Cutting Cakes With Doctor Awful - Part 6

Continued from Part 5...

With Doctor Awful having left the room, the office folk had returned to their business. Loathsome Kevin stared sadly at the plate of cakes sitting on the edge of the desk, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one swollen ham to the other. "Oh no, this won't do..." he muttered to himself as he carefully gripped the edges of the flimsy paper plate where the fourteen half-circle cakes were arranged. Halfheartedly lifting, he slid the plate toward the edge of the desk and the garbage can waiting below.

It was in this moment when it all clicked for Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal. Time stopped moving fast. It would be a full two minutes before the cakes hit the bottom of the garbage can, seemingly, which would be plenty of time to stop them from falling all the way.

In the instant that the plate began to slide off toward the edge of the desk, a series of facts, ideas, and notions began to play in Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal's mind, and the fog began to clear. Doctor Awful hates Loathsome Kevin - thus the title Loathsome (this, of course, accompanied by his potent lack of physical fitness and pungent aroma). Doctor Awful is a known sociopath - the type who has Guns and Ammo magazine delivered at work. As of late, there had been a string of vandalism in Doctor Awful's neighborhood, where Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal lived - first it was mail boxes exploding, then manhole covers being blown out of place, climaxing with overhead power line transformer explosions that seemed to have been triggered by certain cordless phone signals. Nearly every home in the area was hit aside from Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal house and Doctor Awful's own musty basement apartment. But that had all stopped a month before.

The final fact that clicked as the cakes went overboard was that Doctor Awful had recently taken an advanced cooking class and was always quite vocal about the "lovely things you could hide in a cake."

It was at this moment that Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal sprang into action - dashing, albeit in slow motion, toward Loathsome Kevin's desk shouting "Don't!" Although his thoughts quickened, his movements had not. His mind, outpacing his body, had imagined his right foot well in advance of his left, catching the heel and bringing the entire man to the ground, chin first, with a sharp thud that went unheard under the deep thump of the cakes hitting the bottom of the garbage can. Loathsome Kevin watched with horrified disbelief on his be-jowled face - his eyes knew something was terribly wrong, but did not know what.

Exactly three seconds after the cakes hit the bottom of the can -- POOK! A controlled detonation sent a shotgun plug of burnt cream cheese frosting through the air, coating the ceiling and Loathsome Kevin's puffy, wincing red face as he let out a muted, squirmy yelp. The rich smell of mothballs curled from the smoking steel garbage can which recoiled and fell over, dumping banana peels and candy wrappers to the floor as garnish on the crime-scene mess that would be left there until the janitors came later in the week.

Fulcrum Days

Every now and then a day has so much riding on it - opportunities braced at either side like fat kids on a see-saw, bouncing terrifyingly on the fulcrum of the day laughing that hideous hyena laugh, pushing your guts up excitedly out your armpits, your stomach up near your neck, rocks flying at your head, lawn mowers buzzing in your ears. These are good days, don't get me wrong, because nothing good ever happens without them. So sit at your cubicle and wait for them to send word...

For me, this translates into waiting to hear back about potential publication and an interesting opportunity - a possible side gig in the Social Gaming industry. Yes, that's right kiddies, I could be the guy creating new and inventive ways for you to dick around at work, like a modern day Robin Hood, robbing from the tragically bored, and giving to, well, me. Only time will tell.

But I will leave you with this: this past Saturday, during a elitist, line-skipping tour of Lake Compounce's Haunted Graveyard, walking through the narrow halls of castles and lushly appointed jungles, I found myself in a vertigo room. With a strobe light blaring and the whirly-twirly striped candy cane dingdongs dangling from the ceiling, coming right for me, I began to laugh, much louder and more manically than anyone else, and more so than I probably should have. But it felt good. I want that every day. I want crazy all the time.

Guerilla Warfare at Occupy Wall Street

There is a nine hundred pound gorilla in the room - but what is it? What does it want? These are simple questions, which, nowadays demand simple answers, but none are offered, and this is extremely upsetting to those in the 24 hour news cycle. They want to touch, hold and examine a moment then label and file it - but all they have is a movement that is not only taking place physically in cities around the country, but going on in peoples imaginations around the country.

So, like any other nine hundred pound gorilla, Occupy Wall Street was ignored, more or less, by the media - nobody wants to talk about it, as the old saying goes. But after a few weeks it was clear that this gorilla wasn't leaving and it was only getting bigger, so the media, having nothing better to go on than opinion and assumption, decided to put a hat on it, calling it some crude  Pro/Anti Left/Right Up/Down Green/Gray Rich/Poor Liberal/Conservative agenda machine. It was glorious - they could write if off as whatever they wanted it to be, waiting for it to lose steam, waiting to get in the last word.

But still the gorilla stays - more than a month later. And it's getting bigger. And it has no leadership, no demands. Now, after all that struggle, there's an increasingly large group of people who are fed up with the financial system and the state of jobs, who are soothing their angst with their numbers and with the power and momentum their cause. And because it has no figurehead or specific demands, it is finally settling in the public mind that it can be whatever they want it to be, too. With merely the power of presence, OWS can be the voice of an entire disillusioned nation who has watched the American Dream suffer the death of a thousand cuts, as the Dastardly Few worked tirelessly to sell the bones out of it, leaving a withered, deranged husk. We are a Gorilla Nation.

Cutting Cakes With Doctor Awful - Part 5

Continued from Part 4...

"Everybody gather 'round!" Doctor Awful shouted from the entry to Loathsome Kevin's cubicle - a poorly lit, dusty hovel covered in cat hair and canned-food spatter. Loathsome Kevin looked up, exhaustion spreading across his face at the mere appearance of Doctor Awful. He adjusted his bulk in the just-big-enough gray office chair, his spine curled like a puffy Cheeto.

"To what do I owe the, uh... pleasure, doc?" Loathsome Kevin squeezed from his blubbery lips, becoming less comfortable as the office crowd gathered.

"I've come to offer an olive branch, so to speak. Just look at these delicious Moon Pies I've baked you! Just for you!" Cheer and spit flew from Doctor Awful's lips like burning embers of potassium nitrate showering from the end of a lit sparkler. "Not for you, you wretched wench!" he shouted at the other officefolk, blank eyed and at no one in particular.

"Waaah... well, uh, I think I'll take a pass, doc. It's-a, hmm... it's this new diet I'm on. It's very specific." Loathsome Kevin, now seemingly fearful, slowly pushing himself away on the wheels of his stained gray office chair.

"What! Yes! No! Um, yes, this will be fine. Yes, Kevin, I will leave these right here on the edge of your desk here for you. For you. This will be just fine. No, it will all work out. Yes." With that, Doctor Awful carefully placed the dish on Loathsome Kevin's desk and walked away, twitching, and muttering something about "...in the trunk..."

All the while, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal looked on unnoticed from the edge of the room. Watching. Waiting.

To be continued (part 6)...

Occupy Sesame Street

What started as an idea that I had in the shower today, actually turned out to be a thing already. From the internet, Occupy Sesame Street:

 

So there's that... but the correlation I intended to draw was much different than this weak meme. It is clear that Occupy Wall Street has legs, and it obviously has sleeping bags - and those sleeping bags have paid off. What was initially written off and subject to a widespread media blackout, has lasted long enough to be taken Not Seriously by various pundits, then written off as un-American, and now, finally, been given credence. 

How the idiot pundits could not get it, I kind of understand. It's like this - those wretched talking head types are so used to The Game, and how ideas are bundled, packaged and gift wrapped into little dumbed-down, bite-sized morsels for mass distribution and consumption, that when a Genuine, Earnest idea makes a splash, they scramble for the Real Meaning, assuming that any political notion is just a sweet candy shell surrounding a bitter, nasty husk of some back-room truth. They can't cope with the possibility that an idea could be, on the face of it, the very idea that it's supposed to represent. Their circuits become scrambled, and there's a waft of blue smoke as the motherboard begins to fry. But, you know, these are our trusted news sources.

So yes, these young people are gathering to be collectively Anti-American, Anti-Capitalism Commies who's main intent is to be a slacker burden on society. OR, they are of the generation who grew up through the Dot Com bubble and a few huge economic dips, and feel disenfranchised by the pervasive notion that a stark few control most of the wealth, while people are losing their homes because the very few rich, when left to their own devices, just couldn't help themselves, and had to defraud and raid the retirement of the middle class. All while shareholders have just enough control of the major employers in the US to ensure that any job worth working gets exported to China in the ever-quest for rising stock values. Like that poor horse in True Grit, American Industry will be ridden until it falls exhausted, only to be shot in the head by Rooster Cogburn, or, in this case, those Super-Wealthy 400 families who, I suppose, will need all that money so they can live on the Moon.

All this while Politicians are doing a very short-sighted version of The Dirty to fill their pockets on what's left of the American Dream, selling off any local government property and revenue that isn't bolted down, so to speak.

Take these raw facts, push them through the Play Doh Spaghetti Factory of Michael Moore and Matt Taibbi and a few other choice voices, you get these little focused pills of rage that the youth eats up like hot cakes. They get mad, they all instinctually know that the system is fucked up, and they organize -  much like their Grandparents did in the Sixties.

And the pundits don't get it. "What does it all mean?" they ask from behind their cheap Formica and pancake makeup. It's like Sesame Street. Sometimes a huge yellow bird reciting the alphabet is just a huge yellow bird reciting the alphabet.

Cutting Cakes With Doctor Aweful - Part 4

Continued from Part 3...

