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.

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.

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 doubt...no fear...no problem.

Big Love to all.

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.

My 9/11

My day, 09/11/01

Shortly before 9:00 a.m., my roommate entered my room. She said "they blew up one of the twin towers". As I had been in the bar until 4:00 a.m. throwing darts the night before, I was not in the mood for her "stupid shit" and told her as much. "How could anyone blow up the whole building? You're overreacting". Several minutes later, she came back and told me the other tower was now ablaze. Infuriated at the interruption of my sweet slumber, I went upstairs and looked out the window, as our view of lower Manhattan was excellent. The towers were, in fact, burning.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the television. They were talking about terrorists. They were talking about possible attacks in the subways. They were talking about some seriously scary shit. About 9:20, all bridges and tunnels to Manhattan were closed.

About 9:45 a plane hit the pentagon.

I was trying hard not to freak out. Not only did I have friends working in and near the WTC, many of my co-workers at the bar worked as flight attendants for American Airlines. I had no idea where anyone was, and with the phone lines overloaded, no way to find where they were.

10:05 - the south tower collapses. A few minutes later, still another plane goes down in Pennsylvania

I'm able to get signal on my cel phone sporadically, and get through to my cousin in Atlanta, and tell her to let the family know I'm ok.

10:28 - the north tower comes down.

I kept trying desperately to reach friends. My boss and friend Gina was traveling to the Bahamas that day (on American) and I had no idea at that point where she was. I was bordering on frantic, but trying hard to keep it together. I knew, with limited phone service, staff and friends would eventually go to, or call, the bar to check in. No trains were running, though, so I was boned. The point was moot. Mayor Rudy told everyone to stay out of lower Manhattan about 30 minutes later.

I finally got ahold of Gina, and she had checked on the girls from the bar. To her knowledge, no one had been in the air. Now I just had to worry about where everyone was that morning. Partially relieved, I still felt I needed to get into the city. A few minutes before 3:00 p.m., Mayor Rudy said the trains would be back up shortly. If nothing else, I knew to take it to the bank that the trains would be up...Rudy said so.

I threw some things in a bag and hauled ass to the "L" train. I got there a few minutes after 3, and damned if there wasn't a train waiting on me. Providence. I was in the city 12 minutes later.

I came out of the subway to a surreal sight. No traffic. Just people. Dirty people. Crying people. People so obviously in shock I have no idea how they kept going. There was smoke and debris in the air...and a stench I can't describe. People were walking, running, doing whatever they could to get as far away as possible from what is now called Ground Zero. The Mayor had closed the city below Canal St, about 13 blocks away. The only way these people were getting out was on foot.

I went to the bar and found a regular sitting on the steps. He was, apparently, well into his 2nd 40 oz. "I'm sorry Matty, but I didn't know where else to go." Then he wept. I comforted him the best I could, then let him inside. We were followed shortly by my friend and coworker Ryan, who heard the same news about the trains and came running.

Throughout the day, regulars, neighbors, friends, and coworkers stopped in or called to check in and check on each other. I had been right. The bar was a second home to these people. We were family. Today, we were one.

Fortunately, the staff was accounted for and all were safe. A few regulars were not so lucky, and perished in the buildings near Broadway, though I wouldn't know it for a few days. As night approached, the horrors continued, however.

One of the guys from Ladder 3/Recon 3 (3 house of the FDNY serves the East Village and is located around the corner from the bar) was passing on his way to the house and I stopped him. He told me the attack had come at shift change. This meant 12 guys from our company had responded. None survived. A dozen friends, regulars, heroes had fallen from our block.

I wanted to break down, but I couldn't. My people needed me. The people in the bar weren't there to drink. They were there for comfort. I did my best to accommodate. I'd have to mourn my friends a little later on my own time.

The streets were deserted, except for locals, by 9:00 p.m. (no traffic was being allowed below 14th st. at this point). As the regulars began filing out, headed for their homes, Ryan and I closed up shop around 11:00 p.m. and went for a drink at another bar. We talked about what had happened with friends and tried to absorb what had happened. I thought of the boys from 3 house.

We didn't stay late. Ryan went north towards Queens, I went east towards Brooklyn. I stopped for a smoke before getting on the train. The streets were littered with debris. Assorted garbage, tons of soot and grime, random papers and debris from the towers were everywhere. That damned smell wouldn't leave for weeks. I saw a cane, the kind a blind person uses, in the street. "That's odd" I thought to myself. "How could a blind guy lose his cane on a day like this?" Ah. Question answered. A little further up the street, I saw a shoe. A little girl's shoe. One of those patent leather jobbies w/ the buckle.

That was it. I was done. It was my turn. I sat down on the sidewalk by the subway and cried. I had had enough.

I had seen pain and the worst humanity can offer. The days that followed would show me some of the best. New Yorkers were standing by each other as I had never seen them. It was "us" against "them".

