The Winds of Change

For those of you that know me, you know I’ve been with Chicken Hen since 2003.  If my math is correct, and it usually is with my phone calculator, that’s going on ten years now.  Sure, her and I have had a lot of good times together, like watching Survivor,  watching Kitchen Nightmares, and watching Breaking Bad.  Surely we’ve had our troubled times as well, like the time she wanted to watch Top Chef while South Park was on, and our heated disagreements over why Omorosa from The Apprentice is such a bitch. Like every relationship though, ours has evolved over the years.  Recently, ours took a sudden leap into unknown territory.  You see, after 10 years of living with each other, I finally farted in front of her.

First off to be clear she claims to not be offended by this act at all.  In fact, I can recall the first time she farted in front of me.  It was in the second hour of meeting her in my college’s dorm.  She seemed proud of it, leaning herself to the side and exhaling in comfort afterwards.  She even informed me that “everyone likes their own brand”.  I didn’t know one could grow to enjoy the smell of rotting garage, no matter how familiar it was.  Over the coming years, Chicken Hen somehow became more open with her gastrointestinal issues.  What was a playful poot now and again eventually turned into the non-stop train of  grizzly lumberjack farts it is today.  Like a gentleman though, instead of comforting and upsetting her, I grew to adapt to this literally toxic environment.  For example, always I cover her in a blanket and tell her I assumed she was cold, or always give her the softest plushes chairs or cushions.  Both of these tactics are designed to limit the amount of horrible gut wrenching stink that can be released into the apartments atmosphere.  The blanket keeps the noxious cloud contained in a designated area, and the chair sacrifices itself day in day out by being pummeled by hundreds of thousands of fecal air bullets.  Of course there’s a few preventive methods as well, like hiding the cans of pinto beans and always telling her the grapes in the fridge have gone bad.  But these are just common sense.

Chicken Hen might play fast and loose with the air coming out of her anus, but mine is like a god damn steel trap.  This is a very important thing to know about me.  Until just days ago, I had never farted in front of her.  It started out of courtesy and to look classy.  Yet once she started blasting her sphincter whistle all the time, I decided not to for the sole reason of being able to judge her when she does.  So up until a bit ago, every time she would fart I would look at her with shame and disappointment.  And rightfully so, as far as she knew my anus was 100% efficient.   Obviously I have farted in ten years, but I kept it cleverly concealed. Whether it be running outside to “check the mail” or holding it in until I became very ill and had to be hospitalized (I told her I have diabetes), she was none the wiser.

I did it now though.  I was sitting on my spot on the couch and had just finished my third two liter of pepsi when I felt one coming on.  Following usual protocol I stood up and said I need to check the mail.  She told me she picked it up an hour before.  Then I said I can take out the garbage.  Again, she had done so earlier.  I was trapped.  So instead, I sat back down and hoped the rumbling would subside.  After an hour though, it had only gotten worse.  I lied down in hopes it would somehow work out. For just a second it worked, and I slowly sat back up.  It was a lie though, and before my mislead anus could react, a hearty bellow emerged from my size 48 jean shorts.  It was loud, still not as vicious and frightening as a Chicken Hen fart, but still very noticeable. Chicken Hen turned and looked at me.  I stared back at her expecting her to ask me to get out of her life forever.  Instead she just laughed and said “aw gross”.

No judgement at all!  I was shocked.  I had been holding back farts for a decade for no damn reason.  I spent the rest of that night and every night since just farting away.  She didn’t care at all except that one time I farting in her face  and bowl of soup while she was eating it.  She was upset by that.  She can’t be real mad though, she knows I’m new to this.

Regrets

Those that know me would probably describe me with the personality of Vin Diesel’s character in the Fast and Furious franchise.   They would say this because I asked them to describe me that way.  See, much like Dominick Toretto, I live my life a quarter mile at a time, whether it be no holds barred street races, or literally walking a quarter mile a week for exercise.  Still, even with my carefree attitude towards life, there have been regrets.  Recently I took the time to examine my life thus far, and found a couple times I wish I had perhaps taken a different path, and what experiences those choices may have brought.

