPS confronted me later, I told them I was standing by the fire alarm pull, and everything was shaking and I just reached out and grabbed what I could. Of course, I went above and beyond by holding a match under the sprinkler--I told them this was because I thought the earthquake would probably start a fire. But also, I really did them a favor because some of the people at the office really needed to shower.

Some new people moved into my office building on the first floor. It's some state government agency. I've tried gathering support and money to purchase a gift basket full of fruit to give them, but nobody's interested in doing this. Cheap bastards. How are we going to make the new tenants welcome without a Goddamn fruit basket? Oh, I suppose everyone would supportive of buying a bunch of candy to give them, but I think this is a bad idea. Candy is bad for you; fruit is good for you. Candy says, "I hope you enjoy the flavor of this now, because my intention with giving you this large amount of candy is for you to go into diabetic shock and DIE. Welcome to the building!" No, I prefer fruit, which says, "Though I'm too cheap to buy you actual candy, I hope to see you happy and healthy. In fact, you're a fucking fat piece of shit and should probably get more fruits and vegetables into your diet, you fucking blimp. LOSE SOME WEIGHT! EXCERCISE MORE, FAT ASS! By the way, welcome to the building." Do you see? the fruit is a far better choice.

CALLING ALL SICK FUCKERS:
Can you draw? Do you paint? Are you gifted in the arts? How about horses? Can you draw horses and motor scooters? How about children's books? Think you are good enough to illustrate one of those? I've got a story, but no illustrator. Perhaps you have illustrations, but no story. I think we could meet half-way, here.

Pilot Ideas

I enjoy sitcoms. I told my agent I want to write for a TV show. He said that you not only have to write a spec script (which I'm assuming means that you pick an existing show and then write an episode) and a pilot script of an original idea.

So I've been thinking over ideas of pilots. Many of them are really quite brilliant. I'll share three. Even if one of you ingrates steals them, write some good series, and become far more successful than me, I'm an idea factory--they keep coming, because my brain's just so goddamn amazing. Of course, I'll probably have to sue, or seriously injure you, if you do steal my ideas.

IDEA #1
I was thinking of a good protagonist. We'll call him Paul Dumshitface...

FADE IN TO:

INT. PAUL DUMSHITFACE'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

PAUL DUMSHITFACE is bathing in huge tub of mayonnaise plopped in the middle of his living room. His entire body is submerged in this mayonnaise. We find out he is actually trying to eat his way through the mayonnaise. After a minute or so, he is actually drowing in the mayonnaise. TERRI, TOM, and GINA sit on the couch. Paul is clinically insane. They are mannequins. They make no move to help him.

                           PAUL
                       (frustrated)
                           Glub.

Paul dies. The struggle with the mayonnaise ends.

FADE OUT.

ANALYSIS: The use of symbolism and the single word of dialogue carries more story in just that one minute of television show than many over several seasons (and associated spin-offs). Unfortunately, Hollywood is more concerned with repeatability and mundane characters that retain the ability to reappear every week, unscathed and still alive. Those Goddamn money-hungry ape fuckers.

IDEA #2
I call this idea 'Deaf Yet Useful to Society.' That won't be the final name for the show. It'll be about a deaf kid that society just takes a total shit on. And what has he done to them? Nothing. He'll work in a mayonnaise plant, where people will make fun of him all day long and he's totally treated like shit. But then, he rises above it all--he turns a deaf ear (which will make this pilot idea pretty funny) and just keeps working. And then one day, half the staff is gone and nobody knows where they've gone. But he'll have eaten them! THAT'S the PILOT episode. And that's what brilliance is all about. Because we, as the audience, knows he's eaten them. But nobody else does! And those that get too close to finding this out (police detectives, inspectors from the CIA, United Nations peacekeepers, etc.), we find out he eats them, too! It'll be fun for the whole family.

