Hitting a 7-10 Douche

Sorry for not writing lately, but I had a bit of a relapse in the depression area and was wrapped up in a cover for almost a week. Yesterday, Sara forced me out of the cover and took myself, Alan, and Seymour to the bowling alley.

We get our shoes (which I tried to steal, to no avail) and get to bowling. As I'm not much of a sports enthusiast, my bowling skills are lacking to say the least. Alan kept telling me about the many 300 games he bowled while he hits a constant stream of gutters. Poor Seymour at least hit the pins...and the people next to us, the snack bar, and I think one ball landed in the men's room.

But I have to admit, I was having a good time until I sent Seymour to get Alan and I a couple of beers (and ice cream for him). He comes back covered in a concoction of Miller Lite and vanilla ice cream...not a lovely smell...and in tears. I ask him what happened and he tells me that some dickhead did it to him because he accidentally bumped into him.

I go to get a towel when this douchebag comes up to me and asks if I'm Miles Gordon. Part of my therapy is to control my anger, so despite wanting to choke him out with my smelly shoelaces, I state that I am. He doesn't seem to grasp that Seymour is with me, so he starts talking about how his girlfriend is a huge fan of "All Write Now" (poor girl) and wanted to meet me. I was about to decline when he asks if I would act like he was an old friend of mine.

That's when I went for revenge.

We go back to this guy's lane and his girlfriend is all excited. I sign an autograph and when she asks if I know Bobby (this winner's name), I respond as such:

"Why sure I do. Bobby and I used to hit the clubs together, isn't that right?"

"Uh..yeah"

"In fact. I remember that one time you had me distract that girl....couldn't have been more than 17, so you could slip a roofie in her drink and take her home. You were getting laid that night one way or another, am I right or am I right?"

At this point, she has a horrified look on her face. His isn't much better. So I decided to leave, but not before giving Bobby a bit of advice.

"Have to go man, but it was nice seeing you again man. Keep in touch about that rape case though man. Just remember....her word against yours and you'll get off scot free."

I walked away, handed Seymour a towel and a new ice cream cone, and enjoyed the chaos.

Don't fuck with my friends.

When Hobbies go Too Far

Yesterday while I was surfing the internet here at work for porn..I mean material to write about I came across something disturbing. Someone actually spent time and energy writing a Xena crossover fan fiction with...Mama's Family.

Now before I continue, I have to say that I'm not against fan fiction...even the slash stuff (which is man on man as far as I know). It's writing, and I'm all for that. But as in every hobby, there are people who step over into that space we call... the Creepy Zone.

First is the Harry Potter slash people. Like I said, I don't care much for it, but different strokes for different folks. Fine. But when you start doing explictly sexual stuff with characters that are as far as I know underage, it goes beyond harmless into something much more disturbing. Harry/Snape slash fiction makes me want to rip my eyes out and cast some spell to the writer to seek some fucking help. You can call it fantasy or whatever, just don't be shocked when Chris Hansen visits you soon.

Sex comics featuring Pikachu....what...the...fuck?

Goku(dragonball z) and Anne Frank fan fiction. I shit you not. Thankfully they don't have sex, but at least Goku is able to battle and destroy HITLER, thus saving some lives in the process. No clue if Goku was really what landed at Hiroshima. Here's the link to that epic battle:

http://smallcave.net/goferchan/afgoku02.html

Steve Perry fan fiction. Look, I like Journey. I like their songs...I even played the arcade game. But NEVER have I ever had the desire to write a story involving the former Journey frontman. I could see like Rick Springfield, cause he was a good looking guy. But Steve Perry? What's next...Ric Ocasek slash? And this one is in FOUR PARTS! They had to put so much into it that one story couldn't contain it. Ken Burn's Steve Perry Slash.

http://aquila-productions.tripod.com/id200.html


Sexual fan fiction where for no reason well known characters suddenly become furries. Just when you can get off to just Captain Kirk and Spock living long time together, these people decide the twist the knife in your childhood by making them foxes. Dear God I need to bleach my brain.

But none of this...NONE OF THIS...could compare to what I found next. This passes the point of creepy until it became literally another level of hell altogether.

Not safe for work, home, or quite possibly anywhere

Jesus Christ having sex with a whale that fell out of the sky and breathes fire.

You read that right. Let me put it in caps just to make it clear:

JESUS CHRIST HAVING SEX WITH A FUCKING WHALE THAT HAS FIRE BREATH AND FALLS OUT OF THE DAMN SKY!!

Here are some of the brain crashing dialogue from this abortion called writing:

Jesus; "To bad its cold out," he though "I look so good in just my undergarments."

I end this with the line that made even my jaded soul weep:

"Jesus awoke from a fitful sleep. He couldn't get the whale out of his head. Or more specifically the whales monstrous phallus. "

And people call me the fucked up one.