1. The time I bought Chicken Hen Noise Canceling Headphones

I have no excuse.  I thought it would be a nice gesture since I know she spends so much time on the computer.  I figured she could listen to her music while she’s busy doing whatever it is she does on that thing all day.  I got some fancy Bose one’s, and she seemed  pleased.  Soon however, a terrible consequence of her having those headphones emerged.  I am of course talking about her singing.  See, just because she can’t hear her voice as she sings, doesn’t mean I can’t.  Day after day, I have been subjected to all manners of singing from her as she scoots around in her chair.  Knowing that some people are a little sensitive about their singing voice, I wanted to do something subtle and reassuring.  I tried looking at her and tapping my watch.  Then I tried turning up the TV volume.  Then, I put on my own headphones, but felt weird like we were an apartment full of autistic kids.  As a last resort, I decided to muster all the compassion and tact I could and tried to talk to her about it.  I did so by pulling the headphones off her ears, informing her that she was a terrible singer, and if I heard one more line from The Door’s “Light My Fire” come from her mouth I would kill myself.  She did not like this approach.  Do I regret saying it?  No.  I regret buying her the headphones.  I knew deep down I should have kept them for myself as a second pair backup.

2. That day in the summer

It was early, say 8 am, which is crazy early for a 16 year old on summer break.  With no school, I frequently stayed up into the early morning hours.  But that morning, with the phone ringing, I knew as the only one in the house and had to answer it. This was before cell phones, so it was everyone in the house’s only line.  It was my grandpa.  He said that he was getting ready to sell his old fishing boat, just a little dingy,  and was curious if I wanted to join him for one last run.  Naturally I was not thrilled with the idea of spending a hot summer day outside with an old man, but with no better ideas, I agreed.  Being an old man he was at my house promptly while it was still early morning and we headed to the pond.  Sitting out on the pond, he asked me about my dreams for the future, and told me about what he had dreamed of at my age.  He told me how he had met my grandma, and how they fell in love just before he went into the military.  He said he wrote my grandma every day he was gone, and that she still keeps the letters to this day.  Later he told me his secret fishing technique and helped me reel in a big catch.  It was so big, grandpa said we could grill it for dinner.  We started a grilling pit in grandma and grandpa’s backyard  and cooked it up.  Freshest fish I ever had.  We sat by the fire and talked some more.  He told me exciting war stories about his time in the service.  I tried to tell him a ghost story I heard.  He said it was good but he didn’t look scared at all.  When he dropped me off at home he gave me a hug and said “I’ll miss ya kiddo”.  He always called me kiddo.  Grandpa died three days later.  They said he just died of old age, having many illnesses throughout the years.  At the funeral, I asked grandma about selling the dingy.  She said he wasn’t selling it at all, and that she didn’t know what I was talking about. I guess he just wanted to spend the day with me.  When my family got home from the funeral we saw there were messages on the answering machine.  One message was from three days earlier.  It was my high school friends asking if I wanted to join them at King’s Dominion that day.  They said they heard the lines were going to be very short.  I still regret spending that day with my grandpa, what a waste of a day. That was time I could have spent riding the Anaconda or The Hurler.  Now I’ll never know.

That’s it for regrets.  Other than these two missteps I’m pretty sure I’ve done everything exactly right.