Earnest is probably the best word to describe the way in which Doctor Awful spread the prepackaged cream cheese frosting on the urinal cakes with the serrated bread knife. He was at the same time careful and haphazard, his intensity of focus occasionally overcome by twitchy fits of excitement which broadened the stroke of his frosting, extending the off-white smear across his work surface, which happened to be the trunk of his late 80's Honda Accord - a decrepit gray thing that leaked oil, had suffered severe raccoon damage leaving all interior upholstery ravaged, and smelled of musty old grapes from the outside.

There is a certain point in any illicit activity when it becomes wise to step back and let others perform the tasks that would otherwise leave a participant in a more actionable position, and at this point in his life, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal was an excellent judge of these things - he had come a long way since his days as Young Disaffected Misanthrope. It was for this reason that he stood back and let Doctor Awful perform the act of Criminal Disguise on these non-food items. "He's never gonna eat those. What are you gonna tell him they are?"

"He will eat them, damn it! They're Moon Pies. His favorite." Doctor Awful said through his gnashed teeth while attempting to affect some artistic pizzazz with his brush.

"You see, that's where you're wrong - for one, even if they weren't cut in half, they are still way too chunky. And, Moon Pies aren't even frosted. You are a fool, this will never work." With that, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal walked away.

"Okay, fine... they're Half-Moon Pies." Doctor Awful shouted, "He'll love them! He loves to eat piss!" 

To be continued (part 5)...

Cutting Cakes With Doctor Awful - Part 3

Continued from Part 2...

As far back as he could remember, and much to the chagrin of his blood-relatives, friends, girlfriends, teachers, employers, and most acquaintances for that matter, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal had always drawn the attentions of lunatics and feral half-breeds. These encounters almost always were accompanied by an acute risk of loss of limb, life, health, happiness or general well being. Strangely, though, it had never paid off, for good or ill.

Once, while walking down the street in a perfectly normal neighborhood, in a perfectly normal city, and in a absolutely normal fashion, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal had stooped down to tie his shoe. There was no one around. Oh, but when he stood erect again, he encountered a stumbling and demanding Rabid Hipster - which is unusual, because it means that an otherwise normal person had probably purchased The Shins' Chutes Too Narrow or a Will Oldham album and grown an intense desire for irony, likely just before going complete batshit crazy. As unlikely as it is, we will take it for surface value and move forward.

During his interaction with the aforementioned Rabid Hipster very few facts remain clear, but we do know this: a lesser member of clergy's car was stolen (from which we can make certain assumptions of denomination based solely on the notion of ownership), no less than seven local house cats went missing (only three of which were outdoor cats), the local Stop and Shop was run completely out of butter and plungers, and all coffee urns from the area's twelve step programs went missing.

It's hard to judge what exactly happened during those three rain-free days, but even in speculation, the possibilities are endless. Did they eat those cats? Were they trying to make jailhouse wine? Was it all just an elaborate tribute to Toonces? We'll never know. But the point of this exercise, I guess, is in the fact that after those weird Autumn days, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal surfaced unchanged, and never really mentioned it again. In fact, if pressed about what happened he would respond with "Nothing really..." because it was nothing, just Par For Course in the strange life of Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal.

To be continued (part 4)...

Cutting Cakes With Doctor Aweful - Part 2

Continued from Part 1...

"So, what's the plan with these, Doc?" Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal asked.

Doctor Awful stopped, plastic cage hanging from his mouth and stared into Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal's eyes the same exact way the devil does before placing the Big Bet on a man's character, drawing out the uncomfortable pause. "Do you remember that little wager Kevin and I had going the other week? Well, it seems that he wants to have his cake and eat it too. Yes, this is the only way..."

It was true, Doctor Awful had bet Loathsome Kevin that he couldn't stuff fourteen Hostess Ding Dongs in his mouth, mostly on the merit that it could be held over Loathsome Kevin's head for quite some time that he had crammed fourteen Ding Dongs in his mouth, a prize well worth the wager, at $100.

"That bastard is trying to flip it on me, saying I'm the type of guy who'd pay another man to put mouth on his Ding Dong. It won't stand! These cakes, it's what I need break even - I've already got four from the other bathroom. All these split in half'll make an even fourteen. Let's see if that fool will double down. We're gonna need frosting." With that Doctor Awful began vibrating gently.

To be continued (part 3)...

Cutting Cakes With Doctor Awful - Part 1

Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal stood at the middle urinal in a row of three, tending to business - thinking, breathing, trying not to breath, peeing obviously, when suddenly bursting into the tiled industrial men's room was an irate and clearly erratic Doctor Awful.

Without skipping a beat Doctor Awful grabbed Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal by his lapels and pulled him away from his attentions, slamming him against the concrete and ceramic tile wall, which was filthy, covered in several years of the foulest grime. Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal was not finished with the urinal, and in the suddenness of the moment wet Doctor Awful's pants for him.

Undestracted and now fully focused on Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal, Doctor Awful started shouting orders directly into Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal's face, dotting his cheeks, nose, lips, eyes and chin with frothy white coagulated spit.

"There isn't much time! You have a knife, don't you? Well you're going to need it, pal. We've got to cut these cakes in half - immediately! Here, take these." Doctor Awful began scooping up the urinal cakes, one by one, try dramatically to free them from their slotted plastic housing, eventually resorting to using his teeth to bite through the plastic.

Never being one to shy away from a challenge, Mr. Somewhat Reasonably Normal zipped up, then took each urinal cake, placed it on the floor, and pressed the blade of his pocket knife against the waxy puck until it split, releasing a fragrant waft of moth ball.

To be continued (part 2)...

Zombear Time Machine

"This was when Billy first came unstuck in time. His attention began to swing grandly through the full arc of his life, passing into death, which was violet light. There wasn't anybody else there, or anything. There was just violet light – and a hum." - Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

I recently became unstuck in time, to quote the late-great Vonnegut, and I come bearing news of the worst and most horrible kind. It was not two weeks ago that I was putting the finishing touches on another brutal week of cubicle duty by setting a great fire to much of the lumber that had come crashing down in the recent hurricane. This was all celebrated by inviting a few people over to observe the fire and enjoying a few cocktails. But, some time around 10 PM things went horribly awry, owing much to strong drink, and I inadvertently stepped into my time machine.

It was a horrible sight indeed. I was transported to somewhere around 2035, and as you can imagine, the Zombies had taken over - only, not in the same sense that you would expect. Sure, the cities were safe, but the suburbs... words cannot describe the horror and irrational turn reality had taken. Contrary to popular belief, the Zombie scourge was not of human origin after all. There, in the suburban streets of 2035, lurked a kind of monster much more cruel and ominous - Zombears. Once one of those big bastards gets within mauling distance, there's little hope.

For those interested, the cocktail that temporarily unstuck me:

Zombear Time Machine

1 part Appleton Dark Rum
1 part Absolute Citron
1 part Pineapple Juice
1 part Red Bull
1 splash Orange Juice
1 more part Appleton Dark Rum

Pour all over ice, stir. Light a fire in the fire pit in the back yard, invite a few people over. As people start to show up, make another. Maybe make a third, not sure. Pass out by 10 PM.

Hurricane Full of Sharks

A storm's a-brewin', as they say, and for those of us in the greater tri-state area, things are about to get... interesting. This Hurricane Irene business has already proved to be a more hostile, high-speed run on commercial goods than this winter's Milk and Eggs fiasco - bottled water flying off the shelves, the newly-militarized Knights of Columbus are stalking the streets with bats and chains, looking for loosely secured goods, generators, tarps, anything that isn't buckled down, really.

That's right! You best hope that your genny is running if you've got one, and if you don't, you can kiss your milk and eggs goodbye because when the power goes out this time, it ain't coming back for a fortnight minimum. Mid-September's trash will be rife with those steaks and gallons of chili you forgot about in the back of the freezer. By Wednesday, there will no longer be such a thing as ice cream, only the memory...

But I'm no fool! I don't subscribe to such tomfoolery! It's all an idle threat - at least to me. I have a lead on a black market deck cannon from long ago decommissioned WWII Navy Heavy Cruiser that went by name Greta, and enough Silver Iodide to blast Irene into the Sixties. Now the only question is how to get that big gun mounted on my roof.

Of course, all things being equal, and let's just say this big bitch does in fact rip through my perfectly manicured back yard - I will be ready. The human body can subsist on canned goods and booze for many weeks, if not years, and we are chock full of that, man! The only thing left to consider is this: How many horrible, man-biting sharks is this hurricane going to pick up, with their soulless eyes, and mouths full of chomping razor death? And who do you call to remove these flopping, sashimi-grade station wagons from your yard?

Castrated Triple-Amputee

It is arguable that I have spent much to much time down in the lab, as it were, this summer to properly focus, on documenting the horrors that go on all around me (much as a result of my own horrible behavior). But this is fine, I thought to myself as I scooped up another shovelful of dog shit from the yard and brought it to that awful, fly infested shit bucket - Summertime is that brilliantly hazy time when ideas fester and atrophy until only the really bad ones grow legs and become unwieldy, peasant dominating corpse-monsters who terrorize all those lowly civvies in the neighborhood etc, etc...

Bad ideas like trying to resurrect a recently donated motorcycle that's missing more parts than a castrated triple-amputee, with a budget of exactly Zero Dollars, but merely a wealth of MacGuyver-like ingenuity, and of course, a few beer cans, some low-rent epoxy and maybe some duct tape for good measure. These kinds of weird projects tend to taint your every thought with an ugly, obsessive crushing force that squeezes out all other thoughts, until you're looking at everything as if it could be part of this offensive master plan, which will no doubt be forgotten or dis-enthused in another week or so.