IDEA #3
This is about a guy that teaches physics class. We find out he's actually a biology teacher. In the pilot, we see that he is playing strip poker with the superintendent of schools and he has nothing left to lose, so the superintendent says, "If you lose again, you have to teach physics class...AND convert to Judaism!" So he's a newly converted physics teacher who knows nothing about physics OR Judaism. The show is about his trials and tribulations as his family finds out he's now Jewish. His father is a Southern Baptist preacher, and they're already angry at the fact that he's white and the rest of the family is East Indian. Now Jewish?! Holy fuck!

In one of the scenes that shows his ineptitude of Jewish cuisine, he's putting mayonnaise on his latkes, rather than sour cream and apple sauce. He loves the mayonnaise so much, he actually begins smearing it on his face (of course, this act is highly symbolic--it's so much more than him just smearing mayonnaise on his face.

SO?! Those are my ideas. Don't be surprised when you see one (or all) of these developed.

Cannibalism: We Can Make it Taste so Much Better

I went to the Body Worlds 2 exhibit at the California Science Center yesterday and brought up an interesting, poignant question. But first, a little background: the Body Worlds exhibit is of plasticated humans (and some animals). Dead humans are put in this plastic shit, and the shit gets into the cells and fills up the insides, thus destroying the shit inside the cells. The shit hardens enough so that the tissue becomes pliable enough to reshape. Then, scientists and doctors form these people into poses--one person kicking a soccer ball, and all the muscles are exposed; another of a man sitting at a desk thinking with his blood vessels exposed. Exciting, eery shit.

A man was even there lecturing, describing the process in detail. The plastic they use works to preserve the tissue for a very long time. Also, the plastic keeps the original color of the tissue. It is a time-consuming, and yet somewhat simple process.

But then I asked a very profound question: What about fudge? The lecturer was holding a hip bone in his hand and was pointing out how it was basically fossilized without the millions of years of waiting. He stopped lecturing, though, and looked at me. Obviously, I'd thrown him a curveball. "What?" he asked.

I repeated my question. Plastic's great, but what about fudge? This could really revolutionize the entire established dessert ideology. Instead of plastic replacing the insides of the cells, what about hot fudge? Then, it'd be a sort of dessert exhibit. There was a long pause. The other people listening to the lecture sort of looked at each other with great curiosity (which I saw as agreement that this was a profound idea). "Son," he asked, "Did you just ask me if we could use fudge?" I nodded, and explained that it would really take the social stigma out of eating other people. Plus, it'd be cool to fudgicize deceased family members, and then there'd be no need for burial; just large tubs of ice cream and shitloads of spoons.

At this point, he stopped his lecture and walked away. People seemed to avoid me in the museum. Even though it was jam-packed (it's the last weekend it's open), there was always about a ten-foot bubble of space around me. I feel I struck these people in a strong way. Fugde rather than plastic--that's not a bad idea.

Meanwhile, at the end of the exhibit, I bought a bunch of beef jerky in the gift shop. These were the rejected pieces from the construction of the exhibit.

Love,

Ryan

The Importance of Being Easter

Easter's here. Not quite, yet, but almost. This is the holiday where we celebrate something about Jesus Christ. Evidently, Jesus Christ is very important to a lot of people, and his resurrection is supposed to be a pretty big deal.

But I'm Jewish, and all the stores will be closed this weekend. What an inopportune weekend for Jesus to decide to come back to life. My parents have come to town and want to buy me things. But how can this happen if all the stores are closed? I did not give up shopping for lent. I gave up religion for lent years ago (while others gave up stupid things like ice cream, smoking, sex, etc.). My rabbi thought this was a good thing to do to celebrate the glory of Easter, what with being Jewish and all.

"Ryan," he said. "You should give up Christianity for Easter. You're Jewish! Get that yarmulke on your head and put down that cross. You'll get a splinter in your finger!" What made this more odd was that I never even had a rabbi, so this made it one of those events I will never forget.

Easter for ultra-reformed Jewish kids (these are the kids who wonder why there's no tree in their living room longer than the other, more religious Jewish children) involves waking up to Easter baskets full of cheap candy purchased the day before in the grocery store, followed by a nonkosher meal. Ah, the memories.