A Good Look at Myself

A few weeks ago the company I work for decided to update the company directory.  So, my group was assigned a picture day.  When the day came we all wore our best, and I went at my scheduled time. After a brief 10 minute shooting session, during which I displayed a few choice poses, I returned to my cube feelin’ fine.  I received my photo as an email attachment a few days later.  The email said was the best photo taken and will be included in the directory.  When the attachment opened, I saw my face and just whispered  “oh god no…”   I tried not to panic.  I leaned over to one of my coworkers and asked them what they thought of the photo.  They said  “that’s a real nice photo of you”.  Fighting the urge to punch them in the face, I thanked them and turned back to my desk.  I had no idea.  Years of avoiding mirrors and comparing myself to celebrities convinced me I looked very different.  I spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself.  I also felt bad for Chicken Hen, since she has to look at me more than I do.  I mostly felt bad for me though.  Later on that day Chicken Hawk noticed the funk I was in and asked what was wrong.  I told him I was sad because of my face.  He said he understood. He then offered a suggestion.  Perhaps a few of the fellas can take a bro trip somewhere.  I asked where.  He said he didn’t know, but somewhere where we can act like big shots.  “Monte Carlo? Macao? Zurich?” I asked.  He clarified that we were to act like big shots, not be big shots.  So we settled for Las Vegas.  We called Rooster to ask him if he wanted to go, and he agreed before I finished the question.  We were off to the desert a week later.

Chicken Hawk has traveled to many places, but somehow never Las Vegas.  He instantly hated it.  Walking along the strip, getting bumped into by wave after wave of  bloated tank top wearing fatsos, it looked like Chicken Hawk was about to go off.  He never did however, as we frequently retreated into bars to discuss what there was to do. In our haste to go somewhere, no one thought of what to do.  As the beers kept coming, we came up with increasingly exciting ideas.  We agreed that the best ideas were dune buggy racing through barren desert, getting fresh with a couple of honeys at the club, and robbing The Venetian.  We ultimately decided against the robbery, citing our lack of skill, lack of experience, and cowardice.  Chicken Hawk still maintains it was possible though.

The next day we were picked up by an extremely skinny guy that looked like he was made of leather.  He was wearing a cowboy hat and instructed us to “saddle up” in his van out to the dune buggies.  We took a boring 30 minute drive out to the dessert where were were given a safety briefing.    The safety briefing consisted of a morbidly obese women yelling at us not to break the buggies or we will pay.  She stressed that if anything goes wrong in any way, we will pay.  Once she successfully took the fun out of the whole thing, we were given our buggies.  Rooster and I shared a buggy so I could try to take photos.  When we were given the go ahead Rooster gunned it a proceeded to narrowly avoid crashing for the next 45 minutes.  Halfway through our tour it was my turn.  Behind the wheel of that roaring beast, I revved up, and showed everybody the way to drive a dune buggy the safest and most responsible way possible.  Lucky for us, I was able to avoid injury and buggy damage.  We were vanned back to our hotel.

It was only late afternoon and we needed to discuss where to go.  Of course, there are many options in Las Vegas.  We looked up our options on the internet and came to a decision.  We would to Chateau in the Paris Casino.  We wanted to go there because they had relatively cheap bottle service.  This would entitle us to cut in the line, and head right up to a private table like the big shots we wanted to be.  Not only that, but Method Man and Redman were scheduled to appear there.  After reserving everything online, Rooster then discussed tactics for later that night.  First off, there should be some sort of code that we can say to each other in case there’s trouble.  I forget what these code words were. I wasn’t paying attention.  Neither was Chicken Hawk.  We both continued watching the TV behind Rooster as he talked about his plans for wrangling ladies to our table.  It was about 7pm, and everyone knows clubs don’t get poppin’ until at least midnight.  Rooster said he will take a nap, in order to be refreshed for the festivities ahead.  Chicken Hawk decided to nap as well.  They both agreed that they will wake up at 9, and start drinking then to be ready to party when we get to the club.  I didn’t sleep because it was 7pm and I’m not a 80 year old man.  Instead, I sat looking at my phone and quietly watching TV.  At about 8:45pm, I decided to start drinking.  I figured they would be up any minute, I might as well have first dibs on the booze we had bought earlier.  At 9pm both of their phone alarms went off and neither woke up.  I assumed they were just slow risers and continued to drink.  As 10pm rolled around, I decided to rouse them awake by violently kicking each of their beds.  Upon seeing the time, they both scrambled up and began putting on the suits that we had all agreed to bring.  I was already wearing mine.  Seeing how intoxicated I was already, they both attempted a spirited catch up by taking shot after shot of vodka.  By a little after 11 we were all drunk, out of booze and bored.  We decided to hit the town.  We grabbed a cab and headed to Chateau.