So that's where I'm at - stuck inside my own head, no light bulb burning, just the dim, grey glow of obsession tickling the tinkerer's bung of my wrinkled and puckered mind. If you need me, I'll be over here twitching and nursing the bags under my eyes with soggy tea bags.

Big, Nasty, Unbreaded Turd

Is Friday a bad time to expound philosophically on our current system of Government? I'd say; but like any bad idea, I'm all for it. Sure, it's easy to talk about this Over Here, where, with a high powered telescope you can watch what the vicious youth tribes are doing in the streets over in Union Jack Country. Those are ugly times, indeed. My prediction, for betting folks who follow world news and Politics is this: the next big riots will be in Asia - either the Mongoloid-North of China or one of the many Korea's, but either way, that's the next big mosh pit. After that? Probably Canada or Mexico. I hear Juarez is particularly nasty this time of year...

But I seem to have gotten off track here. Our current system of Government is a lot like a big, nasty, continuously expanding Shit Sandwich that you are forced to eat or suffer horribly at the at the end of poison-tipped spears and shiny leather whips. Some people eat the Shit Sandwich with a half-hearted smile and don't argue. Some people are anarchists and try to run past the spears. But the meat of the argument here falls on the Politicians, of which their are two kinds - the ones who want nice even Shit Sandwiches for everyone on nice plates with a napkin and a big glass of milk to make it all go down easier, and those who just want smaller shit sandwiches. Two Parties, One Cup.

Sure, a smaller Shit Sandwich sounds great - but the Shit Sandwich is constantly growing, albeit proportionally. So when the demand for smaller Shit Sandwiches is heard and addressed, first they make it smaller by taking away the napkin and the milk, then the plate, so you're left with this big nasty bastard in your hand. Then they start trimming away the bread - all the while stuffing in even more shit, saying, "Nope, we gotta get rid of all this shit..." So the end game here is that you're left with a big, nasty, unbreaded turd, right in the palm of your hand and a big frown on your face.

It seems that any attempt to trim down Government always leaves us with all the legislation we don't want, and kills all the useful and socially beneficial services. Of course, go to far in the other direction and we're all sitting at metal folding tables with acrylic vases filled with plastic flowers, wearing Shit Sandwich eating gloves and lobster bibs, staring off at a framed painting of good ol' Chairman Mao, who's creepy, child-like eyes seem to follow you around the room...

Bastard Downgrade

Alright, so the USA's credit has been downgraded. The horror...

No, not really. The mediocrity of this can be explained quite simply by this anecdote: Last weekend, I was in Newport, drunk, and in a pizza joint. During some sort of banal mix up, an indignant old man stole Jamie's seat and Dave, roughly as drunk as I was, initiated a conflict with the bitter old man in direct response to the bad man's arrogance. I'm not gonna lie, things got pretty ugly for a moment there - I thought I might have had to choke an old man. I thought for sure this salty old bastard was going to get pummelled in the street until his veins spurted forth the sweet, sweet apollogy of his ancient, gellatenous stubborn old blood. But I was wrong.

The same goes for the USA's credit status. All of the sudden, and as if from out of nowhere, everything is horribly and violently different. But. No big deal. We will all walk away fine...

Felony Fitness

Wind farms are a sucker's bet. Green is the buzzword these days, and many say that wind turbines are the answer to our energy problems forever. This is utter tomfoolery. There is no guarantee that there will always be wind, let alone that it will blow in the right direction. Sure, these mammoth fans can provide clean, renewable energy at the negligible expense of a few misguided birds, and yes, contrary to popular belief they actually look cool and space-age, and are not an eyesore to anyone, not even those who claim this from the front porches of their waterfront property, obsessively checking Zillow every five minutes to reassess their property value. Come on people, this is America! We can do better than fans!

Imagine a world where energy is free for everyone and the social burden of our prison system is a thing of the past. That's right, I say we set up our prisons with electricity generating treadmills! Let the criminals repay their debt to society through the miracle of jogging! It's just like hamsters, except most of these bastards deserve the Wheel!

With this unique and innovative mix of Planet Fitness and an old fashion Gulag, the savings will be tremendous! In 2006 alone, almost 70 Billion was spent on corrections, so let's put that investment to good use! No more lounging around on luxurious concrete benches or visits to the endless buffet of anal sex for our criminals, bandits and ne'er-do-wells! With all that jogging that will be required, inmates will be much too tired to constantly deflower one another! Let them do work!

But wait, there's more! Now, under this new policy, we'll be able to easily identify criminals in their natural habitat, the street, by their new identifying characteristic - enormous legs! Yes, this new means of powering our future not only ensures a healthy planet for generations to come, but also allows the incarcerated time to really think about what they've done, without all the clouded judgement and survival mentality that a healthy fear of shanking instills.

Unprofessional Sports

To Newport! Tomorrow I flee this rat-infested state - for the second time this year, though on much better terms this time. There are many reasons to flee; being hunted like a human pineapple is one, having advance notice of swift and misguided justice coming your way is another, and of course there's always The Holidays. But fortunately for those close to me, I have another reason to flee: I will be participating in Unprofessional Sports. Yes, I intend on attacking Newport with all guns blazing. It's been almost a year, after all, and I'm sure the city misses me.

The first event will likely involve some level of drinking on the beach, enjoying the sun, feeling a cool breeze as it whips sand in my eye. Painful, yes, but it is necessary, when getting to know the spirit of a place, to experience the grit. The second event will merely be observation; people watching if you will. This will no-doubt be accompanied by what is known in layman's terms as The Stink Eye. The Hairy Eyeball, as it is sometimes known, is key because it keeps those damn unsavory Yuppie types at bay.

The third event, which would ordinary involve some sort of swimming under most circumstances, I believe will in this case be a type of shopping that will likely not involve currency - it is important when visiting touristy destinations to participate in their unique retail loss, or shrinkage, strategies. The fourth event, of course, will no doubt manifest itself in some sort of horrific act of violence, or, at the very least, some very serious shadow lurking or perhaps a questionable back-alley exchange. I'll need to limber up...

Newington Day Recap

Sometimes, it takes a few days to gather your thoughts about an event into a series of well-timed blasts that will quickly bring down the wall between Then and Now, leaving the event to be seen as it happened or at least how it was perceived. But this is not always the case, especially for those who are as plugged into the Now as I am... the facts blur, events and timelines diminish - particularly in the company of drink. But this isn't a problem! Simply fill the gaps in time with putty and sand it down. Ho ho, this is how History books are written!

To the best of my knowledge, Newington Day started with the best of intentions; Jenny and I went to Leigh's to help set up. We erected some tents and I made wicks for the tiki torches in the heat. We put out food and set up the stereo outdoors. This kind of labor, as you can imagine, grinds it's boney cleats into your thirst, so I had a few beers. People started to show up - strangers, conversationalists. The Bacon Rap came up, and a crude early version of the recording of it was played, so I had a few beers.

As more people showed up, the event descended into weirdness. There were a lot of motorcycles, which is fine, and I should have been prepared for this, but I suppose I didn't expect them to be in such close proximity to the food... so I had a few beers.

As if from out of nowhere - it was time for the Fireworks. A group of us headed out on foot to the center of town - the center of the party - to watch. Streets lined with cars, people gathering in the streets and their back yards - this was America, this was Neighbor Country. 

I know a few things about this moment: at one point Jenny did, in fact, break away from the group with our dog Django, in a sprint, with one fist in the air yelling "Newington! Newington," the Fireworks display was surprisingly good for a small town, and I definitely had a verbal altercation with a soccer mom in an SUV full of children.

As I walked away from the Fireworks, as many others were at the time, I was drinking a bottle of beer. The last, in fact, of the three that I brought for the short walk to town. The neighborhoods of downtown Newington were swarming with pedestrians and crushing traffic as everyone left the Fireworks. Sometime after doing a poor job of secretly peeing on someone's lawn, and noticing a large gap between myself and the cars and people in front of me, I began waving the cars by. One car, though, would not pass, but instead the driver pulled up next to me and accosted me for my drinking of a bottle of beer in public. Me, with my delicate sensibilities!

This lead to a lengthy conversation about why she wouldn't just pass us, which Dave inevitably took offense to and reacted by walking slowly in front of her car, blocking the way. Her reaction was not favorable when I explained: "He's just being a douchebag,"  claiming she had three children in her car. In a moment, all hope was lost. The only thing left to do was tell her I didn't care if she had nine kids in the there, then lay down in the road in front of her car.

From there, things get a little hazy as we headed back to Leigh's place, but this is for certain; it was very dark out and I think someone attempted to have sex on the steps of the church next door.

Short Short Short Story

-


Measured forty times, never cut.









-

Seven Vulgar Gods of the Wooded Plain

Good god, Friday again already? And, as always, this is good news, but this weekend is different. It's time to hose down the animals, hide wooden ducks around the house and bury a crisp five dollar bill in the yard - it's Newington Day's Eve! The Newington Day Extravaganza of Excesses of all Your Favorite Worldly Delights technically kicked off yesterday, but for our purposes, it will kick of tomorrow at around 3 PM.

A brief recap of last year: beer, grill assembled (unused), 1,000 lbs of spare ribs, kiddie pool, Siesta!, more beer, ladies in the kiddie pool, hose?, squirt guns, vegans, el chupacabra, water balloon?, giant feet, crowded party neighborhood, a lot more beer, fireworks, peeing in public, drag a shitting dog, more ladies in the kiddie pool, asleep with shoe'd feet in the kiddie pool and escape. I can't be certain that all of these things occurred as this was a year ago and what am I the Amazing Kreskin; but I assure you, at least most of it happened.

