Friday, December 19, 2014


Another gem, this one from 2010. I have a few more drafts, will post them then back to your previously scheduled shenaniganistas.


In lieu of your usual haikueygooeyness, I would like to post a poem by one of my favorite poets, Leon Phelps:

What is love?
What is this longing in our hearts for togetherness?
Is it not the sweetest flower?
Does not this flower of love have the fragrant aroma of fine fine dining?
Does not the wind love the dirt? Is not love not unlike the unlikly not it is unliking to?
Are you with someone tonight? Do not question your love. Take your lover by the hand. Release the power within yourself. You heard me release the power.
Tame the wild cosmos with a whisper.
Conquer heaven with one intimate caress.
Thats right, don't be shy, whip out everything you've got, and do it in da butt!!



Getting old is a sad time. Not in the trousers, since I seem to be only getting hornier at more and more inopportune times than I used to (sorry, Old Lady in Front of me at Walmart, that WASNT a garden hoe!), but in other ways. I used to be able to go to work, listen to Flanders or Crazy Eyed Santa for literally MINUTES at a time, go to karate, get home and masturbate furiously onto my neighbor's lawn (or my neighbor, whichever) and it was a good night. Hell, even last year I played football, did karate, and failed to satisfy my wife on a regular basis. I thought turning 30 would be the beginning of my drop off, little did I know how fast said drop off would hit.

Woke up this morning aching all over, annoyed at those damn kids outside at the bus stop yelling about some damn video game, and my pee came out in 3 streams instead of one. In my more youthful days, that meant chlamydia, but now it means sadness and olde age.... or chlamydia, I'm not a doctor.

Anyway, getting older seems to have some great benefits. You can be annoying as fuck, and no one can punch you in the face for it. Take Super Mario.

Super Mario is a fat guy with a delicious mustache at my dojo. He's a nice enough fella, easygoing and a great cook. Super Mario is also old. This comes into play OFTEN. He has roughly 493120894 ailments that he will list and describe anytime he has a chance to corner you. In my younger days, I was able to stand there and nod appreciatively. Now, I turn and walk away as he is talking because I realize as I get older there's no point in wasting my already shortened time on this earth listening to shit I don't feel like listening to. This stance also leads to less sexy time at home, but more satisfying quiet time for me.

Before I go on with why Super Mario annoys me sometimes, let me start by saying I like the man. He is not a no talent douchemeister like the majority of people are after pleasantries are exchanged and the real person comes out, and that is saying something in this day and age. But sometimes he annoys me so much I want to blowdry my sphincter with a rusty jackhammer instead of listening to his praddling abominations of conversation.

Yesterday, I am practicing kicking people in the face, and he comes up and says "Got a computer question for ya" and then just looks at me with an actually quite adorable grin on his face, I guess waiting for me to beg him to tell me his issue cause Lord knows I can't get enough computer work! After waiting with raised eyebrows I ask nicely "What the fuck is the problem get to it" and he looks like he is hurt, but goes on to tell me his issue which eludes me right now because I wasn't listening. Fine, I tell him to bring his machine in and I will take a gander at it. He takes "I will look at it" for "please tell me your issue 2 more times in the greatest detail you can muster as I try to walk away from you" and happily follows suit, peppering in new ailments (he comes to karate, and MUST line up ahead of me, but can't do any of the physical stuff, which is fine, but he sometimes makes a big deal about it, which is NOT fine) and how far he can lift his arm and what happened to his third ball and blah blah blah...

I mean honestly, I don't bore people with my myriad issues, or if I do I would hope they would tell me to shut the fuck up, why do people feel it is OK to tell me all about every problem they have? Is it the big nose? Do the Brown Bear eyes draw you into a false sense of security? I know I sound mean but after a while.... FUCK!