The Safety Dance Doesn't Involve Electrical Tape.

So on the rare days I actually step foot in a mall, I have to listen to this radio station that plays "upbeat" music, which basically means pure unadulterated shit. I find nothing upbeat about having to listen to "Men In Black" and "My Goddamn Humps" 18 times a fucking day. In fact, it makes me Hulk mad. But there's one song that always plays I hate worst than anything...and I'll get to it's name in a minute. It caused me to think about the short period of time where I was going to dance clubs a LOT. Yeah, me. Stop snickering.

As I was thinking on those times, I realized there were several reasons why I no longer go to dance clubs. If I offend, well I'm just going on my experiences. Here are some of the many types of club people:

The "I don't dance" Guy- As the name implies, he does NOT dance. He merely stands there, usually with beer in hand, and watches the women. These guys are normally the ones dressed in heavy metal shirts...or shirts with lightning bolts and wolves on them. They think they can score. They are wrong.

The Pinball Guy- I say guy because these are the only ones I've seen do this. This guy likes to dance...and will bounce from woman to woman like a human pinball game in search of one who doesn't look at him like he has a penis growing out of his eye. If he's drinking, he's the one most likely to tilt when you shake him.

The Fake Lesbians- You know what I'm talking about, the girls who only dance with each other and dance seductively. You aren't fooling anybody. It screams "LOOK AT US TEE HEE" in bright neon letters. In fact, you should program that phrase into your dumbass lcd belts. Bleh.

The Serious Dancer- Usually a guy, but I've seen the female version as well, these are the people who think they are the best dancers on the planet and will waste no time in showing you. The only problem is, 99% of people go to clubs to drink and get laid, so nobody cares. Nobody. So while you're busting a move...remember that people are looking at the fake lesbians, not you. Ever.

The Circle of Lonely Men- This is a sad one, and one I've seen way too many times. You're dancing with your friends and one of your lady friends happens to get separated from the group. That's when it happens. It starts off with just one guy...no big deal. But this man somehow sends out a Morse code with his foot or some shit and before you know it, she's surrounded by the circle of lonely men. And much like the people on the beach when the kid gets eaten in Jaws, there's not a damn thing you can do but watch...and sometimes laugh.

The Drunk Frat Guys- Nuff said.

The "Playas" and "Ballas"- Ok, first off, add a goddamn "er" to the end of your words...it makes you sound retarded. These are the guys who will approach anything with a vagina(and sometimes a guy if he's pretty enough and he thinks he won't get caught) and when he ends up with the ugliest woman there, claims he's got "skillz". No you don't have "skillz" you have my condolences when Godzilla the Mud Monster crushes you in bed.

And finally, the type of person who inspired this blog...

The "Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me" Mutant- God bless you for having the confidence, but hell no. But there's a "Balla" looking for a good time.

Watching Paint Dry IS Boring as Hell

So I haven't written in a couple days. I could hem and haw and can claim to be too busy, but seeing as I don't have to work, that would be a lie. The truth is too horrible...too mind numbing to properly put into words...

But I'll do it anyway.

Saturday night, Sara, her friend April, and myself went out to drink. Seeing as I don't really have many friends, I thought I'd make the effort to become a bit more social. I was thinking of buying a few pitchers of beers, shoot the breeze, and maybe have a threesome.

I was kidding about the threesome...well mostly.

So we go over to April's house, and we all head out. Since I haven't had any beer in a few months (due to events I won't get into), I was ready to get my drink on, as the kids now say.

And then they tricked me.

Sara and April decided to get their nails done. Since I was now trapped, I decided to wait it out. It couldn't be that bad right? I mean, how long could it take...15 minutes...a half hour?

It was a goddamn eternity.

I would have preferred to spend the day hanging out with the lovely people at the DMV than to be subjected to this. My brain turned to mush reading about how some Dawson's Hill actor and how many actresses drool over him. The only moment of enjoyment was a woman yelling out to the car to her friend about "getting their toes did". Her words, not mine.

It was so bad I longed to watch grass grow...to measure the ear hair of old men...to watch a Michael Bay film. It was an hour and a half, but I know I must have aged three times that amount of time. If I was a dog, I would have dropped dead that's how long it felt.

Finally it was over, and we went out and enjoyed some beers. But the memory of that day will haunt me. A warning to those men who go out with their old ladies...make sure you're doing the driving.

So enough about me...

So at the therapy meeting this week, Doc Hill decided to lecture me about my blog and some of the anger in them. "What anger?" I asked, because I didn't see it. He also got onto me about my vulgarity, but it's my blog and I'll write what I want to.

And then I got a freakin assignment.

I'm now suppose to write something about some of the therapy group members...why I don't know. But I'm suppose to be nice, so I guess I will be....sort of.