All of this will be happening again this weekend. Religious types may regard this as a small, self-contained apocalypse or perhaps a Sodom/Gomorrah situation, but they are too prudish to appreciate it for what it really is: the good people of Newington offering a sacrifice of twenty nubile young virgins to their Seven Vulgar Gods of the Wooded Plain.

So until then, I will be beating the body damage out of my car with a three pound drilling hammer and other various tools that should afford me a great deal of mechanical advantage over that rotten pile of sheet metal, and I'll grit my teeth, too. Tomorrow will be long and harrowing, and I will not rest until we Win Newington Day!

Bacon On Demand (the Breakfast Jam)

Woke up this morning with a bacon rap in my head... 

Double double B, hold the L and the T
throw in some mayo and give it to me.
Bacon on a bun, cuz that's how I roll
crumble it on cereal and eat it from a bowl.

When I eat eggs, the bacon rides shotgun
don't offer me bacon, friend? I'll say you're not one.
Every now and then, I have a chance meeting
bacon, eggs and pancakes for some secret eating.
Jelly jam on toast is another bacon friend
sausage is a clown, breakfast make-believe pretend.

When you make the bacon make it orange and crispy
that soggy floppy bacon is just gonna sicken me.
Bacon is so nice, it's my special breakfast treat
but now it's time for lunch so why doncha have a seat.

My friends tried to stop me, they said I look palid
but I snuck away for a bacon cobb salad.
Bacon on some bread makes your sad sandwich happy
bacon in my pockets please somebody slap me!

Bacon in the tank of my motorcycle
bacon in a public bathroom with George Michael.
Bacon with your lunch will only get you thinner
but it's getting late, bacon's what's for dinner.

Bacon on a plate, when you're all alone
bacon party over hear, bacon on the telephone.
Bacon mayo cheese, on a hamburger sandwich
gotta get a grip because I just can't handle this.

Bacon after dark gives me so much power
I meet my bacon friends for the witching hour.
Ever kill a man for the flavor of bacon?
Front door's locked so I say just break in.
When I'm in you're home, I've got bacon on my mind
rummage through your fridgeridge to see what I can find.
And when I've found some bacon worth takin'
I put it in my mouth and I pray to Kevin Bacon.

Bacon is a friend to all the forest creatures
all the city folk and the backwoods preachers.
Bacon on a finger, bacon on a fork
bacon for desert, crispy crackly ice cream pork.
Have it only on the weekend, well that just seems silly.
Bacon eatin' every day until the day it kills me!

How to Blow Off a Finger This Fourth of July

The Fourth of July is a magical holiday when you can travel back in time and experience the giddy, unbridled joy that can only come from the kind of aggressive, testosterone fueled violence that we Americans have celebrated since the insurgence of our Founding Fathers lead to us winning our independence from our Imperial Overlords, the British. And what better way to celebrate such a holiday than to eat plenty of grilled meat, drink copious amounts of your favorite alcoholic beverages and actively pursue the instantaneous and gruesome loss of one or more digits!

It starts at home

Possibly the most important thing you do in the days leading up to the Fourth of July is to Acquire More Fireworks! I know what you're thinking: But I already have fireworks. Of course you do, but you certainly don't have enough, nor are they of the right kind! A basic rule of thumb when determining the amount of fireworks required to properly celebrate the Fourth of July is approximately one duffel bag of fireworks for every five people celebrating, not including mortars and other professional grade displays. Do not include sparklers in this calculation.

Note: Certain states, such as Connecticut, do not allow the sale of real fireworks, instead only allowing fake fireworks such as sparklers, fountains and smoke bombs to be sold. This is a direct attack on your freedoms; contact your legislator. Until this is resolved, drive to a nearby state that allows the sale of real fireworks such as bottle rockets with report, M-80s, roman candles and jumping jacks.

Finger bang

So you've procured the proper amount and type of fireworks - Great! You are one step closer to losing a finger! On the big day, you'll want to load up on caffeine, sugar, red bull, B vitamins, coolatas - choose your own adventure. You'll need lots of energy, for there is much to do! Once you're buzzing on your energy of choice, you'll want to clear the chatter in your head with several bracing shots of your favorite hard liquor, some beer and perhaps some mixed drinks such as margaritas or mojitos. If you choose to combine the booze and energy drinks into one cup, such as a red bull vodka - good move! Kill two birds with one stone!

Once you've worked yourself into a lather, it's time for the magic to happen. Don't be afraid to throw fireworks at small children and dogs - they love the attention! A lot of people frown on lighting off fireworks indoors, but this thinking is flawed - the Fourth of July is as American as Apple Pie, and like Apple Pie, it should be enjoyed indoors, preferable in the kitchen!

Many people don't know the proper way to launch a bottle rocket because the name is, in fact, a misnomer. These little joy-rockets are meant to be launched from the hand, not from a spent beer bottle! I have gotten great results from lighting these beauts and throwing them straight up in the air - spectators find the unexpected nature of their flight patterns to be delightfully random and exhilarating!

Later in the evening, when all the fireworks are gone, there's one last game to play with your buddies as you sit around the camp fire and reflect on all the freedom you've enjoyed that night. This game is called Uh Oh, and it involves placing a full, capped bottle of beer into the fire and saying: "Uh Oh." As the beer heats and expands, testing the holding power of the cap, time elapses and everyone forgets that some crazed fool threw a bottle of beer into the fire. Then, when you least expect it - BOOM! The pressure created by the expanding liquid and gas inside the bottle overwhelms the crown of the cap, firing it like a hot bullet directly into the faces of all your closest friends and family!

Wood Handling Man

It would appear, by all good measures, that I am getting lazy. Well, while it is true that warm weather and good news slackens my angst, believe in the core of your very bones that it is not that I am getting lazy - it's that good news makes for bad literature. Sure, I could regale you with tales of how I've convinced an insurance company to give me more money than I paid for my car to fix it or how a neighbor just gave me a lawn mower and how in my quest for a DSLR camera I've finagled a free one... but where's the conflict? These things on their own are uninteresting. Onward toward victory, right?

This past weekend I was enlisted to distract my good friend, sculptor of young minds and all-around wood handling man, Mike, as his girlfriend prepped for his surprise birthday party. We went to the Hooker Brewing Company in Bloomfield and gorged ourselves on several tiny cups of their Blonde, Irish Red, excellent Munich and candy-sweet Watermelon Ale. Ah, nothing like a bright and sunny summer's day to sit inside a dark warehouse drinking fresh beer straight from the tank. This, followed closely by pizza and a pitcher at the Fireplace in Southington... the weather was perfect for deception.

And of course, the party. A few more gallons of beer and some tequila, and as you could imagine, I was deeply engrossed in a conversation with Mike's mom, who just-so-happened to be in town in time for the party. It was at about ten o'clock when I told her that I was going to kick her son's ass. At about ten thirty, Mike and Lory had gone to bed and it was time to go home. Long day.

The Banana, Challah, and the Poetry of the Diner

I can safely say that the most poetic thing ever uttered in a New England diner during the last fifteen years was mine, and I say this humbly, because, how else could something stick in my mind so clearly for all these years?

It was probably 1998, maybe 1999, we were so much younger then - more idealistic, less cynical. The world was still exciting during those early college years. It was a Saturday night and we were at the Gold Roc. I personally haven't been there in years, as just walking through the door is like being bathed in early Judeo-Greek  mediocrity. We sat and ate like kings that night, over-zealously, as teenage boys do at a diner. Looking at the menu, I was entranced by the promises set forth by the French Toast. It was elaborately described as being made from Challah bread - whatever that was... it sounded mystical. I had that.

When it arrived at the table it looked and tasted just like any other ordinary french toast. I was surprised and disappointed, and felt that delivery had fallen grossly short of my expectations. "This french toast is boastful at most," I exclaimed. And I was right; I had succumbed to the moment and was left with average french toast. But it was memorable french toast, because now, thirteen years later and in a cubicle in Portland, I'm thinking about it.

Eh, whatever, those were poetic times. We used code; we used to shoot at people with a BB gun from our fifth floor dorm room window with the accuracy of True Marksmen, calling it the Banana so as not to arouse suspicion, evading the ongoing police investigation. We flushed whole drawerfuls of socks down the toilet. We crawled through the ceiling to break into dorm rooms just to play video games. We always bit off more than we could chew and threw the rest to the dogs.

Live Fast, Die Eventually

I came to a disheartening realization the other day - in exactly two months, when I turn thirty-two, I will no longer be eligible to Live Fast, Die Young. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but the prospect of Live Fast Die Middle Aged or Live Fast Die Old and Decrepit, smelling of gamey free-range jerky and covered in a thin layer of waxy keratin, like an apple, waiting for the machines that keep me alive to error out so that the life cycle may start anew - is a brand of bullshit I was not prepared to face. I'm starting to reassess burning down the highway on my motorcycle doing ninety miles an hour in heavy traffic, bobbing, weaving and swerving between cars, my mind now flooding with thoughts of sliding at high speeds under tractor-trailers and buses, tumbling and flinging until what is left of me looks like barbequed spareribs. Fireworks indoors seems foolish, swatting unsuspecting friends in the balls seems cruel, general hell-raising, which once tasted so sweet, now tastes bitter like the top a nine volt battery...

There used to be a time when my epitaph would read: He tasted life, ran as fast as he could and kicked god square in the balls. He was a champion on the tops of mountains, and he communed with the yipping wild dogs. He took no shit and died with his teeth clenched and his fists balled. Here lies a True Warrior.

