lo mein

Love

is what I feel in my heart for you guys.

But not right now.

kristin

Kristin

Is totally not giving up on this blog.

Happy Friday!

Kristin

is not giving up on this blog.

Happy Easter!

jesus christ! more aardvark!!!

omfglmaololololrotflolololol

2009 Jetta Sportwagen TDI

Yeah, that's mine.

And as a side J, does anyone know where I can get a cap like this? Since I'm driving a deisel now, I think it's required. I'm pretty sure it's in the manual.

Just once

Just once I would like to be able talk to you without wanting to repeatedly slam my open palm across your face like a busted shutter, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

Just one time I'd like to control myself when you're trying to have a civilized conversation with me and discuss our daughter's schedule, and not blurt out, "YOU FORGOT TO CLEAN THE GERBIL CAGE!!!! IT STINKS!!! CHRIST!!!!"

Just for a laugh, to see what it'd be like, I would sure like to bury the hatchet. Let things go. Do what I keep telling everyone I'm trying to do. But really do it. Instead of twisting my mouth into an evil-clown frown when you come into the room and mutter monosyllabic things under my breath at you like fucking Tarzan..

Instead I visualize punching you in the back, hard, as you're walking out the door.

Kicking you in your flat ass as hard as I can as you're sauntering down the stairs, so that you lose your footing and fall face-first on the marble staircase and shatter all your front teeth.

I'm not saying I want to like you all the time.

Just, maybe, like, I dunno. Once.

Ich Hob Zol in Bod

In honor of Passover, I thought I'd share a hebrew phrase I learned today.

Literally translated, it means, "I have you in the bath,” or “I hope you sink like a ship.”

Either way, it's a wish that someone should disappear from your life. It means that he should be drowning by Thursday. And let him drown in the bathtub.

Also, I just learned that high fructose corn syrup is NOT kosher!!!

Motherfuckers!!!

But they are currently making coca cola with actual sugar (who knew they weren't?) for all our Jewish neighbors.

l'chaim!

it’s an aardvark

I am sorry.

I forgot H-week. And I'm sorry.

However, I'm a little incensed that you all ignored the homework I assigned back during F-week. (ooh, F-week sounds so much more interesting than it really was, doesn't it?)

Idyllwild

Doesn't that sound like a perfect and fun place to cut loose on vacation? I know lots of people who've gone there for those reasons. But not me. I've never been. I'm kinda jealous of people who have. Almost as jealous as I'd be of people who've been to Utopidrunkfun.

hunkercise

If I show you

He was a boy who lived next door to me. We had identical houses except that his smelled like band-aids and he had too much brown furniture.

He was one year younger than me and his parents were from Spain. He told me his father beat him with a wiffle ball bat when he was bad.

We were squatting in his driveway one week day in July, looking at a dead fuzzy caterpillar that was being eaten by fire ants. There was steam coming off the blacktop and sweat was running down from my forehead to my lips. I was self-conscious about the hair on my legs. I was probably about ten.

And then he slipped his hand under my shirt. And stroked my naked back.

It felt really good. Like, electric current up the spine good, but also comforting.
Like he was telling me without words that he would be gentle to me.

I still don't know why he did that. We never spoke about it but he did things like that sometimes for no reason. We would be playing a game in the street and he'd whale me with a ball one minute and the next be holding my hand.

One day in the pool he pulled down his swim trunks and exposed his little rubbery penis to me. So I pulled down my bikini bottom and let him see me. My heart raced when we did this but nothing ever came of it. We grew up and moved away and I think he is a doctor or something. Or so my mother keeps reminding me.

I'm not even really sure why I'm thinking of it now. It's really weird being a kid.

Hell and Hurt

People have been telling me for years that I'm going to hell.

I don't believe in the conventional view of hell, but I agree.

I also hurt the people I love. One of my kids is in the other room crying his little retarded eyes out right now because we broke the news that we were separating.

Yep. There's a placed reserved for me.

Hamgasm

Bacon strips, bacon sausage, ham sausage, ham slices, smoked pork sausage and roasted pork belly surrounded by ground sausage shaped into a pig, wrapped in bacon and roasted. Garnished with chili ears and tail.

You can see how they make this at Porktopia.com.

It's really a wonder.

the gooch

Gee...

...did I forget something?

George Lopez

I don't know why. He starts with "G".

And this was an off week, apparently.

God Damn

I grew up in a religious household. Well, for part of my life. I think when I was nine or so, my dad's dad died of heart issues. As he puts it, it was like a wake-up call, inviting them back. So we got religious. I'm fine with that. I have strong beliefs, despite my doing nothing constructive about them. What bothered me was that religion became an excuse to enforce my parents' personal beliefs. They made interpretations of things to justify their views of parenting. It was an excuse for abuse and neglect and horrible, horrible things. This bothers me, still. I don't hold God responsible (or at least I don't think I do), though I wish my parents would admit... anything. Sometimes I have no animosity towards them, but sometimes I'm still filled with venomous rage. I hope God can forgive them, but I want him to choose not to forgive me.