You know, reading my post over, I am sounding more and more like Smeagol. Maybe he had it right (in this regard). When someone started saying something he didn't want to hear, they got a "I don't wanna hear that shit" and he called them a bitch niggie and walked off. I used to think it was because he was a douche, and he was, but not for that. If you look over your life, try to think of all the times you had to stand there and listen to some ass-nugget tell you stories about their cat or their sciattica or their trip to Honduras or the time they got syphillis from fucking that dead midget, and add that shit up. That is wasted time. My New Year's Resolution is to let a little Smeagol shine through me in that respect. WHen someone starts telling me about their toe getting broken that one time they were eating a pickle and tripped over a curb, instead of relinquishing my soul to the utter depths of unfathomable annoyance, I am gonna take a "fuck that, bitch niggie" moment and tell them (nicely) to eat shit and die and walk off. Will it lead to awkward social situations? I would bet not, because I am also a large black man, so it is assumed I have a natural bad attitude and I have done little to nothing to dispel that ideal.

As to Super Mario, I also got told he is heavily addicted to porn, so maybe it won't be so bad, couldn't be worse than that time I tried to clean Smeag's computer off and it had been so heavily infested with hardcore porn it was almost unusable... we shall see.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

A Midsummer Nights Raptor

from the depths it came

Lands fall to plague before it

failure quells it's ire

EDITOR'S Note: These are drafts I wrote and never finished. I am going to post them because I'm lazy. You're welcome.

Ah Fall, that special time of year. Like the Brown Bear it is a time when the Stevester's thoughts and dreams take on a tender, softer appearance, for the time of hibernation is near, the Baconator has sated his hunger, and the air is crisp with the sweet smell of apples and pumpkin spice.

It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.

I am moving. I signed the paperwork, I got a place in Smithville that overlooks a pretty good-sized fishing pond (though with my incessant fear of fish that selling point was totally wasted on me) and is right off the town square, the final sign that I am moving up in the world. In a time honored tradition carried by my family for generations, instead of calling professional movers or renting a truck, I had planned on simply getting a caravan of my family together, and having them help me move with the promises of money, and then as tradition dictates never pay them.

"I thought this post was about Smeagol, I'ma stop reading right now, baby" you might be saying to yourself, playing funk guitar and eating exotic cheeses while riding a unicycle naked, but hear me out, I will get to that raptor soon enough.

I was wondering if I should invite that raptor along to help move. I know he would feel offended if he was not asked, which once he finds out I live closer to him might lead to even more thefts when he comes over, but the initial amount of stuff that would "disappear" during the move is going to be a big hit as well... .

Smeagol has a long history of stealing things or begging you into oblivion during moving. He is no longer allowed to help my aunt move as he stole stuff like soda and PS2 games from our 4 and 5 year old nephews (this is an allegation until I receive proof, but it IS kinda strange that he came up with some sweet new games that he claimed he "got from a pawn shop" soon thereafter. I know for a fact that when Smeagol enters a pawn shop they move right for the register because he only has one kind of business in a pawn shop and purchasing things is not it).

Of course he is not allowed to help my sister move, and I do not think my mom would allow him to help, either.

Another reason is he has the strength of an ape.....action figure from a GI Joe toy set. Remember when I told you he needed to put 2 pairs of socks on each hand and needed mover assist for tiny boxes?

On the other hand, Smeagol does have his strengths.If he has the idea that he can get more from you by not stealing, he will make sure everything you wanted to make the transition to your new home makes it there, with his raptor eyes of carnage. He will also tattle tale on anyone else who dares steal, even if he ends up stealing it soon thereafter. I dunno... should a brown bear trust a raptor? This is unprecedented.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

random meander
through an oft-filled clime
great, now I got herps

I never finished my Rocksmith story I see, and maybe I'll do that one day... in the meantime;

I got a dog. A dog I fucking picked, not my wife. A dog I like, that is a man's dog, enormous in physical stature, but with no brain whatsoever. Observe:

So I was walking in to work 20 minutes late as usual (if I leave for work when I'm supposed to actually already be there I don't feel like I'm giving the muthafuckin man extra) and I notice there's a huge damn black dog leaning against the building in the breezeway, looking at me and wagging his tail hopefully. He's huge. For some reason, I'm not scared though, like Smeagol always was when the police got behind him or when some bitch niggie pulled up in a Mustang Dominator; sure, it didn't matter that he was in a 1992 Pontiac Grand Am with 200k miles on it, he was still gonna race, trust... he just knew he'd lose unless he REALLY slicked his hair back and clawed the wheel.