Let's meet this band of misfi....mischievous folk.

Allen- This young man is a pathological liar...in other words, his fantasy stories are often more amusing than what's really going on. Often I'll comes to therapy in a bad mood, and after hearing how angels in bikinis helped turn his car into a tye dyed colored tank, would feel much better.

Janine- I'm not quite sure what her problem is, outside of the fact the mere sight of people makes her roll up into some sort of human ball. I'll try to talk to her, but it's like trying to get a mime out of the invisible box he's trapped in...not going to happen. She seems like a good kid though.

Seymour- Our resident Lenny...minus the rabbit. This most of the time gentile giant comes from a group home and is very childlike. I heard he came into the group because he got so upset at not having meatballs for dinner that he broke one of the orderly ribs, but I'm sure not going to ask. He seems to like me though, so that's good in case I need someone for a fight. I'd just tell him the guy attacking me took his meatballs.

Jessica - The goth princess. This teenager likes to draw on herself....too bad the drawing involves a razor blade. I know I'm suppose to be nice and all, but Jessica can be a bit of a...hmm what's a nice way to put it....a whiny, bratty little bitch. Talking over people, making fun of Seymour, and just a part of this new generation I refer to as "annoying". She also write U for you and 2 for to/too.

Uh oh...I'm probably going to be in trouble again. If that's the case...fuck ass shit cock balls and testicle breath.

"Ever Seen An Old Woman Naked, Timmy?

Sorry to use such a disturbing title, but it got your attention didn't it?

Today I'm going to discuss something that most guys won't admit to, at least not while sober. I fully blame basic instincts (not the terrible Sharon Stone movies, although it didn't help) for this, but shame causes most of us to not admit to ourselves the truth....

We will look at any woman naked.

Now I'm excluding gay men because....well they like other men. Nothing more. But heterosexual men will look at a pair of tits, regardless if it's on a hot chick, a 400 hambeast, or grandma just suntanning her sweater puppies on the old folks home deck.

Now this doesn't mean we like it...I know there are times I haven't enjoyed it...but much like a car accident, we have to look because in our minds, we have to see every woman naked. It's almost like a game in our heads to see who has seen the most women naked. It's a game that's never really discussed because guys would be ragging on each other to hide their shame that they hadn't seen that particular woman nude...despite her having hairy nipples.

I'm just saying that tits are the greatest thing God (or whoever you choose to believe or not believe in) ever created and should be free to look at by all...just don't brag to me about it or I'll mock you until you cry.

Life a Beach, and then you Dry

I was woken from a peaceful slumber cause by the consumption of many beers by Sara this morning, who informed me that we would be going to the beach. As I'm not really one that enjoys being around large groups of people herding around in skimpy clothing (hence you not finding me at nightclubs or Applebees), I did everything to get out of it. From whining like a bitch to the Miles Gordon patented "puppy dog of sadness" face, I could not overcome the wily charms of my better half.

Once we got to the beach, Sara got into her beach clothing (showing off her awesome rack by the way) I decided to wade through the dregs of humanity to find any nuggets of humor...or shark's teeth.

What I found:

- A skinny white man with snoop dogg braided hair that apparently his fat friend/prison bitch made for him. I watched as these two lover boys tried their charms on any women that came their way...including two women apparently mentally retarded. They may have developmental problems, but even these women could see that Snoop and the Fatman would make bad choices for mates. Good for you girls.

- Kids who think that's it perfectly OK to splash water on me for no reason. They apparently have a problem though if I grab a bucket, fill it with mother nature's sink, and splash the diseased little bastards with her own backwash.

- Women wearing swimsuits that tell you that the material holding them in is working overtime. Look out.

- Men watching these women. I'll write about that soon.

- The only pair of boobs I got to see belonged to some 300 pound guy. They were impressive though.

As we finally left (and my skin burned to a toasty crisp), I noticed two more things. One, was the van in front of us with two 12 packs of the worst beer ever (Milwaukee's best) strapped on the back. Why no put it IN the van and not let us know you have terrible taste in beer?

Oh the other thing? A fat Jesse Duke on one of those motorized carts heading to the beach.

"It looks like Ol' Uncle Jesse is in for a heap of diabetes and sunburn".

Nature is NOT a gum flavor

Now just because I'm a celebrity (and I use that term in the absolute loosest of terms) doesn't mean I don't do ordinary things. I hold the door open for people, I help little old ladies across the street (even if they don't want to) and most importantly, I buy gum. Chewing gum would remind me of the happy times as a kid with my mom. Back then (back then...what am I 80?) you'd get the occasional weird flavor...I mean what kid didn't look in astonishment when blue raspberry flavor came out? It's been a while since I've chewed some gum, so I thought I'd do it for nostalgia and to piss off my dentist.

