Monday, June 27, 2011

Mr. Mayor, you suck.

To the Honorable Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York - Asshat of the Day.

Congratulations, sir. You've gotten one step closer to making the LES uninhabitable by the working poor of the neighborhood. I'm sure it'll be grand when all the "dirty poor people" are gone and replaced by Wall Streeters looking for an easy commute.

Gone will be the former tenements that provide living history lessons for the last unique neighborhood in Manhattan. Those buildings will be replaced by slick glass and steel.

You, dear sir, have drawn my ire this day for the dislocation of a rightly proud man and a neighborhood icon. Jeffery's Meats closed a for good a few days ago. It seems Jeff couldn't swing the 30% increase in his rent.

It's not unusual for businesses to get priced out of their neighborhoods. The new twist for me, is watching the City of New York play the role of greedy landlord.

Councilwoman Chin spoke up for Jeff, reminding the bureaucrats & your flying monkeys of the fact that his family has been an occupant of the Essex Market since it's inception in the 40's. She also pointed out he felt he had to keep his prices as low as possible to service the denizens of Delancey. She told how he taught classes for free to anyone that would attend techniques that would make lesser cuts of meat more tender and flavorful. For that, I give the Councilwoman a big thumbs up for actually trying to do right by her constituency. To the uncaring douchebags at City Hall that lick the boots of the Emperor, I offer my contempt.

I will admit I may be biased. I consider Jeff my friend. But so do the hundreds, if not thousands of people that would seek him out to learn to better provide for their families, to be regaled with stories and be treated not as a customer, but a cherished family member.

Your lackeys say all the tenants rents must be raised due to the financial hardships the city faces. God forbid the Mayors vanity projects such as the Highline be put on hold. Yes, it's nice. I don't think it will provide provide free Thanksgiving dinners for neighbors that would otherwise do without, though. I don't think the ill-fated 2nd Ave line will help feed hungry families on a nightly basis, either, since I'm doubtful it will even be completed in my lifetime.

With Jeff's departure, the neighborhood got a little less livable for the people that kept it alive during the bad times of the 70s, 80s & early 90s. The city has lost an institution...a raconteur icon...a friend

I understand you dont care about the people in Manhattan that can't afford Whole Foods. We all know the goal is to save the island for the "haves" while the "have nots" are shuffled out on the J train. It's a much brighter city for you when "the help" departs for their "new" barrios in the outer boroughs. I get where you're coming from, Mr. Mayor, and it sickens me.

I'm assuming the rent increases will force out all the current tenants, eventually. The seafood stall, the muffin men, the barbers, the grocer will, I predict, become an endangered species fairly swiftly. When that comes to pass, your cronies can continue the glass and steel debacle you've already started.

If there's any irony in the world, you'll be squashed like a bug under an improperly secured crane when you attend the ground-breaking of one of the monstrosities you so dearly love. If there's any justice in the world, you'll be buried in a public lot so I can drink a shot to your demise, smoke a cigarette and stub it on your headstone, then piss on your grave, you heartless son of a bitch.

I occasionally joke about hoping an asshat "dies in a fire". I'm not going to make that joke today, because I can', to hell with it. I hope you die in a fire, you piece of shit.

With all due respect, of course.

Friday, July 23, 2010

At Least Banks Appreciate My Business Now...huh?

I've been banking with a certain large bank for several years. For the sake of this story, let's call the bank "Bank of America". I chose them, primarily, because of location and convenience. There was a branch near the two bars I was running, and they had one of the few "big bank" branches in the slowly gentrifying neighborhood I was residing in at the time. Upon my relocation to Atlanta last year, I was informed I'd need to close my NY account and open an account locally.

I made a little time, like a good sheep, and went in to the local Branch. I closed the "old" account and opened a "new" account. Even though I had been banking with them for years, they still charged me for the whole Magilla: new checks, same maintenance fees, blah, blah, blah. As I said earlier, I stayed w/ them for years out of convenience (even though I was overpaying in maintenance fees). At that point, I stayed because I was lazy and...well...I was there.

Last Friday, I checked my bank balance on my iPhone. To my surprise, rather than the one checking and one savings accounts I had maintained for over a year, I had another checking account...and it was over-drawn. Ummmm...what? I had never had access to this account before on my phone, but the last four digits matched my "closed for over a year" account. Closer scrutiny showed 11 withdrawals of $12.00 for monthly service leaving a negative balance of $33 and some change. Ummm...WTF???