Then I started seeing fire and rescue trucks from other cities and states. Then I started seeing benefits and relief efforts from other cities and states and even countries. "Us" had just gotten a whole lot bigger. People offered support, love and hope from every corner of the country and around the world. It was reaffirming.

Epilogue

Mike Moran gave a speech at the Concert for New York City the following month you might have seen. It went a little something like this...

...our friends, our brothers, our fathers are not gone, because they are not forgotten...

and Osama Bin Laden, you can kiss my royal Irish ass.

Mike was off the day of the attack. His father and brother, weren't. He lost them both. He never missed a day of work after the attack, and he spent every off day for months down in the pit. He never missed a beat and he never stopped being a stand up guy. He's a hero, too.

The Parting Shots:

For the record, I only thought I knew what hate was until that day. It grew several days later when they pulled the 3 rig from the rubble. This is what they found. www.mefeedia.com/entry/fdny-ladder-3/18252613

I still hate Bin Laden and his thugs...and I can't forget and won't ever forgive what they did to my city, and my friends. The rest of the country, and New Yorkers in particular, gave me hope for the future, though. That hope is what lets me carry on.

And one more thing I learned...never wait until it's too late to tell people you love how you feel. You never really know when you'll be out of chances.

Exile in Kennesaw

It's not quite how it sounds. I've intentionally stayed in/near the house for two weeks, now. The reason? I put down the cigarettes.

Now before you start being congratulatory and supportive, and all that crap, let me be perfectly straight...I would feed you into a woodchipper for a Marlboro Light right now.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not jonesing so bad I'd smoke a menthol, but I see that day in the not too distant future.

I'm pretty annoyed about the whole thing, actually. For years, every do-gooder and "concerned" friend and family member has been riding my ass to quit. Finally, I gave in, due to my current domestic situation. A couple things I have found to be true...non-smokers generally have no clue what quitting smoking is all about, and I now want to punch the majority of everyone that told me to quit right square in his/her junk.

Allow me to elaborate. While no one ever said quitting would be easy, not one of my "quit buddies" ever told me about the following reactions that, evidently, come with putting down the smokes:

1) Insane headaches - not just headaches, these super-gripping ultra mau-mau numbers that grab you by the back of the head and treat you like a prison bitch on OZ.

2) Rolling pain in the legs - I don't even know what to do with this one. From my upper thighs down to the middle of my shins, I've had twitches, tremors, convulsions and general muscular revolutions for about a week, now. I had to Google this symptom, because I was convinced I had scurvy or SARS or some such delightful malady. It turned out, of course, it's just one of those side effects no one told me might happen...fuckers.

3) Sense of Smell - totally misleading. Everyone told me my sense of taste and smell would improve and I'd experience old sensations for the first time in years. Kiss my big country ass. The only new smell I've encountered is this sickly, moldy stink that I smell everywhere I go. Nothing good, just the rough equivalent of a bums foot that is suffering from rot. Oh, joy!!!

4) Blood Sugar - huh? I don't know too much about this, other than apparently, I'm compelled to eat more frequently due to it taking longer for sugar to be delivered to my system, or some such crap. Or I have an oral fixation. Or I'm just a hog. It depends on what pseudo-scientific monkey-fuck you ask. The vast majority of them, apparently, have never smoked so they're really just guessing. Bite me. As a result, my weight shot up quickly. Yay.

5) Just taking a break here to thank all the "quit buddies" that pushed for this over the years. I feel so much better now that my weight is up, my patience (which was never really strong) is gone, and of course there's the whole woodchipper thing. sigh

6) Bleeding gums - WTF? I'm told that my improved circulation is the culprit here. Huh??? I quit smoking, now I'm gonna bleed to death as a result? At least my breath will be minty fresh, right? Geez.

7) Chest pains - yep, chest pains. I'm 41 years old, my blood pressure pre-quit was so low, people were actually envious of my big ass. Now, I'm having chest pains and shortness of breath because I'm "getting healthier"...WHAT THE FUCK??? How in the hell is that supposed to work?

To summarize: Evil cigarettes are out of the picture, but now I'll most likely have a brain aneurysm while running for help for my scurvy/SARS affliction, assuming I don't pass out from low blood-sugar while smelling the unwashed ass that seems to be following me around and bleed to death via my gums just a little before my heart attack finishes me off.

At least my clothes will smell fresh. Bite me, you do-gooder asshats.

The State of the Union

I'm a little over a month into my suburban relocation experience and I thought it time for my "State of the Union Address...Asshat edition".

For those of you that missed it, I recently took the State of Georgia Driving Exam. As a result, the rules mentioned in the Drivers Manual are pretty fresh in my mind. I even researched questions that might not have been listed in the Manual. I discovered the following:

1) There is no state requirement for you to leave your turn signal on for three miles after you turn/change lanes...pull your head out of your ass, moron.

2) Similarly, there is no rule or law that I can find that forbids you from actually using the turn signal to announce a turn and/or lane change...I know it's tough to walk and chew gum at the same time, but a little effort might help those around you.