This place was hoppin’.  There had to have been at least a couple hundred people in line.  We however, just as planned, walked straight past everyone and into the club.  Nestled underneath the replica Eiffel Tower, there were lasers and smoke shooting every which way.  We were lead through the dance floor to a corner area with a few small tables.  A couple waiters placed our booze and mixers in front of us in a fancy looking display.  With us looking classy as hell, we took our seats.  We all sat there silently.  After a few minutes, it got weird, and Chicken Hawk decided to look  for ladies.  I made myself a drink and looked around.  I saw several groups of ladies and briefly considered approaching them.  Instead, I looked over at Rooster, who appeared to be very bored.  Chicken Hawk came back and said that the place looks cool but didn’t talk to anyone.   Again we all sat there, and again after a few minutes, Chicken Hawk got up to look around.  I watched Chicken Hawk as he moved about the room.  It appeared like his lady gathering tactic was stand around and hope something works out.  I looked back at the group of ladies in front of us, then made myself another drink.  Now at an heroic level of drunkeness, I stood up and made my move.

I began by apologizing for how I look.  There was no way around it, might as well address it straight up.  The girls laughed as if I made a joke.  I smiled like I did.  Then, I invited them over to drink and discuss.  Shockingly, they agreed and sat down next to Rooster.  Rooster nodded at them and then just kept sitting there.  I thought something might be wrong with him, but he didn’t say the safe word (whatever it was), so I let him be.  Instead I discussed various things with the ladies.  I actually have no idea what they were saying, it was much too loud.  Chicken Hawk returned to the table and was greeted by five women.  This pleased Chicken Hawk, who then began to dance with one of them.  After a little bit more drinking and talking, two of the girls wanted to dance with me.  I told them I didn’t want to on account I fear my dancing might be too sexy.  As they were pulling me up to my feet, I glanced over at Rooster who made a sudden lurch forward.  I instantly knew what was happening.  I watched as he reached for the table, and not reaching anything, vomited into his hands.  The vomit  bounced off his hands, spraying onto the floor and some of one of the girl’s legs.  The girls jumped away and nearly everyone in the club looked over at us.  I feel like I may have heard a record skip.  Lucky for me, I was too drunk to feel embarrassment.  Instead, I laughed and told the just vomited on girl that I promise I won’t vomit on her.  Chicken Hawk was not too drunk however, and leaned over to inform me that Rooster was dead to him.  Security was kicking Rooster out of the place.  I knew that single Chicken Hawk had the most to gain from dancing with ladies so I agreed to escort Rooster to our hotel room.  On our way to the exit, Rooster drunkenly stumbled backwards, falling straight back where he would hit his head.  I skillfully ran up and slid underneath him, catching him.  A few people just near us even cheered my heroic feat. I carried him outside and sat on the ground with him.