This past Monday, I went to the branch in the morning and spoke with a gent (for the sake of this blog, let's call him Donald) about identifying and correcting the problem. Donald examined the entries on his screen at his little kiosk and finally asked "Why did you leave this money in the account?" I told him, to the best of my memory, I had not. I was under the impression the account had been emptied into the new account. "Hmmm," said Donald. "Great", thought I.

I explained that I had not been able to even see this information until a few days prior, and had received no statements regarding the old account. Donald corrected me by stating "Oh, you've been receiving statements. It says so here".

Me: Donald, I'm sure you don't mean to sound arrogant, but I promise you I haven't received any mailings.

Donny Douchebag: Well, it says so here.

Me: Don, I first found the account on Friday. I'm here on the following Monday. Does that strike you as the action of someone that's been dragging his ass for a year?

DD: It says it was mailed.

Me: Well, Donny, since I'm the one that's out a hundred plus bucks, and I'm the one here complaining, perhaps we should let the mailing issue go for now and address one of the aspects of the scenario that will make me go away.

DD: Let me do a little more looking...

Me: Hey Don-boy, how about at least acknowledging that I made a statement, please. After all, even if I'm not as well versed in banking as you, I can certainly complain to your superiors about sub-par treatment, and I'm certainly capable of making you cry like a little girl. So let's try to keep this professional before it gets shitty for both of us. Whatta ya say?

DD: Yes Mr. Martin

Me: (sigh)

DD: (after a few moments) Good news! I can refund you $35!

Me: Why is that good news? The bank owes me over $100.

DD: Well, I can only access the last 6 months.

Me: OK. What about the rest?

DD: Don't forget, you weren't actually charged the overdrawn $33.

Me: Right. What's 11 x $12?

DD: $132

Me: Right. That's the gross. What's 132 - 33?

DD: 99.

Me: Right. That's the net. Give me $99 and I'll leave happy. Most importantly, I'll leave your kiosk.

DD: I'll have to turn it over to security for investigation.

Me: What, they're the only ones that can deal in returning more than $35 when it's stolen from a customer?

DD: It's my only option.

Me: Fine. How long will this take?

DD: (sigh) A few days, probably.

Me: (heavier sigh) I guess that'll have to do. If I haven't heard from someone by Thursday, I'll be back to talk to someone that isn't you. I assume one of the rats in the glass cages against the back wall answers when you call "Boss", right?

DD: Well, technically, they're all my bosses.

Me: Cool. I'll be waiting for that phone call.

The phone call came on Wednesday. Donny-boy, himself, called to give the good news. Security had approved returning $110 to yours truly. I told Donald I'd be in later in the week to close out the account...and this time it needed to stay closed.

Before you back up the page, you're right. I had only been seeking $99. When the extra $11 was offered I classified it as, what some in the bar business refer to as, Asshole tax. If Donny had been a tad less of a douchebag, I would have done the right thing and pointed it out. Since he was a total sphincter-monkey, however, he could now buy me lunch...Asshat.

There are a couple of truly crappy aspects to this story for me.

1) I shouldn't have been so lazy to begin with. I have to drive by a rival financial institution with better rates just to get to this branch. I was just too lazy to go in and close the account then go to the new bank and open the new account. This will be remedied next week.

2) How can any business that relies on customer relations treat a customer like that when they are clearly in the wrong on so many levels?

2A: They didn't close the account properly when asked.

2B: Something is clearly fishy in that no statements were received for over a year.

2C: When the problem was reported, did this crusty short sniffer think he was gonna bully me into going away? Not friggin' likely. Also, why was there no mea culpa from this walking stain? I'm not saying it was his fault, but he is the rep for the bank. What a wanker.

Just goes to can find asshats in all walks of life. Drunks in a bar, or banker guys in ties at their little kiosks. We owe it to ourselves and each other to make adjustments where we can and administer a (sometimes verbal) neckpunch when called for.

I saw my duty and I did it. Hopefully Wachovia will do better.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Thumbs up & Pokes in the Eye

Today, My VooDoo Love Children, I'll throw out a few accolades to people and companies that are doing things right. Then, of course, I'll beat down the asshats, douchebags and funcktards that make me want to become the first serial junkpuncher.