One must not forget the spiritual, historical component of Easter. The Easter bunny is the officially recognized mascot of Easter because this is what Jesus rode into town on in his big resurrection. The Easter bunny's name was Ted. But Jesus and Ted talked about the importance of the big resurrection.

Historical records such as the Dead Sea Scrolls probably tell us (I've not read any of the historical records or what have you, but I'm using logic on this one) that Jesus told Ted, "Listen, Ted. This is a pretty big day."

And Ted said, "I know, Jesus. I've already got an endorsement deal with Cadbury's to sell their shitty candy. That's sweet, huh?"

Jesus: "I hate to bring this up, but I don't think all the pieces are fitting together. We've got an image problem."
Ted: "What do you mean?"
Jesus: "We've got a serious image problem. You're the Ted bunny. But it's the Easter holiday."
Ted: "So?"
Jesus: "You're going to have to change your name to Easter."
Ted: "Easter?!" Ted asked. He thought about this for a minute. "But my name is Ted."
Jesus: "Listen, Ted, lots of famous people change their names. That's show business. But this is bigger. This is my resurrection," Jesus said pointing to himself. "And who's signing your checks?"
Ted: "You are, but come on, Jesus-"
Jesus: "I hate to ask. Trust me. But if you won't do it, I can get someone just as recognizable."
Ted: "Are you trying to play hardball with me, Jesus? Just who the fuck do you think I am? Jesus Christ!"
Jesus: "What?"
Ted: "You think you can replace me? A cute little bunny?! That's laughable. Recognizable? Cute? Giving? What says that more than me?"
Jesus: "Geoffrey."
Ted: "You can't be serious. He's got that gig with Toys 'R Us."
Jesus: "He said he'd do it. Because he's a spiritual giraffe."
Ted: "You and I both know he's got his nose in the blow. That bastard will do anything for money."
Jesus: "Well, are you Easter bunny, or is Geoffrey going to get himself into the resurrection business?"

And the bunny relented. The Easter bunny. Go fig.

This is real, folks. You can look it up. Probably.

Obviously, I Don't Exist: A Post-Concert Self Appraisal

It's not possible that I exist.

At the concert, people kept stepping in front of me as if to walk by, but then they would stop and stand there--two inches away from me, blocking me, breathing my air, standing in my way. This is an invasion of my personal space. The first time it happened, I politely said, "Hello." The girl actually was moving backwards into me millimeter by millimeter. She turned and looked at me. "Hello," I repeated, very politely. "You keep moving backwards. I have no room to stand here." It was a look of utter contempt and befuddlement that she gave me, and then she and her friend decided to go find a 'better' group of people.

The second one was a big chubby fuckshit. But he just stood there, and didn't quite keep moving backwards, so I figured, "If I just contort my body to look around him, I should be fine." My neck started to hurt. But then the third one came along and made as if to pass. Oh, and I was psyched out. I'm that guy in traffic who lets everyone in: 18-wheelers, cops, elderly nuns. If your signal's flashing, I'll provide the opening. So naturally, I backed up for him to pass. He used the space I yielded to stand in. Maybe this is an extreme example, but imagine letting someone borrow your phone, and the next thing you know, your shit is on the curb and they've taken your home. It's all about real estate, though--that's what it all boils down to. But this last dude had a fucking pony-tail, what some considered cool in the mid-80s. Now, he just looked like a puffer at a porn shoot (and I do mean shoot). I wanted to yank that pony-tail. I had a strong urge, perhaps somewhat like how David Sedaris describes in Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim when he gets really nervous, he has the strong urge to simply touch someone's head. Of course, his is a non-violent compulsion.

It's time to move. This city is too angry for me. Where should I move? I can't go back to New Mexico for awhile. I don't know when I'll be able to go back; what's the statute of limitations on jaywalking with intent to kill?