Gelflings

Thank you, Jim Henson, for making the most excellent source possible of my childhood (and sometimes adult) nightmares.

I hate "The Dark Crystal". 4Eva.

Fuck and Friends

Fuck was my first curse word and it and its variations are still my favorites.

I very clearly remember playing handball against one of the classroom buildings after school (this is in 2nd grade) and cussing shit out with Joe, my best friend. I wasn't his best friend. In fact, I've never once had a reciprocal best-friendship. And that concludes the F=Friends portion of our post.

Where were we? Ah, yes. Fuck. Fuck and handball.

We're playing against the ugly free art mural on this wall cussing shit out. Fuck that guy, fuck that bitch, fuck that motherfucker in his motherfucking ass.

Well, then my mom bounds jolly around a corner in her fat dress and knee high stockings that won't roll up past her drumette calves. I wanna point out how fucking gross that shit is to Joe, but she might hear me. And beat me.

That's all I remember about that.

Later I remember giving up swearing for many years. It made me pretty angry. Fuck's such a great word for letting off steam. Aptly named, huh?

My kids know the word fuck. They learned it from YouTube. Hearing my boy say it in a whispered, angelic tone--not with shame, but with slight embarrassment--was a beautiful moment for me. CPS didn't understand that, but it's better they learn these things on the information superhighway (remember when we called it that? Let's bring it back) than from me when they're ready.

faking the funk on a nasty dunk

fuq shaq

Feces

I'm particularly preoccupied with these things right now. Especially of the cat variety.

See, my cat's hiney produces quite the bounty of clumpity masses which demand my attention with the kitty poop scoop at least once a day. No kidding. And despite my putting him on the blandest diet imaginable, that fucker still could clear a room in a matter of seconds.

And. This is the kicker. Some time soon, maybe even in a few days, I am inheriting a 17 year old cat with a thyroid condition, and I'm just bracing myself for litter box h-e-double hockeysticks.

F-stops.

Two major factors in photography are F-stops and shutter speed. The F-stop refers to the opening that admits light into the camera body, called the aperture. The higher the F-stop, the smaller the opening. You can use the aperture setting to determine how much of your photo is in focus, called depth of field. If you're taking a picture of a large scene, and you want things in the foreground to be in focus as well as things in the background, you would use a high F-stop (a smaller aperture setting) to ensure a large depth of field. If you're taking a portrait you would use a low F-stop (a wider aperture setting) to reduce the depth of field and this would result in just the person's face being in focus with the background blurred.

The F-stop and the shutter speed work inversely with each other. With a wide aperture you need a slow shutter speed and vice versa. If these are not set correctly you will end up with a photo that is either overexposed or underexposed.

Some cameras have settings called Aperture Priority or Shutter Priority. This enables you to set the F-stop or the shutter speed to the setting you want and the camera will choose the correct shutter speed or F-stop for you. This gives you really great shots without really having to know what you're doing. It's fantastic!

Now, for homework I want you all to go out and take one picture with a large depth of field, and one with a very short depth of field. Turn them in to me by the letter H and yes, this will be on the quiz.

Embarrassed.

My mom took me to the store to get some feminine products one time when I was like 12, and I opted to stay in the car instead of going in because, come on. So she comes out of the store, we're parked right in front of the door of course, and she holds up the package (not even in a bag or anything) and says loudly "I got them!" and laughs and laughs...

Ms. Ellen

In the 4th grade, after years of begging on my part, my parents let me join the school music program. I don't know how good of a program it was, because you had to take private lessons to be in it. I chose to play the flute, because everyone else was choosing the violin, and fuck everybody. I copy no one but the very cool. And flautists, apparently.

My private teacher, Ms. Ellen, had a little office with ugly soundproof wall tiles but a really neat-o metronome on her piano. We'd practice notes, which I was not good at remembering the finger positions for. We'd practice reading sheet music, which I was not good at remembering the notes on. We'd practice my mouth shape and tone, which I was not good at.

At the end of the school year or whatever, Ms. Ellen, the private music teacher made a recommendation. She recommended that I get a new private music teacher.

epilepsy

Eeyore

Apparently, people like to pose with him.








I wouldn't be caught dead with that Debbie Downer.

Douchemonger.

That's what you are.

dolemite

make your bitches laugh!
use a gun to make whitey
do the honky dance.

Dorks

In middle school, which is what we call junior high here, I ate lunch with the biggest dorks ever. They commonly talked about ballistic military helmets and level 12 elves. Star Wars, Star Trek? Too common for these guys.