Kudos to:

The good folks at Schick. Their newest product, the Hydro 5 is fucking awesome. Made to compete w/ the Gillette Mach 3 (a fine razor, but not terribly resilient) and it's ilk. It blows the competition away. The shaves are ridiculously close. The price is 15-20% less than the Mach 3 and is easily 4 times as durable.

My Oncology Team @ Northwest GA Oncology: Getting cancer sucks. But if you gotta have it, Dr. Hahm and her staff are the people to have in your corner.

The Center for Puppetry Arts: If you're into puppets, you REALLY need to check out the exhibits. It's heavy into Jim Henson (as it should be, given his contributions to TV and Film), but also explains and demonstrates many types of puppets popular throughout history and has several interactive displays that will keep kids AND adults mesmerized (making a giant locust do the Humpty Dance is freakin' AWESOME!!!).

Pokes in the Eyes:

BP: Duh. What else can I say that hasn't already been said?

Haliburton: Quietly billing millions (soon to be billions) of dollars in the gulf debacle w/out an ounce of progress.

Joran Van der Sloot: Didn't make the list for being a lying, scumbag serial killer...which he is. He made the list for trying to extort $250,000 from the Holloway family to supply info to the whereabouts of their daughters remains. What a fucking scumbag.

The guy in front of me at the drive thru ATM: If you have more than 3 transactions and people are behind you, don't use the drive thru. Go inside or at least use the walk up. Additionally, if you're using 3 different cards to complete multiple transactions while the line just gets longer, and longer, and're a fucking asshat that needs a punch in the neck.

Heather Henson: That's right, the youngest of the Jim Henson. She's also into puppets. Not muppets, mind you, she "doesn't like them" and would rather you didn't submit anything "too muppetty" to her film company for consideration. Evidently, she forgets that Elmo pays her rent, and her orthodontics and education were made possible by grants from the denizens of Sesame Street. Additionally, even though she had a whole row reserved for her at Puppet Slam @ Dad's Garage, she didn't bother to show up until it was over (it ran from midnight to 1:30 a.m.) to make sure as much attention as possible was devoted to her. UGH. As the delicate flower, known as FFGirly, waxed so poetically..."she needs a kick in the taco". Truer words may never have been spoken.
Thumbs UP:
Puppet Slam @ Dad's Garage Theatre: witness moments of pure comic genius while surrounded by the oddest collection of escapees from a Dragon/Comic Con ever assembled. A great time!
The Dispostion: AKA The DIS. Saw a preview of this new (pending) web/blog site. It shows lots of promise to be freakin' awesome. When it's officially up, I'll share the link.
Other Blogs: Some Blogs I like to follow for various reasons. Check them out, if you get a chance.
Gonna end on this high note, my VooDoo Love Children. Whether they be aimed at neck or junk, keep your punches straight.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

The Matty vs. the Uber-Douche...penpal style. Pt 1

Got a long one today, friends. Actually, it's gonna be a series of long ones.

Over the last few days, I received several emails from a guy I used to know that has made some..questionable decisions in his pursuit of love, attention, or whatever it is that floats his boat. I reached out to him at the request of a young lady friend that he had become enamored with when he saw her picture on my fb page. She had asked me to intervene on her behalf, as she was turned off by his behavior and manic tendencies. She had asked him to quit contacting her, and he continued. As I had foolishly vouched for him based on our previously knowing each other 20-odd years earlier, I felt obligated to try to clear things up. I contacted him directly and, as diplomatically as I knew how, suggested he needed to find another pursuit. He promptly de-friended me and bombarded her w/ double digit emails and phone calls over the next few days. Bear in mind, he had never even been in the same state as the girl, 18 yr.s his junior, much less in the same room. They had merely contacted each other via fb, im and later, phone calls over a two week period. I mentioned the situation in a blog over a year ago. He wasn't mentioned by name but now, a year later, he has crawled out from whatever rock he's been hiding under and is suddenly offended by the post. Phhhhhttttt!

Chapter 1

"If you're 40-plus years old, and instantly fall in love with a 24 year old girl on facebook or myspace after seeing her picture, you're sad. If, after a few online chats, you get jealous because she works late, you're a loser. If, after being advised to let it go and get on with your life, you continue to inundate the girl with dozens of emails, fb or myspace messages, AIM messages, etc over the next 72 hours, you're instantly elevated to Uber-Douche."