The concert itself rocked. They played some of my favorites, as well as new songs off their new album. I recommend you buy it. Buy it NOW or DIE!

Alone for They Might Be Giants

The doors open at 7:30 PM. I assume I should get there on time if I leave around 6:30 or 6:45 PM, right? Alone.

Nobody wants to go. I stopped simply inviting people. No, I switched to offers to partially subsidize their ticket purchase. That didn't work. Then I offered to fully pay. No, nobody wants to go. Fuckers.

So, I went to the dentist. I haven't been to the dentist in almost two years. And if not almost two years, then at least two years. I've never been to a dentist like this. I felt more like I was in a time-share presentation. I met an x-ray person, who took my x-rays; a dentist, who looked at my teeth; a hygienist who cleaned my teeth; and a saleswoman, who wanted to charge me $470 for services that are only partially covered by my insurance.

SALESWOMAN?! It's been two years. And in that time, they've upgraded the technology. Obviously, they've upgraded it so much, they have to have a sales staff. She spoke about the prices, and benefits of getting this certain kind of expensive cleaning (I imagine a high molarity sulphuric acid should clean my teeth just as well as what she described). She actually pulled out a binder of before and after pictures. What in the shit? I threatened to puke, thus ending the sales presentation.

Then I said I needed to think about it. They said okay, but that shows they're amateurs. It's like cars--anybody who takes the 'be-back' bus ("I'll be back in the morning," or "I'll be back with my wife and annoying, shit-eating kids") rarely comes back.

I'll let these bastards rot out! I SWEAR! I'll do it! Who needs teeth when you have a blender?!

They Might Be Giants

I'm going to They Might Be Giants tomorrow at the House of Blues on Sunset. How exciting is that?

I don't think anybody is reading this blog. Nobody can share in my excitement of this concert. I think a lot of the initial excitement sort of petered out and has been replaced by aggressive indifference. My budget for advertising was planned to increase to $12.5 million dollars next year, but I don't see the logic in dumping more money into this problem. After all, if $5 million didn't do anything, then $12.5 million won't.

Perhaps it was where I spent that advertising money. Which is to say, I spent it on crawfish. My original plan was to buy 5 tons of crawfish, get some tattoo artists to tattoo the web address of this blog on these crawfish, and then to rerelease them back into the wild.

However, once that truck with the crawfish pulled up, PETA stood in their way. Those little, green, Nader-voting fuckshits stood in front of those tattoo artists and said it was inhumane to do this to the poor, defenseless crawfish. So the clock was ticking. To keep them from dying, I had to make sure their water was fresh and they had enough food. On top of this, I found that about a third of the crawfish were diabetic, and another third kept kosher. So, I had to adjust these diets accordingly.

In the end, I could only release them back into the wild without their tattoos. Fuck! Fucking PETA and their goddamn 'no animal tattoo' demands. Five million bucks allocated for advertising and nobody is reading this.

I directly blame PETA for nobody visiting my blog. To those people who don't visit and read my blog (that's probably you), I'd like to send out a hearty, "FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. Shithead.

Jealous for Unemployment

What a dull day.

I worked.

For what? Why do we work? Why do we get up, dress up, and head off to work for at least 8 hours? Is it simply to pay the bills? Is there a need to be near other people in a large office who are equally as miserable as yourself?

I'm not sure I understand this--especially as I fall into a routine. I hate routines. It really takes the excitement out of life. I'm confused, also, because there are several people in my office who have worked in their same position for over 20 years. That's a long time. I look at some of these people, and I'm thinking, "My God, I was eating paint and crayons in preschool when you started here." Is that depressing or what?

I'm not saying I hate my job. It just bores the living shit out of me. Some of what I do there could easily be done from home or a cafe; I drink coffee, talk on the phone, send email to friends, and play jokes on my colleagues.

It's like I'm being forced into a vegetative state through the establishment of a life-long dull routine. I'll see you soon, Terri Shiavo (yeah, I'm an asshole). Of course I don't need a feeding tube; I eat plenty of snacks at work.