Boy was I in for a shock.

Overwhelmingly outnumbering the more traditional gums were flavors such as Glacier Freeze, Rain, Flare, and Lush. What the hell? Overlooking the fact that these are terrible names to give gum...well let's take "Lush" for instance. It's not a flavor it's a freaking adjective. How does an adjective taste? Beats me, cause I didn't buy the shit.

Does Flare taste like eating road flares? Rain really doesn't have a taste, so how does a gum executive play God and decide a flavor for it? These questions deserve answers dammit.

Also mixed in were abominations where two perfectly fine on their own flavors are mixed together to make the worst combinations of gum ever created. Mint and watermelon? Vanilla and spearmint? Apple and Turpentine? I mean is there no end to this?

Gum executives, please read this....Grape is a flavor...winter mist is not.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to chew some strawberry banana hubba bubba.

A Latte Trouble for Travis

Routine is something that we all strive for in some way or another. From mapping out when you take a crap, to coming home and expecting your wife/husband/domesticated animal to be there. As crazy as I'm told I am, I'm not above having a routine myself.

There's a little place I like to go to to have a cup of coffee, a snack, or just to sit and watch people. It's not very busy, darkly lit, and have great atmosphere.

And it has Travis.

Travis is the poor soul who works there, and is the subject of my routine. The routine? Making his day interesting. Once I spoke to him the entire time in carny talk. Another time I had " I heart Travis" shirts made and handed them out to all the customers. From having him taste all my food, to making him sing out the menu to me, I've been sure to come in at least once a week.

Now I know what you're thinking..."that is sort of mean, Gene", and to some I'm sure it is, but I view it as making his day interesting. I never do anything harmful to him, or anything to make him lose his job...he's just my way of releasing pent up anger in a safe and hopefully amusing way.

Maybe I'm just an asshole.

I think Doc Hill hates me

Not being amused at my recent posts, I was told to reveal more about myself on here. Not like the National Headline doesn't have enough bullshit material on me. But if I must...and apparently I must...

Yes, I was in a sitcom in the 80's called "All Write Now"...they should have called it "Generic Single Parent Family Sitcom #236". I played the young boy "David Write"...get it? Of course you do. You'd have to have an IQ slightly below tree bark not to. Although the show was popular enough, we were only on for two seasons.

Why? Because of me.

I hated doing it. Since my dad is 80's redneck action star Bruce Ashmore (star of such "classics" as "18 Wheels of Death" and "Jukebox Jones"), I guess the idea was to capitalize on his name. But the producer's mistake for only signing me for two years, and when it was time for a new contract...well I had enough of Los Angeles to last me for several lifetimes (no offense to the people still trapped...I mean living there).

Everyone was pissed at me, but I didn't care. I had some money and a mom who took care of me, and that's all I needed.

Well I hope that's enough info about me...if you want to learn more, go to your local library or catch the rerun of E! True Hollywood Story: People who don't give a shit.

There is creepy...

And then there is uber creepy. And I know uber creepy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5wdmSL2-Ock

I think he guest starred on "All Write Now" with me once...or maybe that was a reoccurring nightmare I have.

Velveeta gets a bad (W)rap

I've always been curious as to why Velveeta gets such a bad reputation. I mean, it sure tastes better than that fancy schmancy goat cheese that all the SoHo kids are on and on about. And don't get me started on the false advertisement that is called bleu cheese.

The main argument against the rectangular block of beauty is that it's not "real cheese" and go so far as to call it plastic.

The nerve! As if trying something new is a bad thing. I mean, I vividly remember eating play-doh as a child/adult and I feel fine. It's a Velveeta vendetta and I won't stand for it...mainly because my legs would get tired. I'd go the John Lennon route and do a lay-in, but Sara says she wouldn't know the difference from what I do now. I think that was an insult....hmm.

Gotta go, it's dinner time and Sara just broke out the spaghetti factory.

So this is where I start eh?

When Dr. Hill first asked me to keep a diary, I thought he meant one where I would write down the boys I had crushes on, and when I got my first period. So I bought the prettiest diary and wrote in it for days.

Dr. Hill was not amused, although my Hello Kitty stickers added a wonderful touch to it.

So here I am on the computer and I'm suppose to be "Serious", but how can someone be serious when life presents all this comedy to be observed and shared?

Take yesterday,please. See, a joke right there. The classics never get funny. I'm walking down the street when out of nowhere this man turns the corner...and it's Frankie Avalon circa 1963. Hawaiian shirt? Check. The most perfectly gorgous hair helmet known to man? Check.

Sadly, 1963 Annette wasn't around the corner, despite multiple looks in that direction.

If 1963 Frankie had started singing Venus, I would have fallen for the Big Kahuna's charms. No mortal being could withstand it.