OK, first of all you've been terribly misled, but I'll get to that in just one second. For now let me just say I found this quite amusing and have definitely been called a lot worse by a lot better people. I'm sure you have. Your behavior, as will be documented, makes it seem unlikely that you haven't had a great litany of adjectives attached to your name. It's nice you're so well (or is it mal) adjusted that you're ok w/ it.

Actually I don't mind being considered an "uber-douche," but I just cannot stand the awful karma that goes with being one. The karma's on you, dude. Nobody to blame but yourself. Although I must say I'd rather be an "uber-douche" who's free of any hematological malignancies than the really super-cool guy who isn't. This is a reference to my being diagnosed w/ Multiple Myeloma. Ohhhh, that hurt. You're right. It must be better to be a bully of girls than to have cancer. Given the choice, I'll take the cancer. Enjoy your decision, cock-hole. That's what generates your karma. I do appreciate the compliment of being a "super-cool guy", though. Besides, not everyone thinks I'm a "U-D." Such as, the people who actually know me or take time to find out the truth about things before displaying the kind of integrity it takes to write that kind of thing about someone without even saying their name or, I don't know, saying it directly TO them, ever. Well, obviously you're suffering from selective amnesia. If you recall, I did reach out to you at the very beginning of all this. You immediately de-friended me, removing any avenue that I had to reach you again. I left all names out of the post as a courtesy to both you and your victim. I thought I was being pretty considerate. If you feel differently, feel free to respond in the comment section giving me the authority to use your name and I'll be more than happy to use it. Besides, everyone knows only real uber-douches use such terms as "uber-douche." And by that logic, you are now an uber-douche. I'm rubber, you're glue...infinity. So suck it, you asshat.

Now, without wasting much more of my time slumming here, perhaps it would be fun to, just for a minute, let you in on some surprising facts. And by the way, I don't just pour gravy on opinions or positions and label them "facts." I identify them as facts and then prove them indisputably in any number of ways. I'm sorry you're out of your element here in my slum, but I didn't invite your fusillade of emails (7 in 3 days) that drew this, the first of several chapters of your little manifesto. Mmmm, gravy.

Fact 1: I'm guessing you didn't know the ONLY person who even uttered the word "love," was not I, it was "L". And she didn't just utter it, she professed hers for me in writing, several times, even after being told to quit kidding around. Let me guess ... "The Matty" wasn't told that bit of information, was he. Hmmm. I'll gladly accept any missives that verify your claim. "L"s version differs wildly. Of course, it's no surprise that your delusional mind sees things that others can't. Instead of "I see dead people", it's "I see whatever I need to see to validate myself".

Fact 2: More of a question, really, but of what was I supposedly "jealous," based on someone working late? I was jealous of the chex mix because it got to sit in a bowl there and I couldn't? I'm going to guess you got this second-hand too, and not from anything you saw written by me or actually heard me say. No, I didn't actually hear you say anything. But then again, you were a thousand miles away at the time. I was working at the bar w/ "L" the night you sent her the malicious missive (like the alliteration?) berating her for not being available at the time the two of you had set to chat on IM. It appeared from your aforementioned email that you were convinced she was back w/ an ex-boyfriend, which she was not. Additionally, we didn't serve Chex mix, it was too expensive. We just used pretzels.

Fact 3: If you had done something as brutally disrespectful and malicious to me as "L" did, I would've without a sound just taken out one of your knees and then put you to sleep in a way you wouldn't be able to remember when you woke up. That I'd like to see, numbnuts. And that would've been that, as they say. I'm not going to sit here and explain or justify anything to you, however, or explain why my actions had you done anything equally as brutal and intentional to me would've been so much different than what they ended up being with her. If you have no desire to explain or justify anything, fine. I had forgotten you even existed until you started your manic rambling campaign a few days ago. Once again, you've proven the not so old adage: a jackass doesn't know when to shut the hell up.