I was, if you can believe it, the coolest guy there. I had a mini-me 6th grader who looked eerily like me. I had a guy who'd run errands for me if I paid him with food. I was like a demigod to those poor little souls.

What an asshole I was. At least I eventually learned to be nice to people. Sort of. Aw, fuck you.

But I'm still a dork. A lovable dork.

Dial Antibacterial Soap

He pushed the needle through my navel and I thought shit, that's impossibly large, too terribly thick to break through someone's flesh. I could actually hear the skin puncture and rip. Tears pooled in my eyes and I watched a thin line of brown blood trickle down to the opening of my underpants.

Well, that was done. Now, clean it three times a day, he said. I couldn't even see his lips move under his moustache. Maybe it wasn't even him talking. His arms bulged and were covered with ink, like shoulder to wrist. But his fingers were immaculate. My head pulsed with adrenaline. I gingerly touched the tiny blue ring. Ow.

Use this, and he handed me a little bottle of Dial antibacterial soap. The orange kind. It smelled clean. Like it'd protect me, keep my belly button from exploding into a pus-covered infection. Don't let your boyfriend lick you there for at least a week, he said, and stuck out his tongue. Yeah, thanks, I won't, I said, getting up. My legs were rubbery.

The following week I went on a train with my family to visit my dying grandfather.
My head was so far up my own ass, I'm ashamed of my behavior now.
It was the first time in probably ten years my parents, sister and I had taken this 18 hour ride together to Florida. We were banging into each other and tense, but not arguing, not actually saying anything.

I'd methodically go to the bathroom several times a day and wash my navel with my special orange soap. I couldn't even turn around in there, but somehow managed. It gave me something to do.

It burned so badly I couldn't button my pants.

The three of them would watch me as we sat in the dining car, engaged in a quiet, familiar battle. I poked boiled potatoes with my fork, mashed up baked fish, pushed everything to the outside rim of the plate, to make it look like I'd actually eaten some of it. We know what you're doing, they said. I'm not doing anything, I replied. I'm not hungry. This food is gross.
We'll get you something else, they said. How about dessert?
I looked at them like they were crazy.

I went to the club car and smoked Marlboro Lights.

And I washed my stupid bellybutton.

At my grandfather's house, I bought several containers of sugar free General Foods International Cappuccino...it was thick and creamy and I could make it with water but somehow it felt like sustenance, and I liked the caffeine buzz. I smoked and smoked out on my grandfather's porch. I didn't even really talk to him. This was the last time I'd ever visit his house with him alive in it.

Why does she do that, he asked my father. Can you ask her at least to close the door.
I sat out by the pool and smoked. I took the car out for hours. Every dinner was an adventure in avoidance. An angry dance I'd have with my parents. I'll win, I thought. I always won at this. I was angry, so angry. I'm still not sure at whom or why. I guess mostly at myself, because I was the target of so much of my venom, so much fucking hate.

I went to bed with the sweet smell of orange soap in my skin, feeling elated as tiny balloons of air popped in my stomach. I admit that I loved it. I know it's wrong, but I did. And that's crazy.

cunnilingus: a haiku

the warmth of my breath
makes you moist. you moan, as i
kiss your clitoris.

Chocolate martinis and cats

I drank me two chocolate martinis
they tasted so good going down
so sweet and so cold and so creamy
the glass garnished with Hershey's brown

I woke up next morning quite groggy
my mouth felt all covered in fur
my chest and my head were all soggy
my kitty, he started to purr

He came and he sat down upon me
he butted me with his sweet head
saying, 'come, bitch, it's time to feed me'
I don't give a fuck if you're dead

so I wiped cat fur off my eyeball
and whispered, 'you are such a creep,'
cuz cats don't care 'bout hangovers
so I fed him and went back to sleep.

Cool Kids

At Samohi, the cool kids ate in the quad.

Funny thing, any courtyard formed by the space between an even number of rectangular buildings will form a quad. True fact.

We had the quad quad and the science quad. Guess where I ate. Not because I was good at science, but because there was less pressure and more readily available seating. One time, I was wearing a Morrissey shirt and this hefty girl smiles and asks if I like Morrissey. I say yes, and she says "well, fuck you then." I still wonder what the Moz ever did to her.

Funny thing, most of my friends were cool kids, but not me. I was too quiet and too preoccupied with being different to compensate for being misunderstood. True fact.

A lot of the cool kids were goobers. They weren't all even that attractive. I think they were thought of as cool largely because they had the air of confidence that comes with certain life advantages. Social, economic, racial... If I had to pick a single thing that contributed most to their being de facto cool people, it would be that they all knew each other for a really long time.