But now I fear it will look something like: Beyond his youth, he lived out his days in front of the television, eating microwavable burritos, watching reruns of Spanish soap operas, withering away until he was a shadow of a man, eventually dying of white guilt. Here lies some curds.

Oh, but all of this is starting to sound depressing. Now that I think of it, growing old and dying just isn't for me. Yes, fuck it - I've only just begun. Perhaps I can Live Fast Die Eventually due to Misadventure.

Everyone IS Taking Crazy Pills

I don't care if Anthony Weiner took a picture of his dong and photoshopped an angry headshot of Hillary Clinton in place of it's usual helmet, used it as the profile picture for a blog he ghostwrote about his angry short-haired penis' and it's attitudes toward offensive rap lyrics or Africa's ties with Moammar Gadhafi. Nor would I care if Steve Jobs did the same. Nor would I care if Newington Mayor Mike Lenares did it. Or the guy who works at the gas station. Because it doesn't effect they way they do their job until every national media outlet is bullying everyone into pretending they care about it, saying in an angry, doofy voice: "Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself."

But what can I say? Everyone is out of their goddamn minds; the only thing left to do is buckle up, close your eyes and wait for the crash. Hell, just this past weekend I showed up to a friends birthday party with a quart of serious heavy duty poison and raised no eyebrows. There's just no pleasing these people.

The American Dream 2011

Here is a notion that has become confused, one that I spent a good deal of time pouring over during a recent personal chautauqua of self exploration. Some say the Dream is dead and we are spiraling down a dark and gruesome toilet from which America may never return, where the ideals we were built upon are soiled, poisoned, and left to rot in the effluent. Something occurred to me while I was tapping into that explorative part of my mind the was so wild and active during my college years - entitlement has tainted the American Dream.

Off the heels of the Great Depression, our grandparents and great-grandparents worked themselves beyond death so that they might provide for their families, eventually achieving their Dream and providing unprecedented level of comfort along with it. By the time our parents' generation came along, that cradle of white suburban comfort offered them the luxury of pursuing the more quixotic goals of social equality and a higher level of civil consciousness. It was the Sixties and although it's easy for anyone who grew up in the Eighties to wave an ignorant, dismissive hand at their parents' battles and write it all off as some modern version of manifest destiny, the fact is they pushed harder than even they could've imagined, and for all their effort the fourth wall finally came down and society was changed much to the benefit of the disenfranchised. That was their Dream. But now, all these years later, their entitled children gaze back in a post-ironic way, weary of nothing, posturing eco-friendlyist hipster throw-up. Which, of course, makes it all so easy to discount.

With such a seemingly withered base, it's easy, now, to lose sight of the American Dream. We have grown up easily, and even the term American Dream has been translated into a sense of entitlement, a privilege, something consumable. This is not true. It's still something that needs to be worked for, and it certainly isn't stuff. The Dream is of an easy life - and not easy when compared to working, easy when compared to surviving.

So the Dream has been tainted by entitlement, but only insomuch as entitlement to stuff, purchasing power, excess - the diarrhea of ownership. This is a false birthright, smoke and mirrors; there is no satisfaction there. There is no lotto ticket, and the prize is not millions. The prize, is comfortable fulfillment.

The American Dream is still out there. It is borne on the backs of those who toil, it is permeated with the stink of their sweat and has grown malleable from their labor. It is in the quiet nights and rowdy weekends. It is in the anticipation. It is when the windings of the air are thick with electricity and there's a static charge in the circuitry. It is the Good Times.

Let this be our new Manifesto: Fun is King, and death to those who oppose the Fun Club!

Frothy Weiners

I turned my back on politics for Ten Minutes, and surprise, it's lost all self respect and virtue, and is now nothing more than a buggered and dusty old flea circus. A guy named Weiner is twitting pictures of his wiener, which if you follow his team's approach to the situation (i.e. - not directly denying it), it is a picture of his wiener, but he probably didn't send it or mean to send it. "Those are my boxer briefs, that is definitely my wiener, but there is no way to tell whose legs those are, and I certainly didn't take the picture. You can tell because it's upsidedown."

And now, of course, Rick Santorum has thrown his filthy, excrement stained hat into the ring to make a run at Boss of the US 2012, somehow forgetting that his harsh anti-gay stance has gained him some notoriety as gay anus juice, as indicated by a quick web search. Sure, he's been the victim of what is possibly the single most malicious and arguably the most effective (and possibly laudable) bit of passive aggressive behavior on record, could we as a country, a Leader of Nations, really elect someone whose name now elicits such a frothy connotation? The answer is, of course, no, which is good news - from what I understand (and mind you I haven't had the time to properly research this yet), he actually is frothy ass juice.

Looking out at the field in anticipation of November 2012, I look forward to it, if for no other reason than pure, verminous entertainment. Let the rats run the maze, then may the fittest and most grotesque fight for the cheese.

The Summer of Zombies

Sadly, the most powerful firework lit off this weekend was a sparkler. Although, I would be remiss to exclude Dave exploding a lighter in the driveway and it would be a lousy shame not to at least give an honorable mention to Mike for not only suggesting the creation of a sparkler bomb, but for also pulling out a raging gas fire in his back yard in the Zero Hour - i.e. 8 PM on Monday. But it is all probably for the best that we didn't get into the bottle rockets, roman candles and the mighty M-1000's, as we did trounce several handles overproof rum and god only knows how much beer, liquor, wine and other assorted sundries...

But even without the fireworks we were still soundly within reasonable risk of dramatic and sudden amputation, thanks mainly to a malfunctioning reciprocating saw and a flagrant lack of safety equipment. It was a long weekend, after all.

For now we shall brace ourselves against the Summer of 2011, the Summer of Zombies, nasty clowns and in-general clock cleaning. To quote Sheriff Brody from Jaws: "You're gonna need a bigger boat." Embrace this, or we all are doomed.

Get Drunk, Shoot Off Fireworks

Getting back into the swing of things is no easy task when returning from the land unrealistic expectations and free everything. Paying for meals, driving cars on roads, sitting on chairs in cubicles - these things are rough trade for the very relaxed and threaten to pull away the waxy glaze-skin of vacation, exposing the tender, permeable flesh of the working stiff underneath. But hell, have to get back into it at some point, why not now - if for no other reason than to celebrate the magic of Memory, for this weekend is Memorial Day, an arbitrarily chosen Monday set aside each year in recognition of those who have served.

And what better way to recognize such service than to torpedo as much questionable meat into our faces and drink as much beer as our bellies will allow without tearing the flexible tissue that keeps the meat and beer in? Lobster bibs seem like a good idea. Kiddie pool? Why not. The weather has chipped up, and it's time to show some real appreciation to the gods of Good Times. For if we don't go boldly forth and do this, who will?

One thing, sadly, that this holiday is missing, and forgive me if I'm wrong but I think you will agree with me on this one fellas, is Fireworks. Get drunk, shoot off fireworks - it's the natural progression of things. Who needs thumbs anyway? And if we're being honest, at this point in the year there are some people who we kinda want to shoot fireworks at, anyway.

The Milk of Reality

I defeated those grey old bastards, got while the getting was good and left nary a trace - an escape so clean they couldn't even find my house to turn it over looking for clues, the fools, which I suppose I should be glad about, but part of me feels for those goons who couldn't even so much as locate my town, and offered little to no chase whatsover. Where's the sport in that? But who can complain with a belly full of fine spirits and limitless cuisine dripping from your sunburned chin and all over your powder blue linen panel shirt. A buck goes far in the Caribbean, and the sun is free.

But all is not hazardless down in the West Indies, as any world traveler will tell you. Other than what has become the generally awful ordeal of air travel, the ground transport wasn't much better, and if you stay still too long, the locals will come at you like cockroaches. Beach Doctors offered Space Cakes, indigenous kitties foraged for lizards and god knows what, local birds swooped indoors to steal eggs from my breakfast - the cannibals! Heavy-set Island women with club-like features grabbed at my arms crackishly, asking why I was afraid of them, insisting I buy their trinkets and geegaws... a day at the beach not for the faint of heart. But fortunately, we are of a robust constitution and can withstand such brackish island charm enough to indulge in the fine pleasures a small island has to offer.

The trip back's teat was ample with the milk of reality - I was treated to a delightful complimentary body scan and sensual rub-rub pat down in Puerto Rico, and a nice fellow in an F-150 thoroughly ratfucked the rear end of my car on the way home from the airport. Welcome back.

Weekend at Bernie's

Things came to a head as they often do and it's time for me to flee the country. I know what you're thinking - What could he have done? I could send you through a loop of half-truths and over-exaggerations, which is, of course, in my nature, but this time I thought I'd come clean.

I'm fleeing the country due to some inflammatory things I said at the wake the other day, including but not limited to:

What say we grab a crowbar and pop this box open and see what's what?

Should we bury him at sea like that terrorist Bin Laden? How do we know they already didn't? I'll get the hose.

I think when we finally crack that Cracker Jack box open we should reenact Weekend at Bernie's.

What's in the box! What's in the box!?

Needless to say, I'll need to scram post-haste. Strangely, though, his family seemed okay with all the strange talk coming from our degenerate collective in the back of the parking lot. They didn't even flinch when Zac kicked me square in the balls out of revenge for that time I stabbed him... It was the funeral director and his hired goons who were grilling us as we tailgated. They seemed to take umbrage to our panache and gumption, and I'm not one to stick around too long after insulting someone who's in the business of hiding bodies.

The Tontine of the Hill People

Last night I headed back to my hometown of New Milford for Andy's wake. As I drove down the stretch of Route 67 that leads into town, looking out on the series of green and rolling hills, it hit me - I was raised amongst hill people.