After a minute, security came by and told him he was not in trouble and that he will be escorted to a cab and taken to his room.  We sat there and after a second Rooster said that he feels ok now, and that the vomiting cleaned him right up.  He then asked if I think they will let him back in.  I told him regretfully no.  Assuring me that he was now ok, he insisted I return to the club.  I agreed and said, “welp, you were fun” and left.  Back inside the club, Chicken Hawk was talking to girls next to a newly cleaned table area.  They all looked very surprised to see me.  One girl asked where my friend went, I told her he was dead.  We all laughed and continued partying. I sat down and started discussing things with a few of them.  I was having fun trying to say the craziest stuff I can think of, like ” I enjoying mowing the lawn at night” and “sometimes I read books backwards to see if it makes the story better”.  They weren’t put off by this at all.  They probably couldn’t hear me.  Suddenly a random dude sat down right next to me and started talking to one of the girls.  Problem was, he was sitting at our table.  We bought that table fair and square.  I gently leaned over and whispered “fuck off” in the guys ear.  He looked at me shocked and furious.  he said “what!?” all mad and stuff.  I repeated, “fuck. off”.  He looked at me, then Chicken Hawk, then the girls, and slowly got up and left.  He couldn’t tell if we were big shots or not.  He decided to play it safe and assume we were. He walked over to his group of friends, all who leered at me as menacingly as they could.  I just smiled and tipped my glass to them.  Little do they know I am invincible when I drink.  Seconds later, I made a joke that made everybody laugh (nailed it) and as I looked back down from throwing my head in laughter, I saw Redman walking right by me, giving me a cool guy acknowledgement head nod.  I returned said nod.  I am now cool.

The night ended with one of the girls also throwing up.  Unlike for us though, all the girls left to support her.  We decided to leave too, and with Chicken Hawk getting some ladies phone numbers, considered the night a success.  I learned an important lesson that night.  Regardless of how weird one may look, as long as you are drunk and act like an asshole, things go your way.  Now to run this strategy at my next work meeting…

This thing is still on?

A while back I received a notice from WordPress to “time to renew my annual fee”. At first I was pleased, I couldn’t even remember the last time WordPress had paid my for my blogging.  To my shock, Chicken Hen informed me that in fact I was to pay them.  Needless to say, I never did.  I assumed not paying would result in the website’s death.  Apparently that’s not the case.  Although, it looks like I lost a lot of functionality, I am still able to write inspiring words to my dear sweet readers.  And so here we are, I am back to discuss important issues.  I assume with out regular updates to my blog, your life is in shambles.  You have no one to blame but yourself for that.  I can’t keep tabs on all your wheelings and dealings.  That is of course, unless you allow me.  Then I will monitor everything you do, I hear that’s ok to do nowadays.

Those commies in the Associated Press recently broke a story about how the NSA is now watching everything that we do with our phone gizmos.  Big whoop.  I assumed that from the start.  Do you have a better idea for keeping Pakistan in check?  What does recording all phone calls in the US have to do with foreign threats you ask?  You don’t understand politics.  Friggin’ idiot.  I knew the government would do anything to keep the hoards of ravenous blood thirsty foreigners, who are totally jealous of all our freedom, at bay.

And really, so what if they see what I’m doing?  I don’t care what they listen in on while I’m chatting away on my Jitterbug.  I could see some people being concerned I guess.  My friend Chicken Hawk likes to send dick picks to random phone numbers.  He says it gives him a thrill.  He says those pics are intended for one stranger, not multiple.  I told him just stop sending them over the phone and go back to waving his genitals at traffic on the overpass like he used to.  People today are spoiled by technology.  I would think of sending pictures like that.  First because me Jitterbug doesn’t have a camera, and second I’m far too modest, on account of my micropenis.

Even if I wasn’t cool with all this surveillance, I’d just have to deal with it anyway.  Why?  Because if I refused the Feds would just send Hobbs after me.  Who is Hobbs?  Hobbs is the no doubt completely real Federal Agent artfully portrayed by Dwayne Johnson in Fast and Furious 6.  Hobbs works for the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS).  What does the DSS have to do with surveillance of phone calls?  Well like his actual jurisdiction in FF6, that’s not important.  What is important is the one metric ton (by volume) of whoop-ass he will dispense upon you if you threaten America.   You jabronis aren’t scared of one man?  Well let me explain what Hobbs is capable of.  Imagine you are speeding away from him in a high performance car.  He will very easily catch up to you via an advantageously placed bridge along side of you.  Then, falling over 100 feet down, leap from his car onto yours, both cars traveling at least 60 miles per hour.  He will then proceed to punch you in the face repeatedly, having landed completely unharmed on your surprisingly soft car hood.  Hobbs is more than capable of this, as I witnessed him do it on more than one occasion.