Anyway, people are wandering by and feeding this dog their lunches, which he gobbles up and then greedily keeps sitting there waiting for more, which should have been a red flag, but I'm fucking dumb. I call my wife and tell her there's a puppy that she needs to come get. She gets all excited like when I promised I'd watch Pretty Woman with her as long as she put out during the boring parts, but unlike that situation she did not leave unsatisfied and disappointed and wondering what I'd done to her credit.

She shows up, opens the door to get out, the dog jumps in the backseat and we now have a dog.

Couple weeks after we get him, we're making spaghetti with garlic bread. We put the industrial sized Country Crock butter up on the counter, and next to it a smaller 1lb tub of garlic butter. The dog (Link), is tall enough he can walk up to a counter and just take things off of it, but we assume since it's not meat, it's goddamned BUTTER, we'll be fine. At this point we learn a black lab/ Great Dane mix is a popular dog because they are super nice, but not super smart. I come downstairs a few minutes later to put stuff up, and the butter is gone. The 4 fucking pound tub, and the smaller 1 pound garlic butter tub.... gone. Link is sitting there like he has no idea what happened, but when you have a pure jet black dog with a large dollop of butter on his nose, you know what that asshole did.

Later that night, I'm on the computer in my room, and Link is doing his evening ritual of jumping around in a circle bucking his back legs out like a moron. All of a sudden he stops and looks at me. I just have enough time to turn and smile because he's adorable, and out comes 4 pounds of curdled warm butter and cat shit with pee flavored sprinkles on it, all over the carpet in the boys' room. We had to use a snow shovel to clean that shit up.

"Who gives a fuck about your fucking dog asshole where's the Smeagol stories" you may be saying aloud on a crowded bus, possibly while masturbating to a picture of Jeremy. Fuck you, asshole, but here is something I CAN offer you:

JJ has been complaining a little more than usual recently about Mystical's animal repository. I have some stories that I'll share at odd later dates, but suffice it to say she has too many animals. 8 cats, to be particular. They have odd fucking names like Sir Sergio Villalobos, Duke of Espanoza, and other random fucked up names. Has anyone ever called a cat and had the little shiteater turn and recognize their name? No? Dogs know their names. They don't know anything else, like "heel", "fetch", or "eat this peanut butter real slow", but they know their names. Cats do not, which is another reason they are stupid. But I digress.

Anyway, to hear JJ tell it, these cats run the fucking house: they constantly throw up, piss or shit wherever they damn well please, everyone is expected to know their names and give up their seats for them, and Mystical has these intricate back stories for each one. In very short form, I offer my favorite:

One of her cats, Sergio Jr., got out. This is cause for concern. For a week on Facebook she wrote these long, inane, incoherent diatribes about how Jesus and her favorite band are working to bring her damn cat home, and that it is a test by both of them to see how resolute she is and it's all to do with Mercury being in retrograde and I have no fucking idea. 7... fucking... days... of these long, LONGER THAN MY POSTS rants about this fucking cat. Finally JJ goes into the backyard and sees him, he runs from him and Mystical eyes him on the front porch. That night, after profusely thanking both Jeebus and Band Which Shall Not Be Named, she says she picked Sergio up off the porch, and whispered a prayer and then the name of the band into his ear, and he looked at her with solemn eyes as if to say: "I know"...

WTF. No, he fucking didn't. The cat wanted food, and was willing to reenter the abbatoir of fucking doom to get food. He didn't care about your random prayers. He doesn't care who your favorite band is. He didn't come back because the new album was coming out. He was goddamned hungry and that's all that mattered. He had a choice to make: fillet and eat my own asshole or go listen to the same CD every day all day for the rest of my days but get fed. For now... he chose the latter.