As expected, the event was awkward... I can never quite figure out how to properly arrange myself in those types of buildings, so a group of us headed out to the parking lot to twitch around, drink, make horribly inappropriate and at times strangely loud comments and generally be menacing - just as Andy would have wanted.

One idea kept coming up, though: who's next? An ugly thought for sure, but a truly tough nut to crack, and as we are not ones to make serious of such a light situation, we started speculating and eventually mapped out a crude tontine with a ten dollar buy in and a lump sum for the last man standing. It brings out serious unpleasantness in a man when you start speculating and wagering on his life span, telling him: You're next.

The Devil's Margarita

If there is a strange man with crazy eyes in your kitchen brutalizing fruit, screaming at it in Spanish, crushing the juices from it - I say let it ride. This is the only way you will get a truly authentic margarita. I watched, I learned, and I can do it now - and I think I could do it without all of the screaming, but in my heart I know that this is wrong. Those primal screams might just be the key ingredient. Who knows?

The Devil's Margarita
1 Lime
1 Lemon
Patron Tequila
Cointreau Triple Sec

Roll the lemon and lime against a hard surface to loosen up the juices. Slice the fruit in half. Scream at the fruit as if it were a kidnapper taking your children - the key here is to display acute primal rage, balanced with crazed fear and emotion with just a splash of helplessness. Crush the fruit with excited joy, like a despot might crush a weak and powerless rebellion, trying to get what you can of the tangy juices into the glass. Leave the rinds of the fruit haphazardly about the counter top.

Eyeball the quantity of juice. Add an equivalent amount of Patron, then add the same amount of Cointreau. Ice liberally. Insist that everyone drink out of the same glass, while continually informing them that it will make their clothes fall off.

Bad Advice #2 - Corporate Takeover, High Speed Bounce House

The problem with the 24 hour news cycle is that after commercials there are about 1,000 minutes per day of airtime that needs to be filled, so the idea of demanding photos of Zombie Bin Laden, which is in very bad taste and could cause very bad feelings toward America from various countries and is an all around bad idea, is actually a brilliant tactic to filibuster airtime. They can keep asking for the photos, but they won't get them. The unfortunate side effect is that people are getting riled up about it, but I have a solution. Just release a photo of Zombie Bin Laden's shoe at the scene - in the same way local news does when someone gets hit by a car. Death, tastefully done. But that's enough pontification, Tuesday's call for bad advice finally bore fruit, so here we go...

Ok Maxx i need advice... So i really HAVE NOT felt like going to work recently. What should i do about this?
-Jesse

Jesse,
The truth is, nobody really feels like going to work, unless they are of the very small percentage who actually love what they do (internet says 45%, but I call bullshit - figure 15%). So therefore, your quandary. What a lot of people do is either suck it up and feel grateful that they have a job, or try to pursue another occupation. This is wrong - why just cope with your situation? That's how those bastards win! And pursuing another occupation is like eating a ham sandwich and wishing it was turkey - if you had turkey, you'd want ham.

The good news is, you are not fucked. My initial response was to suggest procuring a large bag of drugs and see how that worked out, but in my heart I cannot suggest that. Becoming a zombie is just another way they win. You need to score a win for you. Here's how:

Spend more time chatting with your coworkers or customers - whoever you interact with regularly. Draw a line in the sand and determine who's on your side and who's not. Those who are for you, they are your army - treat them well. Remember - from here on out, you are in charge. Act like it!

Find small ways to make things more difficult for those who are against you - make more work for them, do petty untraceable things to make their lives progressively more miserable. You'll want to ramp it up slowly - over the course of about two months. Meanwhile, make small negative comments to your army about how lousy your enemies are - again ramping this up over the course of two months or so.


Once the division between the two groups reaches a boiling point, make a move to aggressively overthrow company leadership by first knocking down middle management, then moving on toward upper management. Once they submit to a series of superfluous demands, one of which will be to install you in either middle or upper management - a cushy position to be sure, take stock of your situation. Do you still hate coming in to work?

Good luck with that.
-Maxx

I wouldn't say I need bad advice per say but a little comic relief would help.
I was volunteered by a good friend to "help" her other good friend (a former foe of mine) to move home. A.k.a... Drive across country from AZ to CT with Ms. Wretched Negative Nelly. Normally I would've denied this offer but Negative Nelly turned into Sappy Sally Full of Tears & guilted me into it. In less than 2 week I'm embarking on this dreadful trip. Laughs please!!!!!
-Anonymous

Anonymous,
Two weeks, eh? There isn't much time. You'll need to stock up on techno music, inflatable pool toys, lots of Red Bull and salty snacks. You'll also want to pick up an air pump that you can plug into the cigarette lighter in the car.

Find out what kind of stereo is in the car. Tape? CD? 8 Track? Get lot's of techno music in that format and get ready to blast it. A basic rule of thumb is if something is annoying for everyone but you are the one doing it, your threshold will be much greater. For this to work, you will also have to locate and discard you friend's music selection, and if they put on the radio, always immediately scan around through static "looking for a station" until you get bored and put the techno on again.

The Red Bull is key. You will need this to maintain a constant high level of enthusiasm throughout the trip. Remember, our country is beautiful - take every chance to remind your friend of this by abruptly shouting "Ooh, look at that!" The salty snacks will enable you to drink more Red Bull between pee stops. Go team!

If your friend gets sleepy, let her sleep while you drive. Forty-five minutes should be enough for her to get into REM sleep, at which point you will want simultaneously crank the volume on the stereo and swerve erratically - this sudden panicky alertness will ensure maximum sleep deprivation.

The inflatables... this is where it gets tricky. You'll want to determine a time when it is appropriate to use the air pump to inflate the inflatables inside the car. If you really wear your friend down, you might be able to inflate them while she's driving. Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is out of the car. Regardless, the inflatables will likely exacerbate any feelings of ill will, so the use of caution is recommended. It's one thing to piss someone off, it's another to trap them in a crowded high speed bounce house.

Good luck with that.
-Maxx

Freedom Boner

I see no one took me up on my offer for free bad advice, which is understandable. If I stood on a street corner with a sign that said "Free Broken Nose," I doubt I would have any takers. But, in the spirit of the internet - the post will stand! I will find some poor misguided sap to give bad advice to, mark my words.

But enough with the idle threats, we must press forward to more important concerns. Last night, I put my balls on my sleeve and got up again at the Joker's Wild open mic. I didn't bomb like I did last time... don't get me wrong - I still ate it, but at least this time I got some laughs.

The one standout disappointment, though, was that I realized was headed home afterward, I realized I missed an great tag at the end of one of the bits. I was talking about the Bin Laden raid, wondering if it played out anything like an action movie with a cool catchy phrase right before they got him, etc... anyway, here's the missing line:

(Bin Laden has just been killed, the Seal who took him out is standing over his body) He says to one of the other Seals: "I've got such a freedom boner right now!"

Need More Bad Advice?

Guess what? It's time again for some of the choicest bad advice ever to be doled out to be distributed once again. I have personally participated in the transformation of Osama bin Laden from a famous terrorist into a meat submarine, and with my new found free time, I intend on helping you go from your current shitty situation, to a more whimsical and elaborate shitty situation.

Need bad advice? Look no further! If you need bent, twisted, last-resort advice to help guide you from bad to worse, I'm here for you! As the Mayor of Bad Decision Country, I'm uniquely qualified to upgrade the terror alert level of any nasty little situation, including yours, guaranteed!

Simply post the key details of your predicament in the comments section below and I will provide you with the most thorough, up-to-date, worldly, godawful advice I can muster. Leave it to me - I know how to make your situation worse!

Donuts, Comedy and Jesus

About three weeks ago, I got that old itch that I get every few years where I'm compelled to complete the list of things I wanted to do when I was a kid. The list included such glamorous activities as Working at Dunkin Donuts, which I did in High School. I figured you could take the donuts home with you at the end of the night instead of throwing them away, and to be honest, what kid wouldn't want a 50 gallon industrial garbage bag full of donuts? I also wanted to be a Reverend like Reverend Jim on Taxi, by getting the title out of the back of a magazine rather than in the Jesus sense - I checked that off the list in college when my friend Matt showed me ULC.org. I also briefly wanted to attach a hang glider to a mountain bike and ride it down a hill and fly away, but I had to scratch that off the list once I heard about physics, and I'm not so sure I want to do that anymore, anyway.

Surprisingly, riding a motorcycle and being an awesome rock star didn't appear on the list until later in life, and those too have been checked off. This left one lonely little item: Become a Stand Up Comedian. As a kid in the 80's and early 90's I used to stay up late and watch Evening at the Improv and think: I want to do that. Every few years I get the itch, but never really follow through with it - playing in a band always made it easy not to pursue that.

But about two or three weeks ago I got that itch again, and started writing jokes - a lot. Then yesterday at about 10 am, out of nowhere, I got a wild hair up my ass, said Fuck It, and decided that I should go to the open mic down at Joker's Wild in New Haven that night. Woefully unprepared, I threw away almost everything I had written, relying only one bit about texting Jesus, one memory from high school and the Awesomecicles story. I went on at about 12:30 and bombed in front of a dwindling, all-laughed-out crowd of about twenty, which consisted mostly of other amateur comedians, the host and the bartender.

But fuck it, right? I recorded it and listened to it on the way home - I wasn't nearly as bad as I thought I was, albeit I had no pacing, timing, or really any jokes. I was relying heavily on delivery, but I botched that, too. Proudly, though, I can say that I didn't tell one dick joke. Sadly, dick jokes are my wheel house...