And finally, MATT, (See, he thinks by using Matt rather than Matty I'll be offended, hence the capitalization. God, what a douche) I sure do hope you'll announce it to the world when you've become an expert on and mastered the dynamics between men and women, which I expect should be quite soon. It's no great stretch. Don't try to bully women into behaving the way you want. Take them at face value when they say they don't want anything else to do with you. Don't create multiple email accounts when your email is blocked. Don't set up ficticious fb accounts to try to spy on people. At best it's just creepy, at worst... First, if I ever had "instantly fall(en) in love with a 24 year old girl on facebook or myspace after seeing her picture," I would've considered myself one of the most fortunate people alive. Then you are the most fortunate Fruit Loop you know. When you first contacted me about her, you were a gushing 'tard. Even when I told you she used to be a man (just joking at the time) you continued the gush. It was more than a tad embarrassing for me at the time. Because of course I am not required to observe or employ whatever your definition of "love" is, and if/when the time comes that I do fall in love with someone, I promise you I am not going to give a rat's ass whether or not you find it "sad," or anything else you could possibly opine. 40something man chasing 20something girl after merely seeing her picture is, in fact, pretty friggin' sad. Live with it. And second, I honestly thought you were intelligent enough to know all that bullshit you regurgitated can quickly and easily be rendered totally meaningless with one simple, factual observation I pose to you now as a question: WERE YOU THERE? 'Cause I damn sure don't remember you being anywhere around, ever, much less every single second. No, I wasn't there. And neither were you, moron. You were several states away. I was privy to many, and I mean many, emails as they rolled in on her phone, however. Is that close enough for you, dipshit?

Aside from the fact the girl probably isn't even legal to begin with, you know damn well she's confrontational, a bully, and really just kinda fucked in the head - for starters - and I don't suffer fools lightly, male or female. Amazing how her immigration status didn't factor into your equation when you were seeking a paramour. Only after being rebuffed did you come up w/ this ridiculous accusation. You keep referring to how close you got to her and how well you know her, but you don't even know she was born in this country? Dude, you are 32 flavors of fucked up. So in summary, not only is your opinion meaningless to the point of amusing to me, the simple truth is you don't know shit and thus have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. Which I only tell you now of course just in case you had the slightest bit of integrity and actually cared whether or not the things you write are even valid or have merit. Blah, blah, blah, asshat, douchebag, ramblings of a massive tool.

At least now we can be glad to know where we both stand on things. And any time you're interested and I feel like taking the time, maybe I'll send a jolt or two through you and show/tell you the kinds of things that could motivate a person to switch their douche into uber-drive. Once again, the post that you now find so offensive you have known about for over a year. It makes my stance on things pretty clear...I think youre an uber-douche. I'm sure things are lonely for you, dancing around in front of the mirrors in a ladies robe you lifted from the dressing room at Lane Bryant, but bro, get a hobby. Get a life. As I stated earlier, I had moved on. The only reason I even got involved in the first place was because I had foolishly vouched for this asshat based on knowing him when we were MUCH younger. Even after the first two emails, I was going to let it go. After the next few, it became game on. Hopefully my gentle readers won't be too bored w/ your bullshit (after all, we're already up to 7 chapters), but I'm sure the payoff at the end will be worth it to them.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Slices of Life from a Cancerous Pie

While I was searching for a reason for my anemia (which obviously was later attributed to Multipe Myeloma), I wound up at the Cardiologist. After some tests and x-rays...

Dr. Sunshine: It's not overly concerning, but you're heart is slightly enlarged.

Me: That's a relief!
DS: (confused) How is that a relief?

Me: Well, there was that time I was in Whoville at Christmas when my heart swelled three times its normal size.

(uncomfortable silence)

Me: It's a joke. It's a reference to "How the Grinch Stole Christmas".

DS: (very dryly) I get the reference.

Me: Wow. If you ever decide not to be a heart specialist, you've got a great future as a funny bone specialist.

(tumbleweeds blowing through the exam room)

After I was diagnosed w/ Myeloma, I was in need of a smoke to calm the nerves. I left the Cancer Building and walked down to the designated smoking area near the parking deck. While there, I noticed a middle-aged woman crossing the street headed in my direction. When she got to me...

Bitchy Chick: You know you're smoking outside the cancer building, right?

Me: Than God. I'd hate to think the wrong people just had their hands up my ass.

BC: You should put that out! People here have cancer!

Me: (taking a long drag) Newsflash, bitch, I have cancer, so how about stepping off my dick? (blowing the smoke at her)
The baffled silence that followed was priceless as she slunk away.