Holy Matrimony, Batman!

Everyone's getting married. Or is married. Or in love, and probably will soon be married. Or already divorced, even.

Why should I be jealous? I think I'm jealous of that initial feeling--fleeting in the long-term--of "everything is great!"

Of course that "everything is great!" attitude seems to usually turn to "everything is fucked, shithead!" Well, 65% of the time it does.

I'm at a point in my life where many sitcoms start: the funny, quirky single guy living in with his equally single, yet flawed (in the sense of what society figures are flaws) sidekick . Cheers? Seinfeld? Will and Grace? Frazier? The list goes on and on--and the bulk of these shows are like marriages: 65% of them are cancelled after a short time, maybe one or two seasons.

My friend (married) saw my ex-girlfriend in a bagel shop with her fiance and her father (who is divorced, and will probably soon remarry). A guy in college who I thought would be a bachelor for life, and seemed to possess no interest in women--engaged! TO A WOMAN!

What in the hell?

There is probably a greater stastical chance of passing a kidney stone than of living a successful marriage, but why am I somewhat jealous? It's like watching a high-wire act. You see a dude walking across a long, long cable with no net underneath him. Sooner or later, he'll probably fall and the bitch'll take everything--but you sort of wonder, "If that were me up there, would I fall?"

Mr. Delorean: Crazy, Brilliant Egomaniac With a Bitchin' Car

John Z. Delorean. He was 80 years old. Now, he's not. His death was announced in the LA Times today.

The creator of the Delorean. It's really sad. It's the end of an era--80s excess combined with unique engineering. The guy was a revolutionary; sort of like "Che" Guevara to the auto industry. He was leading a normal life as a model GM executive. Then one day, I suppose he realized his powers and abilities and just started doing as he pleased. I read he started driving a Maserati sports car rather than a Corvette; this was a General Motors executive driving an Italian vehicle. The guy had brass balls.

I just drove by La Puente Mall this past Wednesday where they shot parts of Back to the Future: where we see the modified Delorean, and when Einstein is put in the driver's seat and the time machine is tested for the first time. Of course, in the movie it's called Twin Pines Mall. I was with my territory manager. Though I begged, she was uninterested in doing 'time-travel' laps through the mall's parking lot. It was mid-day and quite crowded, so I'd have had to do much slower than the 85 required to time-travel (though my car is not equipped with the flex-capacitor option--oh, that would be so fucking bitchin'!).

My territory manager seemed to lack that sense of adventure, so to try salvaging this "Back to the Future moment" I called her Marty and started talking about the Libyans and plutonium. She seemed scared. Kind of like Marty in the movie. It was so life-like! I was glad she played along. And when I pretended they were right behind us with a rocket-propelled grenade (JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIE!) and started swerving all over the road (again, JUST LIKE IN THE MOVIE!), she seemed genuinely scared. I was amazed; she hadn't even announced herself as a fan of the movie.

It's Saturday and All I've Got is This Flesh-Eating Rash

Nothing happens on Saturdays. Well, at least not to me.

There is nothing worth writing about, really. Nothing except my flesh-eating rash I have named Roger.

Roger's a sort of silent friend. A silent friend that is slowly eating me alive. But I can never really, truly feel alone what with Roger hanging around. Roger and his flesh-eating antics. Sometimes Roger makes me laugh; mostly, he makes me writhe in pain begging for a fast death. But is this not what friendship is about?

Ryan Medinski's Awesome Plagiarized Pie Recipe
1 box of pistachio pudding (Jello brand)
1 box of Ritz crackers
1 quart of vanilla ice cream
1 tub of whipped cream (don't skimp and get generic on this, cheap-skate)

Take the Ritz. Crush them. Line the bottom of a 8 by 8 inch square pan. Mix the ice cream, whipped cream, and jello pudding together. Mix it up real nice. Okay, pour that out over the crushed Ritz. Put that in the fridge for a few hours until it hardens. Get a spoon and eat up.