So in summation, I will be doing that again, it will be less painful next time, and I have finally completed the list of things I wanted to do as a kid. Oh, and next time, there will be dick jokes...

How to Do Sex to Someone You Love

Intercourse can be a wonderful and intimate behavior do to someone you love - it can be a nice way to say "Hello," or just a simple way to show appreciation for a job well done. Sex can be done as an apology, but if you're not very good at it or you are not welcome to the sex you are attempting, it can be cause for apology! For some, it can also be an clever and industrious way to increase personal possessions or supplement income. To many, doing love is considered the classy and romantic way to wake someone in the morning! With this selection of advice, you too can be the intercourse aficionado.

Being limber is a primary concern. The risk of pulling a muscle during the act of love doing is high, especially for those who are overweight, elderly or out of shape. By definition, doing sex is a high impact, aerobic activity, and therefore should be attempted with a warmed-up body - there will be a lot of violent thrusting, especially if it's the first time, if you are out of practice, or if your partner is surprised.

Pick a location suitable to the sex you intend to do. For romantic occasions, surround yourself with soft surfaces such as a sandy beach, tempurpedic furniture or a pile of freshly raked leaves or horse hair. If the encounter is going to be brief, ensure that you are in a questionable area like a forest or gas station bathroom - you'll likely be standing throughout. Parking structures and downtown are to be avoided, particularly if your partner doesn't expect the sex to be done to them, as this may create a hostile environment and possible litigation.

Set the mood by choosing easily removable attire such as a tear-away track suit, and apply cologne or perfume to taste. Lighting candles, while a considerable fire hazard, can enhance the moment. The sex that you do should be like a song performed by the Pixies - soft, loud, soft, loud, soft, loud. To achieve maximum sex, do this until the event is completed. Do sex to many, do sex often, and do always sex!

Under certain circumstances, doing sex can be illegal - check with local law enforcement and describe in detail the sex you intend to do. Intercourse is known to cause complications in otherwise simple interactions. Use caution when doing surprise sex, because it can often be confused with unwanted sex, which is illegal. Depending on the number of participants, broadcasting the sex over the internet may be considered to be in bad taste, and is to be avoided. Remember to use a safe word when doing non-standard sex. Sex with minors is to be avoided as they are either wearing hard hats or too young. Doing sex in public places, while thrilling due to the possibility of being caught, is not an acceptable way to achieve maximum romance. 

There were No Bunnies this Easter

There is an infestation of hares in my neighborhood, and we are on the brink of being overrun. Every night as I lay my head down on my pillow, I hear them out in my yard, hopping smugly, and leaving behind piles of little black capers. They're arranged and distributed evenly like crop circles, evidence that these little bastards mean to mock me.

I won't take this lying down, oh ho, not me! Late at night I send my dog out with specific orders in German to grab them and shake vigorously, but as the old saying goes, that dog won't hunt. I attached a plastic statue of an owl to the end of a tall wrought iron pole and mounted it to my deck as a last ditch effort to gain a tactical advantage and instill fear in their tiny feral hearts - but this was met with that arrogant, blank rabbit stare, and has inspired them to only infest harder. The squirrels, in a vulgar display of open defiance have begun taunting me by leaving piles of chewed acorn shells at the owl's feet. I am this close to heading to the sporting section of WalMart and picking out a starter rifle - the kind you can discharge within city limits without much resistance.

But then came Easter. Now I stand on the edge of my deck late at night and the rabbits are gone. Where did they go? Were they ravaged by the pale fox that stalks the neighborhood? Were they turned to stew by the local poor? I can only hope. But my real concern is that some dad with a soft spot in his heart and a very young daughter put out a Havaheart trap and caught himself an Easter present - bringing these rabid little beasts into his house where they will surely bite the help and incur thousands in punitive damages in civil court, reinforcing the dumb greed cycle.

The Story of Easter

The idea of a Zombie Jesus who stalks one random Saturday night every Spring looking for fresh Christians to feast upon, dropping little, colorful egg-shaped hunks of his own soured and rotten Jesus-flesh for small children to find and eat the following Sunday is, to say the least, only a little bit disturbing. Add to that a Night of the Lepus breaking and entering scavenger hunt staring the demented rabbit from Donnie Darko, and the mythology becomes just plain silly.

Here's how it really went down:

Some two thousand years ago there was a guy called Jesus. Imagine a mix between The Dude in The Big Lebowski and Matthew McConaughey - generally a piece loving, abs-rocking party boy. Jesus and his posse tried to overthrow the financial corruption in their time in much the same way Fonzie might have on Happy Days.

In response to this flagrant misbehavior, The Man came down on our hero, and hard. One of Jesus' homies sold him out, and he was tried for war crimes. The Man - 1, The Jesus - 0. They even put him up on a cross as if to say to the other party boys: I got you all in check. It is in this way that Jesus died for some sins.

Jesus' posse, having seen his corpse wink mischievously, stole his body and hid it in a cave. A few weeks or months later, Jesus woke up from his bummer-coma, stretched, and sought out his posse. Having reconvened, they threw a wonderful party with plentiful fruits and breads and delicious meats and wine - oh, was there wine! This party went on for several days, but unbeknownst to the posse, he had died late on the first night, having slipped on a banana peel and suffering a severe brain hemorrhage.

Thunderpuss, Houdini Cat

I crept slowly and carefully down the staircase leading to old fieldstone basement, being sure not to make any sudden movements or sharp noises. I my heart I knew this would be the end of me, that vicious beast Thunderpuss always insists on having the last laugh, but still, I had to make my move. I heard a forlorned Mow off in the distance. Then, under my feet, a stair creaked. I turned and tried to run, but it was too late - she was coming right for me, lunging through the air and shooting lasers out of her ass.

I ducked, then tried to jump over the crude barrier we set up in case it came down to this and she came for us, but caught my leg. She stalked me like a gazelle, sizing me up, planning her next move, hissing. I was trapped. I looked around for an escape route or any sort of weapon. I grabbed a camping chair and tried to tame her, shouting; "Back you foul beast! You can't eat me, you'll starve for sure!" but she swatted the chair out of my hands and I knew I was a goner. I backed up slowly, but I was cornered - officially corned. She descended upon me with razor sharp claws, and what pointy teeth she had left.

They say that the common house cat will pick your bones clean within an hour of your death, and show no remorse because of it. How's that for glib? Fortunately I escaped unscathed last night, and live to fight another day. But I know somewhere in my house a big cat is stalking, waiting, remembering...

Polly-O Al Fresco

Yesterday morning, through the gray and damp ether of a Monday morning, I stumbled upon a grossly accurate metaphor for America. True Patriots will surely agree with this, though if you have anything less than the righteous notion of what this country can be in your blood, you will surely be offended.

While walking Django I veered from my usual course in search of what little adventure could be found at six a.m. Passing an old cape or raised ranch, through the fog and fumes of the early commuter traffic which Jenny is aggressively and angrily a part of, I saw the stump of a diseased old maple that had been removed some years ago. On it was a small chimney of bricks placed to hold a small, weather-beaten and sun-bleached flag which stood no higher than four feet tall. Haphazardly placed against the front side of the stump was, and still in it's original wrapper and in perfect condition, a string cheese. It's probably still there, I'll have to check...

So that's it - we have been reduced to a Monday morning suburban string cheese cast upon the lawn of another generation's faded dream. How did we end up here? More importantly, how does dairy end up on the lawn? Was it all just a coincidence, or something more?

Fat and Happy

Last night Jenny and I investigated Fat and Happy, a new restaurant that has replaced the Ninety Nine on the Berlin Turnpike in Newington. This was an interesting proposition because in the few short weeks that the restaurant has been open, it seems to have sported the same clientele as the Ninety Nine, which is to say, there's no reason to subject myself to such tomfoolery. But curiosity got the better of us and we went anyway.

As we walked up I noticed that the people leaving the restaurant were fat and sad. Perhaps this place wouldn't live up to it's name; but would it be in a good way or a bad way?

Inside, their seating was overwhelmed so we were offered a table in the Lounge. I typically enjoy eating in the bar, but their crude attempt to up-sell the experience ruined it for me, taking away that relaxed, casual vibe and leaving me with the feeling that they were trying to pull a fast one.

The Lounge was classy enough on first glance, familiar even. But before long I realized what I recognized - it had the feeling of a darkened airport bar, filled with road weary travelers and chewed up salesmen. Miserable businessmen reeking of the kind of fetid desperation you might find in an warn out old shoe. This was not a good sign.

The food was unremarkable, over-priced, and served on inconvenient and difficult plates. Pass.

Reservoir Tip

I walked up to the Information desk and asked "So, where do you keep all the babies?" The old woman behind the desk frowned, unamused, and asked who we were there to see. Some friends had just made one and Jenny and I were on a mission looking for proof. It was toward the end of visiting hours and the halls were mostly empty. We were led to another floor, down a series of perpendicular corridors, through several electronic checkpoints and eventually to the room where the mother and child were kept.

The baby was definitely real, I could tell by the subtle waves of breathing and occasional cry, but she looked impossibly small wrapped in the tiny blanket. It was all I could do not to hold the child by her feet and measure and weigh her for comparison with various astrological and Mayan birth charts. At the time it seemed inappropriate and thought it might not go over well in the maternity ward... I was probably right.

The child was equipped with a mesmerizing hat - it was a tiny beanie with a reservoir tip. What could that be for, I thought? My extensive medical knowledge leaves out any explanation of what type of goo might be launched from the back of a screaming baby's head. Perhaps it's there to protect the nurses?