Scenes From the Sticks...
If you're wondering about the picture attached to this post, look very closely. It's a yardsale...a very tacky yardsale...outside of a "by the week/by the hour" motel of questionable repute. The lady running the sale lives there. She has a beer cozy adorned w/ black feathers. Her dental work resembles Michael Spinks (she has no front teeth). The vast majority of her items seem to fall into the "Mardi Gras" or "trashy stripper" category. Imagining this wrinkled sasquatch utilizing any of the stripper gear was enough to make my junk shrivel and crawl up into my belly in fear.

Random Thoughts...

I've been watching a lot of shows w/ the fam that feature midgets/dwarves/little people and find most of them are pretty damned bitchy (does short of stature equal short of patience?) or fairly worthless spouses/workers/humans (did they just give up on excelling in life beccause they couldn't get a job at Santa's Workshop?). The shows would be much more palatable if they were more like their stars...shorter. I really don't need an hour of whiny/angry midgets.

Prediction - Completely broke by the end of the year, Jon (from Jon and Kate plus 8) will make a porno enititled, I'm sure you've guessed it, Jon plus 8. Basically, he'll jump in a pile w/ eight porn sluts and show the world his beanie-weenie and lack of prowess. Kate will be outraged, and do a spread for Hustler in protest.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Suburban Bliss

It's been more than a few months since our hero (me, of course) posted. Sorry, I've been busy. New job, expanded connections w/ the new fam, time w/ the existing fam and, oh yeah, I got cancer.

Some of you already know this, some don't. Regardless, it is what it is. What it is, specifically, is Multiple Myeloma. It's a cancer of the blood. Ironically, it's generally not believed to be related to smoking, so I guess the two pack a day habit I had been working the previous 20-odd years wasn't so bad after all. The good news is, I'm told, due to being caught in very early stages, it should be very treatable. The bad news is, well obviously, it's still cancer which means eventually it'll probably come back. Oh well, what can you do. The saga runs a little something like this...

Early January, 2010: For the first time in forever, I find myself working for a corporate bar. Con - corporate bs, Pro - insurance. When my insurance kicks in, I keep my promise to Rita and go for a check up. After being poked, prodded, probed, tapped, flicked, fingered and generally manhandled, I'm told I'm severely anemic. Over the next few weeks, I see several specialists to determine the cause of this anemia. For reasons unknown to me, it seems the entire medical community could not suppress their urges to shove their fingers/hands/arms up my pooper. Not to sound like a prude, but I'm not a fan of this procedure. It makes Mr. Starfish VERY unhappy. But enough about my sphincter.

My hematologist/oncologist diagnosed me in about two minutes. She's a very sharp lady. Smart and aggressive, I liked her immediately. Her "take no prisoners" attitude won me over out of the gate. I started Revlemid immediately, as well as assorted other meds to combat pain, infection, constipation and any of another dozen afflictions. Things were cool for a couple of weeks, but then took a turn for the worse.

Late February: Deterioration of mass in the femur and the quadriceps (thigh bones and muscles) led to a pretty painful condition and made walking nearly impossible. This landed me in the hospital. While the good people were trying to figure out how to deal w/ it, I wound up stoned as a bat for two weeks and some change. I'm not talking a little stoned. I'm talking gooney-goo-goo, mumbo dog-face, banana patch stoned. I have absolutely no recollection of my stay from about an hour after I hit the emergency room until I "blinked back in" two and a half weeks later. The bad news, I lost two weeks. The good news, I quit smoking. Who knew you just had to get really high on two different kinds of morphine, oxycodone, oxycontin, vicadin and various other pain killers to get the monkey off your back?

Mid-March: After waking up from my med-fueled stupor, my legs were in rough shape. Though they'd achieved the right mix for a cocktail to deal w/ the pain, my legs had deteriorated further, and now I could add two weeks of atrophy to the list of problems. The lower quads wouldn't quite fire correctly anymore. I was gonna have to learn to walk again. Two weeks of physical therapy got me up in a walker and motoring around pretty well. My first day, I was only good for a very painful 20 ft or so. 4 days later, a moderately painful 75 ft. 9 days, 300 ft. 12 days, 600 ft and change and I was tired before I felt any residual pain. the Matty rocks!!!

Now and the Future: I've set up a fb fanpage to keep my homeys apprised of what's going on titled "The Matty vs. Multiple Myeloma". Look it up if you like, join if you like. I appreciate the feedback and it feeds my ego to see the numbers climb.