Alternatively, I have not used a pan and simply dumped the crushed Ritz out on my living room floor and poured the mix on top of it. This can be done if you are expecting a lot of guests. Or you could use a larger pan than the 8 by 8, but I myself don't have a larger pan.

My Friends Hate Me and They Hate My Glasses

I found out something last night. I sipped green beer and ate fish and chips with my friend. I learned a valuable lesson--a few, actually.

The green beer and fish and chips? It's hard to put into words what it did to me. I am a very lightweight drinker. I hadn't had a drink in a month. No, I'm not a recovering alcoholy. I just am a light drinker. I thought I'd be safe to drive after leaving the pub. After all, I'd had one and it took me over an hour to drink it. And it was green. It looked like soda. How harmful can something be if it looks like lime soda?

I pulled into the wrong driveway when I got home. I don't know if this is necessarily the sign of drunkeness, though. I once went for a walk, and when I got back to where my apartment should be, I freaked out and noticed that everything--everything--on the street looked different. I had walked down the wrong street about half a mile and hadn't noticed. I was sober at the time.

But I backed out, and drove into my driveway and parked. I talked to my neighbor. I have very little recollection of what we talked about; I remember I told him I accidentally insulted my friend. He asked if his apartment smelled, and I answered that it did--like the inside of a donkey's asshole. Then evidently, I somehow went home and added to my blog. When I woke up this morning, my stomach felt like I ate several pieces of drywall dipped in plaster, and my head literally felt like it was on fire. I assume it was how Pedro felt when he shaved off all his hair in Napoleon Dynamite because he was so hot.

Have I reached my valuable lesson? No. Well, one: green beer is more than just Rolling Rock with green food dye. Mixed with fish and chips, it'll fuck you up, son.

So it was while I drank the beer and ate the fish and chips. My friend told me she wanted to join Mensa. This is a very smart woman. She went to a good school, speaks intelligently, and is cultured (not like in a petri dish, though). However, I laughed.

And here is my valuable lesson: When someone says something like that, you don't laugh. Of course, I didn't stop here. Because she was upset that I laughed. I'd thought she was joking. And when I saw she was not joking, I accidentally laughed much harder. Perhaps enough to draw attention. If not enough to draw attention, then at least enough to draw tears out of my eyes.

She saw it necessary, at this point, to point out that I was a fucking asshole. I was somewhat surprised, but thought it would be wise to try pulling myself out. I tried explaining my reasoning of why I laughed. After all, if I could just explain myself, she could perhaps laugh along with me.

I told her she wasn't Mensa material. No laughter at this point. Not even a chuckle. Frowning, and furrowing of the eyebrows--there was plenty of that.

This was bad, friends. After all, Mensa--that's the top 2% of the population in terms of IQ. Names that come to mind (perhaps they're not members of Mensa, but they were really Goddamn smart) are Richard Feynmann, Einstein, and Isaac Asimov (Asimov was definately a member). I told her that it'd help if she had had a hand in developing the first atomic bomb, since two of the three people I mentioned had some sort of role in it. I explained that people in Mensa have such powerful brains, it's scary. I told her if she could move a pint of half-drunken green beer with just the power of her brain, then she might be a good candidate.

Friends, this seemed to only make her angrier. She said that she thought I thought I was smarter than her. I said this was absolutely not the case (might I remind you I pulled in the wrong driveway nary a half hour later?). Then she said, "Wait! I see! You think you're smart enough to join Mensa, but I'm not." I told her I wasn't. Then she said, "You think you're smarter than me! You think I'm a fucking idiot! You don't even know me!" I said that this was incorrect, and that though I may appear a complete moron on the surface, I really am a complete moron.

I told her that if she wanted to join Mensa, I would not stop her and would totally be behind her in her venture for membership (and thus, world domination, because that's what they're all about). I even told her I'd buy her a green beer to celebrate. Then she called me a fucking asshole again and I took her home.

And then I drove into the wrong driveway.