3) It's not mandated that you change lanes to the left and immediately slow down. It's actually encouraged to maintain speed (or actually increase speed) if you enter the "fast" or "passing" lane. Travelling in aforementioned lanes at or near the speed limit while traffic in the lanes to your right speed by you does, in fact, make you a motorized asshat.

WTF????

I pulled in to meet a friend at a local watering hole the other day and parked next to a guy in an older Jeep Cherokee. His doors were missing, as was his tailgate.

Me: "Aw, that happened to a couple of buddies of mine up in Brooklyn. Sorry about that, bro."

Kentucky Fried Motorist: "Whuu-uutt?"

Me: "Your doors. I'm assuming they were stolen."

KFM: "Hell no, I took 'em off. It's summer!!!"

Me: "Ummmm, you realize it's been raining off and on all day, right? That's why the inside is wet."

KFM: (looking amazed that I didn't understand) "You ain't from around here, are you?"

Me: "Actually, born and raised. I did something like that when I was about 17. I stopped when I realized how tough it was to get everything reattached properly and I got tired of being wet." (translation - I stopped being a dumbass)

I was told later by my dear betrothed that this was not an uncommon occurrence among the denizens of North Cobb near the lake. To this phenomenon and the participants, I have but a single question... "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

General Rants

1) If you are truly confused by the drive-thru menu at any fast food establishment, and can't order your burger and two happy meals in less than 7 minutes...you may be too dumb to breathe the air I might otherwise destroy with a cigarette.

2) I'm a fan of maximizing your consumption of "the good stuff" at the Golden Corral. I absolutely understand the theory of not filling up on bread, or salad, or other items of less expense so you can cram as much meat, desert, and more expensive items so you get the most for your $9. That being said...Really? Dude, you have gravy on the side of your head by your friggin' ear. Really?? Hmmm, you have pizza on your plate,,,topped w/ a slab of roast beef,,,partially concealed by two pieces of chicken,,,complemented by a dousing of white gravy,,,w/ a mountain of ice cream w/ chocolate sauce on the side,,,all on the same friggin' plate. Did you think they were going to run out of anything, or were you just too lazy to use multiple plates, or were you afraid carrying two plates might make you look like a pig? News Flash...If you have gravy and chocolate sauce on the same plate, it's time to consider stepping away from the trough...Really.

3) If you really can't manage to turn your phone off while dining in a nice restaurant, can you at least take the earpiece out of your ear? It's not a status symbol anymore. On a similar note, if you absolutely must take a call in said restaurant, or on a crowded bus, or other crowded public area, please let me know ahead of time. I'd like to meet you there to punch you in the neck as a bit of relief to the people around you.

3a) If you're using your phone as mentioned above in an elevator...YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE RECEPTION YOU FRIGGIN' MOUTHBREATHER!!! SHOUTING WON'T HELP!!!! Please exit the building, drive up into the hills and allow yourself to be dragged away by the first mountain lion available. Sometimes even Darwinism needs a kickstart, and there's no reason an asshat like yourself can't do his/her part.

The New Family

For those of you entering into new living arrangements with members of the opposite sex, this is for you. There are also a few points dealing with the instances of moving into a home with pre-existing children.

Day 1:

Me: "Honey, I'm gonna grab a shower. Where's the soap?"

Her: "In the shower." (pointing) "Right there."

Me: "Ummm, this isn't soap. It appears to be a bottle of rejuvenating body wash w/ moisture beads and ancient sea widgets to exfoliate, cleanse and propagate the degeneration of testosterone within the species."

Her: (rolling her eyes) "It's soap."

Me: "Does that mean we don't have any soap?"

Her: (reaching into the closet and producing a bar of Irish Spring - Yay) "Here you go, sweety. I wouldn't want you to feel emasculated by the soap."

Me: "It's not soap. Where are the wash cloths?"

Her: "There's a couple in the shower."

Me: "There's a couple of things on strings that look kind of like a cross between a flower and a tumbleweed."

Her: "There you go."

Me: "So, we have no wash cloths?"

Lesson learned? Men have men stuff, women have women stuff. Never the two shall meet

Confession

In an effort to maintain fair reporting and the integrity of this blog, I do hereby offer the following:

Many years ago, a roomie extolled the virtues of babywipes for that extra little oomph of freshness, particularly after dropping a particularly gnarly deuce. The other day I chose to partake in this refreshing practice, as the deposit I had just made would, if made in a combat zone, been classified a war crime.

Only after removing the wipe and drawing it perilously close to the soiled area (the tainted taint, if you will) did I glance again at the box.

Authors note: Though they look similar, baby wipes are NOT interchangeable with Clorox Sani-wipes. Unless you're looking for a scented bleach enema, read the label. Here endeth the lesson.

Question of the day:

Bigger loser/stalker/manipulator/douchebag...Peyton Wellesly or Lanier Thames?

Discuss amongst yourselves.