In the (hopefully) near future, I'll be putting together fundraisers for several Cancer funds that have stepped up to help during my time of need. Since all I really know how to do is throw a party, I'm sure it'll devolve into some type of drunk-fest, but I'll already have the cash in hand, so screw it, just don't drink and drive. The work in progress is a tour of several cities (Atlanta, New York, Chicago and L.A. are the working cities, thus far) to raise money for local as well as national charities.

I'm also setting up a shop page on Cafe Press for T-shirts, hoodies, steins and stuff to help keep the bills paid (not working sucks). If you see something you like, by all means buy it. I'll post the sites on the Myeloma and the Asshats fanpages, so there's no excuse to miss it.

Hopefully, this answers all the questions my pals have been afraid to ask for the last couple of months. Yes, it sucks. No, I'm not scared. Yes, I'm annoyed at the timing (Jeez I finally hook up w/ the greatest gal in the world after 40-something years, and now this). No, I'm not ready to run the white flag.

With a little help and support from family and friends, I'll beat this by the end of the year. No problem.

Big Love to all.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

The Archives

Talking with a guy in a restaurant the other day, I was reminded of a few stories/exchanges from the last several years...

Randomness -

Snotty NYU bitch: "I'm never coming back to this bar. It stinks like vomit!!!"

As she turned away, the source of the odor she was complaining of was evident. The back of her skirt was covered in barf. I'm guessing someone lost their Chicken a la King on her. Oh, well.

St. Patricks Day -

A young lady staggered from the bar, leaned over the A-frame sign, and blew chunks in front of God and everyone. After her purge, she lurched over to the wall of the next building and proceeded to dry heave for several minutes. During this time, her dutiful boyfriend exited the bar to be supportive, hold her hair and do the "good boyfriend shit".

When she finished expunging the devil liquor from her system, she rewarded him in classic style. With a a hug and a kiss. He tried to pull away, but wasn't quick enough. When they separated, he had a nice racing stripe of barf running from the middle of his chest to his belt. Ah, young love.

Randomness II -

As I was escorting a young gent to the door for acting like an asshat, he stopped abruptly and announced "I don't wanna be here anyway! This bar SUCKS!!!"

Me: "You know, you're right. Let me fix that"

I took him by the shoulders and moved him out the door onto the sidewalk.

"There, now the bar doesn't suck anymore. Thanks for pointing out the problem, douche."

You're Parents Must Be Proud -

I entered the bar from a smoke break and saw one of the regulars flagging me relentlessly.

Ed: "That guy...PEE!"

Me: (looking at a guy at a table by the door sitting with his back to the wall) "That guy? What? When?"

Ed: "Now!!!"

(leaning over, I saw the monkey-fuck was, in fact peeing on the floor at that exact moment in time)

I casually walked towards the door. As I approached the failure in Darwinism, I grabbed the table and jerked it away. He was like a deer caught in the headlights...with his johnson hanging out. He tried to run by me, but I grabbed him by the arm and shoulder.

I presume he was fearful of catching a beating, so he collapsed on the floor and curled up in a ball. I quickly made an executive decision. Since he couldn't have weighed more than 150, I decided to allow him live, but endure a different kind of "walk of shame".

I grabbed one leg and his hair and began sliding him back and forth on the floor. I was, in fact, mopping up the pee with the little douchebag.

He screamed, and protested that I was "getting pee" on him. Well no shit, rocket scientist.

After several swipes through the puddle, I let him go. He was drenched on his back and side from his hair to his shoes in his own urine. Ah, sweet satisfaction. He left, crying, never to return.

He never bothered to put his tool away, even as he left. What a butt-munch.

Words of advice for when you go to the bar -

Have an idea of what you want. If you say "Oh, just make me something good." I'll respond "Oh, I'm sorry, I only know how to make drinks that taste like flop sweat."

It's more than a little silly to complain that a bar is crowded on a weekend night. If a bar isn't busy on a weekend night, they'll soon be out of business. Find something else to bitch about.

If you really think it's acceptable to recycle random drinks (ie pick up discarded drinks and consume them as if they were your own), please find the nearest national park, cover yourself in a blanket of raw meat and wait for wild animals to come consume you. You're too dumb to live in my world.