Maybe I shouldn't wonder so often why nobody likes to hang out with me.

Check out Black People Hate Me And They Hate My Glasses at Ifilm. Because that's what life's all about.

Peace out.

Kids: They're Not Just Goats

Kids are important. Not that I like them.

I went out with a girl a couple of times. This isn't recent, but I bring it up anyway. We'll call her Attractive Man-Hating Pretentious Angry Chick.

She loved and adored children. And she asked me if I loved kids. I said I love it when they get the stitching right on my clothing. I love it when they make a good shoe that doesn't fall apart after only a couple of months. I love it when they really put effort into their work. She somehow took offense at these things.

And then, on our second date, I noticed she was watching kids. She said they were adorable, and she wanted to eat them all up because they were so cute. I said that other people probably thought she was some sort of psycho, what with her staring at these strangers' stupid kids. And I forgot that the place we went for breakfast didn't take Visa, and I had no cash (but she had plenty of cash for our food). And since she was buying, what's so bad about getting a couple of pieces of cake to take home with me in a to-go box? It looked delicious, and I was too full to eat them there (I could only eat one piece in the restaurant; it was a huge piece of triple chocolate cake).

I don't understand. She never called me back.

Seriously, kids are our future. And when we take money from education, and put it in social security and defense, this seems somehow odd. We're going to have a bunch of really wealthy old people supporting all these dumbass kids. And nuclear weapons that nobody will understand how to use, because all the kids will be so dumb. And then after this, we'll be invaded by all these Third World countries who will realize that we can't operate our own nukes, so they'll come in with their rocks and spears and take us over.

Again, not that I like kids. They're really annoying and little. And they don't contribute to our GDP. They all need to get jobs. All these kids not working--that's why the unemployment rate is so high.

The Threat of a Lawsuit Looms

I was contacted by a lawyer representing my "friend," Gevin Kant.

Apparently, I should have contacted my friend before telling about how his kid said the thing about the snow being Jesus Christ.

I was presented with a Cease and Desist order. My friend originally was seeking for $30,000 to purchase the rights to the story, and for damages related to unauthorized use of his personal story. At the end of the telling of the story in this blog, rights would automatically transfer back to him.

I talked him down. I told him I didn't have $30,000. He asked for $3,000, and we'd split the rights equally. Plus, I'd pay $300 per month towards his kid's college fund. I told him that this isn't possible for several reasons: first of all, the boy is smart and should get some sort of scholarship. If not, vo-tech school won't be that expensive.

We negotiated a little bit. Now he gets to be a guest on my blog. He's going to write something, and I have to post it. That, and I have to write a haiku in his honor. And I have to give him three bucks. But I'm just going to send him a check and spell his name wrong (I'll conveniently misspell it 'Ryan Medinski,' rather than 'Gevin Kant').

A Haiku For Gevin
You sue me big time,
I pretend I'm still your friend,
You should watch your ass.

The BIG Idea...and a Surprise Guest

I came up with a brilliant idea today. It's freaking brilliant, and now's your opportunity to get in on the ground floor. It's an investment--not just in a brilliant idea, but in your future.

So send me money and we can make this happen.

I suppose you want to know the idea. That's fine. You'll have to sign a nondisclosure agreement. And I can't get a good nondisclosure agreement written up until I hire a lawyer. And I can't hire a lawyer until I get money. Your money. Then you can sign the nondisclosure agreement. Then I'll tell you the idea.

My guest poster is Martin Van Buren. He was the eighth president of our United States of America. He wasn't really that popular, so he's kind of a prick. But he insisted he be allowed to talk to the American people.

And now, our guest...

A Message From Martin Van Buren
"Hello, dear friends. Marty, here. I was the eighth president of the United States of America. Can I get a hell yeah? Well, fuck you too, then.

I wanted to talk about intolerance, greed, and incontinence.

Intolerance? You assholes should understand that one. I'm not even going to waste my time.