Is dealing with a beast of a man like Hobbs worth hiding your filthy secrets from Uncle Sam?  I know I don’t think so.  What are you going to do about it?

Listen to Uncle Chicken Spy

A few days ago, I found out a friend of mine is expecting a baby. I, of course,  immediately suggested the child be named after me.  She told me that she didn’t know whether it was a boy or a girl, but that she will probably name it after her grandfather or something.  Naturally, I then lost interest.  But after reconsidering, I realized that I could could lend a hand in rearing the child.  She specifically said not to rear her future child, as she doesn’t like when I rear anything.  I can however, come up with a few bits of advice that I think will be very helpful for her going forward.  What makes me an expert? Television.  Also, I have successfully kept my dog Chicken Little alive for well over 4 years, or at least until I lost track of him a couple weeks ago.  With that kind of dog rearing skills, clearly child rearing will be a breeze. I mean, same basic concept.  Give them food, let them play outside every once in a while, and keep their water dish full.  Even so, with kids, I know there are a few more things to consider.

First things first, like dogs, the most important thing for a child is discipline.  Unfortunately,  you aren’t allowed to just withhold treats and keep the baby outside for punishment.  Instead, obedience must be achieved through near constant head games.  These head games should be used to establish your authority at all times.  For example, after your child returns from school, order them to carry a large rock from one end of a field to the other.  Have them repeat this many times.  After several hours, invite them inside to let them have a break.  Their break is of course homework time, which must be given to you for review.  You should be a harsh critic.  You don’t want them being an idiot, since they will be supporting you in the future.  Following homework, all that left is for them to cook and clean up dinner before bed time.  Of course, on the weekends, they will have a separate paying job from which you keep the proceeds.  hey can only work so many hours, thank you very much Bailey v. Drexel , but you can use that money to pay for their feed bill.

I suppose every once in a while, they should be permitted to watch television.  On these rare occasions, its important to recognize that there are a lot of disgusting and inappropriate programs on nowadays.  These programs are for you to watch, not them.  I decided to watch Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood using my Amazon Prime subscription (jealous?) to see which one was the best.  After watching many episodes of both, I arrived at two conclusions.  First, the newer Sesame Street episodes are garbage.  They feature like 95% Elmo.  That little prima-dona takes up the whole damn screen.  He’s always poking his head right in your face, and can even see all the other people leaning their  heads around him all like, “what the fuck?”.  One episode, I saw like 2 freakin’ seconds of Bert and Ernie.  Who, by the way, should just marry already, its legal there now.  What’s the hold up Bert? Mister Rogers However, is all man.  And what a man.  Mister Rogers regulated for like 50 years.  Instead of watching that Pokemon or Dora filth, just have them watch Mister Rogers.  I found the episode about not fearing under your bed particularly enlightening.

Although I suggest forcing the child to do well in school,  you should have a back up plan of having them be a star athlete. As for what sport, choose for them the one you like the most.  This is important, since as they witness you playing it while young, they will think you are amazing at it.  When they get older and can clearly beat you, claim that an injury prevents you from playing as well as you once did.  Assure them you would make short work of them “in your prime”.  Your kids life should be study, sports, and cleaning up after you.

Oh, and one last thing: Never be seen in public with your kid after they reach middle school.  As a parent, you are an embarrassment every single time you talk to your kid in front of other kids.  You could be a complete badass, but your kid will roll their eyes at you and their friends will mock you.  Instead, avoid that all together, since the kid will never be embarrassed, and will look cooler by saying their parents are “busy doing shit”.  Instruct them to say that.  This will make you seem mysterious and interesting, and we can all agree that being considered cool by people you will never meet is very important, especially if those people are teenagers.