History Eraser Button

In the Space Madness episode of the Ren and Stimpy show, Ren introduces Stimpy to the the History Eraser Button, tells him to guard it and Not to push it, which of course he does. Apparently our DVR has a history eraser button and pushed it all by itself sending Jenny into a whirlwind of rage, taking squinty-eyed revenge on no less than two Indian call center goons, and eventually, but it's still yet to be determined, securing us with some unforeseen discount in consolation for our losses.

And hard losses they were. We had no less than one hundred movies cued up on that puppy, ready to watch. Now AT&T is sending some doe-eyed lummox to sniff around our house and gather intel - I think they fear a broad sweeping revenge plot a-la Jenny, which is still a very real possibility, but not likely as their call centers are in India and therefore out of American jurisdiction.

Although that evil little box may have meant us harm and did bring down on us an oppressively traumatic emotional pain, I must admit that I feel in some small way relieved - for it is Spring, and what better time to start fresh, wipe the slate clean and free ourselves from the Albatross of mediocrity.

Glass Half Empty? Shut It Down!

Tonight at midnight, the government may or may not shut down. This is not Scary, and should not induce Fear - it is simply a dick-measuring game of chicken being played between the Democrats and the Republicans, at the negligent expense of Us, where they're battling to see in which way they will be screwing us for the rest of the year.

Sure, it will effect anyone who draws non-Social Security income from Uncle Sam or likes to engage in illicit activities in the shady groves and lush underbrush of our National Parks or - better still - in the dark corners of our Courthouses. But those with filthy habits will find other places to lurk and Social Security will be back up and running in no time - so to quote the great Alfred E. Newman; "What, me worry?"

The root of this hogwash seems to be in the fact that the Republicans are being out Republicaned by Tea Partiers, who are calling for broader sweeping budget cuts - but again, this is all moot because what they're really arguing about are outdated and arcane philosophies about Women's health and air quality. But while our Congressmen hide in back rooms palming each others balls as John Boehner looks on with a tear in his eye, take comfort in the fact that when the Government does shut down tonight, at least the paychecks of the egregious bastards who got us into this pickle will go uninterrupted.

Part 2 of Bad Advice #1

Open Discourse - that's what this is all about. Here's a response from yesterday's Bad Advice:

Maxx,
First, thank you for feeling slight angst. Your answer did match the level of angst I was feeling about the situation myself. Never saw tire valve core remover and Alka-Seltzer coming but it surely had an Office Space kind of feel to it. We most certainly appreciate the bad advice it made us laugh. And you may want to anticipate finding a breaking story on the local 5 o'clock news.

However, I could use some more bad advice. The company blackmailing me into working has a requirement to drug screen... Yes, let that sink in. They are black mailing, AND requiring a drug test. And the drug testing kit has arrived via FedEx. And I must drop it off at the testing center in which I must pay for out of my own pocket. Now all the moral fiber in my body says pee dirty and I'm off the hook, however what about unemployment? Could your next bit of bad advice make mention of a Molotov cocktail?

Whether you respond to this or not. I did want to share with you the on going absurdity and truly can not wait for child labor laws to be en vogue once again.
-Anonymous

Anonymous,
You are in a unique position - the ball is in your court, as they say in sports, which is kind of misleading because if the ball isn't in your court, it's out of bounds, and that's not really the spirit of the phrase... but I digress. The ball is in your court, and you can take this opportunity to create an advantage. Give the bastards what they want.

The first thing you need to do is procure another FedEx shipping pak from your local FedEx Shipping Center. You'll want the sealable plastic one - not a paper or cardboard shipper. Here's where you could go one of two ways - either stick to the moral fibers you spoke of and piss dirty, or stick it to science and find a pregnant woman or dog to pee for you. This will ensure that the pee is, scientifically, not yours. I have a feeling that the source of the sample will be moot, though.

Open the kit and immediately discard any instructions. Secure the sample, from whichever source you choose, in the provided cup. If the kit doesn't come with a cup this is fine - simply use a salad dressing size tupperware container or a babyfood jar with a lid. You'll probably want to wear rubber kitchen gloves, as this will get messy. Regardless of the type of container, when filling it you'll want to make sure you get a little bit of pee on the outside. It shouldn't be soaked with piss, mind you, just misted - in much the same way one might add a whisper of sweet vermouth to an otherwise dry martini. When complete, securely fasten the lid. Place the specimen in the FedEx mailer, and ship it to the hiring manager*.

For added professionalism, you may want to put a strip of masking tape on the side of the container so that you may label it with your name using a permanent marker.

Good luck with that.
-Maxx

* I would be remiss if I didn't mention that FedEx is very adamant about not shipping liquids in the FedEx Paks. Disregard this rule.

Bad Advice #1 - Prison, Liquor and Alka-Seltzer

Nice little glut of Bad Advice requests yesterday. As the Mayor of Bad Decision Country, I shall crack my knuckles and cut to the bone of these pressing issues...

Dear Maxx,
As a single woman full of conflict, I ask you if I should switch from dick to chick.
Signed,
Slightly Dykey in New Haven 

Dykey,
Let me open by suggesting straight off that if you're only slightly dykey, going full-on bo is probably not for you - the use of slightly implies the kind of air of whimsy that is often associated with attention-starved party dykes. This is not suggested as it would cheapen you and your conflict.

And seeing as you are full of conflict, one might think that going off to war might be a smart move, but this is also wrong, because while war is a great place for conflict, it is certainly the last place that conflict ever gets resolved and is therefore not suggested.

Before you swear off dicks all together, take a moment and reflect on all the good times you may or may not have had with them and remember, for every time someone points a dick at you, there are two balls pointing right back at them.

Perhaps the right move for you would be to sign up for a prison pen pal - look for one labeled "violent offender," as they tend to be particularly passionate in their endeavors. These fine specimens, kept under lock and key, are there for you - always waiting for the curly F's and exotic lowercase M's of your penmanship. And if you keep at it long enough, you may even get to participate in a series of terrifying, high-intensity conjugal visits. This is a sure-fire way to score some premium, off-the-market meat - real marriage material! Of course if this fails, perhaps now would be a good time to invest in twenty or so pussycats.

Good luck with that.
-Maxx

Is robbing a liquor store a reasonable way to come up with the money to buy a new computer or should i just slowly save my penny's?
-Risk 

Risk,
I see where you're going with this and while I agree that robbing a liquor store is the right place to start, I think you're loosing sight of the big picture here...

First thing you're going to want to do is go down to WalMart and buy any old rifle or whatever kind of firearm they sell that you don't need a permit or to wait seven days for. Purchase this in conjunction with a ski mask - one of those sketchy ones with holes for your eyes and mouth. Now you're ready for action. Load the rifle, grab a duffel bag and put on the ski mask and some nondescript dungarees and shoes - you don't want to wear anything flashy as it might inspire jealousy in the cashier. Enter the liquor store and immediately discharge the weapon at the ceiling above the clerk's head. This will imbue the clerk with a healthy respect for the situation. Now here's where I suggest you divert from your plan: don't go for the cash - grab booze. Stick to the high potency stuff, you'll need a lot of it for the next step.

Once you've made your getaway and stored your treasure, go down to the local Best Buy and apply for a job. During the interview, make sure you look good and let them know that you'll do any old menial job. Once hired, use the booze you stole to go to work drunk and labor tirelessly. In just a mere five years, give or take, you should be able to save up enough, and in combination with your sweet employee discount, score a really bitchin' computer.

Good luck with that.
-Maxx

You're unemployed, you're searching for a job, you've found one that will grossly under pay you and that you're are clearly over qualified for, which the employer has even made mention of in the interview. This new job would pay slightly better than unemployment but with unemployment you are guaranteed at minimum of 72 weeks of that shit...and you could still look for something better in the mean time.
Your finally offered the job after a 2 week wait and you mention to this company that you are concerned about the pay. The potential employer reminds you that if you do not take the job offered to you that they can report you to unemployment for denying work and you will be kicked off. What would Maxx do? -Anonymous 

Anonymous,
Well, I have to admit, this one pained me a little because it tickled my angst sensor and really activated my delicate sensibilities - but do not fear, I have settled down and re-focused.

The first thing you want to do, before accepting or rejecting the job is to show up unannounced during business hours. Take a handful of ephedrine or other energizing over the counter weight loss drugs before hand to ensure full alertness. Bring a tire valve core remover, a flat-head screwdriver, Alka-Seltzer tablets and some bolt cutters with you.

First identify the hiring manager's car and remove all the valves on the tires using the valve core remover and flat head screwdriver. This will ensure that the car needs to be towed to a tire shop on a flat bed. Then enter the office - you've already interviewed here, so you should be familiar with the facility. Leave the bolt cutters right outside the front door.

Enter the building. From the moment you pass through the front door, you will be running. Run in the most conspicuous way possible, incoherently shouting about mistresses and tax evasion. One of them will be relevant to someone there.

Find your way to the hiring manager's office. About thirty seconds before you get there, put the Alka-Seltzer in your mouth and crunch down - you want to work up a good foam. But remember, you are coming in hot, so you'll want to account for that when you're calculating your thirty seconds.

Burst into the hiring manager's office and immediately fall to the ground, convulsing and spewing foam. This will upset him/her. Security will finally catch up to you and everyone will be confused. Don't stop convulsing! Wait for them to eventually get there shit together enough to call the EMTs, and when they've mostly left the uncomfortable silence of the room for you to twitch in peace, spring into action again. This time, run out of the building grab the bolt cutters and cut the main power supply to the building and scram. Odds are the job offer will no longer be on the table.

Good luck with that.
-Maxx