Greed? Not enough of it. Without greed, you'd have had some weak-ass piece of shit as your eighth president. Then where would your precious country be today? That's right. You'd all be goosestepping to the beat of a Nazi drummer, fuckers. Or worse, socialist--like the Canadians. Is that what you want?

And incontinence. This can mean two things: either loss of control over your excretory functions, or lack of a sexual appetite. Inability to control sexual or exctretory functions. How does this one word mean two completely different things, and yet they're in the same definition in the dictionary? Imagine someone who suffers from both: very messy bedsheets.

And let's set the record straight. I'm not dead. I'm resting. With my eyes closed. And no flesh. And when I get up, I may run for reelection. Vote for Van Buren. Or I'll fuck you up. I'm coming back from the dead bitches! I've got some ideas for social security and nuclear waste disposal that will just rock your socks off.

Peace out."

Snowy Jesus Christ

Hello, friends.

This is my third post. I feel amazingly good, because three is a lucky number. Shit, wait. Never mind. Seven is good. No, that's unlucky, too. In the Chinese culture, I know eight is lucky. Three seems to be bad in pretty much every culture I can think of.

My friend has a boy. We'll call my friend Gevin Kant. He has a boy, and we'll call him Jaboc. And we'll say his wife is named...Sunset. And Gevin Kant teaches...psychology. It snowed where they live (let's just say they live in a place called Albakurkee). And young Jaboc marvelled at the snow falling out of the sky and yelled out, "This is 'Jesus Christ!'"

Is this indicative of his love of Jesus H. Christ? Is he a future member of the Christian Coalition? Or did he incorrectly mean to yell out, "Jesus Christ, look at all the fuckin snow!" and yelled out the wrong thing? Hopefully, his heart was in the right place, and he meant the latter.

Meanwhile, it's 70 degrees in Pasadena. I know, because I was able to check weatherchannel.com from my cubicle. Apparently, it was sunny, cloudless, and very pretty outside. This, also according to weatherchannel.com and live pictures off someone's webcam where I could see what it looked like outside without having to turn around and look out the window (or, God forbid, go outside).

I need money. Anybody got any I could have?

Already My Second Post

Holy balls!

I'm already on my second post. Jesus Christ, this is fucking huge. This shows determination, and an ability to do things more than once.

It's been ten minutes since my first post. I know most of my dedicated followers have been waiting anxiously.

What's new in my life? I got a dishwasher for my apartment from Target. TWO of my neighbors stopped by to see it. They are SO jealous. I bet if I didn't lock my door, they'd totally sneak in and steal my dishwasher after slashing my throat open and taking my organs. They'll do it. They're cool, but I'm just putting myself in their shoes.

This thing is about a third of the size of a regular dishwasher. I can't fit inside of it, nor have I tried (yet--but stay tuned).

I ordered it from Best Buy (bestbuy.com). They were slutty dorks. So I cancelled my order. I ordered it form Target.com. It came within a couple of days. That was last Thursday. Today, I got an email from Target.com saying that they shipped out my dishwasher today. What the heck?

All right. Go out and change the world for the better. Kill something.

Love,

Ryan

Dictator of Your Mom

Hi. My name is Ryan Medinski. I must be up front. I have a rare disorder called Don't Fucking Piss Me Off, Asshole, or I'll Fucking Kill You. It's a rare affliction. Many people don't have it as bad as me. So just be forewarned. Since it's a medical condition, by the way, my medical treatment for it is tax deductable. Isn't that sweet? I love the IRS. No, I really honestly do.

So I used to live in the desert surrounded by sand. Now, I live in Pasadena, California surrounded by lots and lots of angry people, and some water (it's called the Specific Ocean, I think).

I work for a small government agency. I usually hang out and eat donuts. Sometimes I listen to music and talk on the phone. I like to print jokes out on the printer and make copies of my face. This is your tax money at work. Isn't that awesome?

This is my first post. To quote David Hasselhoff's web site (www.davidhasselhoff.com), "Stay tuned for news, views, and reviews."