Funny thing, I had this friend Brian Samuels. His dad, Nardy, was the Principal. And apparently had the bestes of testes. Brian and I used to goof off in class a lot and be loud and start shit. He knew all the chicks and they used to look at us oddly as chicks often do. Well, when they weren't around, he'd go on and on about this chick and that chick. How he wanted to fuck 'em, how hot he thought they were, how he wanted to smell their fingers... The usual. Well, years later (about 15 years later), I realize he was baiting me. I was supposed to express some similar interest so he could let the girl know it was there. If I'd just said I thought that one girl was adorable, chaos theory may have changed my whole life. True fact.

Well, now that I'm an adult, it's nice to be hanging with the cool kids like I do here on Alphabet Soup Bullshit Blog with Cindy, Jeremy and Sara. Having people to shoot the shit with makes all the difference. Thanks, guys, I appreciate you. True fact.

"Can I call you Sara?"

This is what my daughter just asked me.

When I said no, she whined, Saaaaraaaaa! Saaaaara!

I hate that.

C = Camera

Which I lost on Friday because I got all fucking drunk and left it at the bar. Damn you, Jagermeister. Damn you straight to hell. While I'm at it I should probably damn the tequila from the margaritas I had with dinner.

But not you, Coors Light. You would never do this to me.

Billabong

I don't know about the rest of the damn country, but in LA it was often about surfer clothes.

And not that raggedy-ass homeless surfer shit they sell now that looks like they went over the border, brought back a bunch of peso ponchos and dyed them light blue.

I mean the classics. In the beginning, god created T&C (Joe Cool, motherfuckers!), Maui & Sons, and saw that it was good

Then there was Rusty's and Limpies--the lame middle period.

Then there was the renaissance of Stussy and Mossimo. Fuck, yeah. My favorites were the Stussy shirts with the art deco collars. $35 it cost for just one of those damn shirts, and they never went on fucking sale. Maybe you could get two for $65 if you'd blow the guy at Pacific Sunwear (which is what they used to call PacSun you little shits).

But Billabong was also a classic. Billabong was the understated and kinda intentionally lame thing to wear that seemed to appeal to the stoners. And not just because it had "bong" right in the name, either. Something about the fabrics or the colors or how they looked with unkempt hair.

A billabong is a seasonal stream in Australia, so they always make me think of Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport, by Rolf fucking Harris back in the way back.

Fuckin-A.

B = Brownies

I ate almost the entire pan of brownies.

Yeah, I know I'm a fat cow but C is next week, so keep your damn opinion to yourself!

buttermilk biscuits

y'all ready to get busy?

now buttermilk biscuits here we go,
sift the flour, roll the dough.
clap your hands and stomp your feet,
move your butt to the funky beat.

buttermilk biscuits

we're from l.a. to the carolinas,
dip them suckers in aunt jemima.
it don't make a difference what food you make,
use buttermilk biscuits to clean your plate.
you eat 'em in the morning, you eat 'em at night,
kentucky fried chicken makes the suckers just right.
i eat 'em with jelly at my favorite deli,
wrapped and sealed by a freak named shelley.

buttermilk biscuits

one day i kissed my freak, hit the street,
looking for something to eat,
in an 18-wheeler, looking real swass,
all the girls smile 'cause i'm the big boss.
said i gotta eat now, can't eat later,
made a lot of noise to attract my waiter.
the boy walked up, and what did he say?
he said "buttermilk biscuits free today."
well what you waiting on boy? get up, shake a leg,
gimme 10 of them suckers with grits and eggs.
a glass of koolaid and a whole stick of butter,
them biscuits make me a superfast cutter.

buttermilk biscuits

now grab that can and wrap it in your hand,
bang that sucker till the dough expands.
put them suckers up in your oven.
grab your girlie and get a little lovin'.
add a bit of honey if you want to get funny,
microwave the suckers if you want your honey runny.
gonna get naughty at the mix-a-lot party
and rub them suckers all over your body.

buttermilk biscuits

Bitchslap

I seriously felt like giving these out by the handful last week.

But I'm feeling better now, thanks.

So good, in fact, I fear that this week I might start deserving them.

Aloof

I've always wished I could be distant and uncaring. You can seem so cool. Take up smoking, even.


Who's that guy?

I don't know.

He doesn't look like he gives a fuck about anything.

Cool.


It just wasn't in the cards, though. When I find people I like, I strip naked of pretense. And the guy who comes out of the can naked at the dinner party ends up leaving early. I'm just a kid excited to have someone to play with for a change, but intense earnestness can really fuck some shit up.

Then other people tend to wish I were more aloof, too.
(Then I shouldn't give a fuck, but I still do.)

A = Agreed

I'll try to keep up
but I can't promise I'll post
for every letter.

aardvark

Adam's Apple

Oh! Manly neck-bump
I can tell you're a drag queen
I want to poke it.