The Secret

THE SECRET

I'm in a great place right now. For the first time in my life, I'm actually learning from failure. When I used to fail, the only knowledge I would gain was, "Well… that fuckin' sucked."

Not anymore. Lately, I've actually been analyzing why I keep ending up in the same place, in the same room, with the same disappointments. It's been a pretty strange experience. I've always just sort of reacted to anything that came at me and when the danger went away, I never thought about how to avoid it in the future.

In January of this year, I hit a fork in the road. Either I was going to continue to fuck up and live an unexamined life, or I was going to start accepting life's ups and downs, figure out what works for me, what doesn't, and begin living a happier life.

So I've been doing a little introspection, and now that I've quieted my mind, I'd like to share with you some of the knowledge that I've gained in the last six months. And hopefully with the information in this blog, maybe I can save some of you from unproductive hours, days, or possibly years in your one and only life.

Below is a list of Truths that I've obtained with my new approach to ridding myself of unhappiness.

TRUTH #1

WHORES ARE A WASTE OF TIME:
If there were a way to turn the food at McDonald's into it's human equivalent, it would arrive in the form of a whore: A gum snapping, short skirted, absentee father having, tramp, with absolutely no nutritional or spiritual value to speak of.

If you ever find yourself thinking, "You know, I don't believe I'm feeling empty or alone enough. I wish there were some way to drop even further into this unending void of nothingness." Go out and get yourself a whore. 'A Whore' is the only answer to the age-old question: "What would you get if a Dorito had a vagina?"

The feeling you have after hooking up with a whore is the same feeling you have after you eat at KFC. "Oh God, why did I just do that? I feel like shit. I have to get the fuck outta here."

But the problem with whores is that the do-gooders basically got rid of the brothel. I guess they thought if they removed the whorehouses, that the whores would somehow magically leave. But the whores didn't leave. Yet they didn't join the work force either. To be honest, I don't know where whores are during the day. They just sort of show up at night.

Think about it. How many times have you been out at a party and all of a sudden you see a group of girls starring daggers across the room? You then follow their gaze, as you do a slow, John McClane, one eyebrow up, look over your shoulder, and there she is. No bra, titties out, ass cheeks moving in a 4 against 3 polyrhythm, to the latest, "Let's Fuck" R&B/Rap hit song.

Who is she? Who did she come with? Did anyone invite her? Nobody fuckin' knows. She's just there and someone is about to waste an evening. Someone is about to have major reason to start sweating the next time they go to get a physical. Whores bring you closer to God.

"Lord, I swear to you, if my test comes back negative, I promise I will never, ever…."

You want to stay away, but you can't.

It's amazing. Whores are pussy's fast food. Everyone knows it's bad for you, but the second you smell it, you become a fuckin' zombie and you just walk right up to the register. "Yeah, give me the number 2 with an overbite. Oh and could you have the thong match the earrings and shoes? Thanks."

That's why they need to bring the Whorehouse back. In fact whores should have locations around town just like fast food chains. Then you could have them quarantined, just like the awful food at Roy Rogers. I've never eaten at a Roy Rogers, cause the only way to eat that shit is if you actually go into one of their locations. And why the fuck would you ever do that?

Using that logic, if you just had all the whores in one franchise, all you'd have to do is avoid that ONE franchise. It'd be easy. I'd just treat it like I treat Taco Bell. "FUCK THAT PLACE."

Unfortunately, the closest thing we have to realizing that dream is the Titty Bar. And it was in this lovely establishment that I learned another truth that I hope will save you thousands of hangovers, and plenty of funny money:

TRUTH #2

STRIPPERS DO NOT SMELL GOOD:
Strippers smell like the truckers they grind up against. Some don't even shower before they come to work. It's kind of this passive aggressive "fuck you" to the meathead customer.

I can't tell you how many hours of my life I wasted in Titty bars "learning" this lesson over and over and over again. Just holding on to the hopeful thought of: "Maybe this will be the one who won't be a jaded psycho and actually enjoys this horrific job…God Damn what the fuck is that smell…" as the smell of sweat, shame and body make up wafted over me.

The problem is, strippers have across the room beauty. From 20 feet away they're gorgeous. Unfortunately, up close they look like they sleep upside down in a cave. Every time I go to a titty bar, I end up feeling stupid and I always have this strange urge to rent The Lost Boys.

It's amazing how long I've had those feelings sitting on my mental desktop, yet I would still continued to go into those fucking places. Thinking it was going to be a fulfilling experience, only to leave feeling like a fool.

But as dumb as I've been in the past, I never got suckered into the VIP room. It's always struck me as hilarious that you would have a roped off, VIP section in a Titty bar. The only thing funnier than that concept is the people that actually go in there.

The people in the VIP are always wearing shinny shirts, smoking cigars, and throwing their money around. They look like they just came out of wardrobe to be extras in skit about a bunch of shit heads that go to the VIP in a strip club. But no! It's not a skit! They actually own those clothes. They actually own those pinky rings and yes, they still use mousse.

I would always look at them and think, "Don't they know that they are talking to whores? What are they doing? Why are they acting like they're pimps? The only pimp in this place is the guy who owns the club. And if there IS another pimp in here, he's not in the VIP. He's up at the bar, talking to the other whores, trying to get them to come work for him."

I always wanted to share this philosophy with the people in VIP. The only reason I didn't, is because they would all beat the shit out of me. And the last thing you want to do in a titty bar, is to have an open wound, while lying down on that carpet.

But despite the end of that equation, I still have the urge to fuckin' throw something at the people in VIP. The fuckin' people in there: One half is plotting the next big terrorist attack, while the other half tell stories that are punctuated with high fives. Which brings me to the next truth that I've learned:

TRUTH #3

ANY STORY THAT ENDS WITH A HIGH FIVE NEVER HAPPENED:

Have you ever had someone begin to tell you a story, and half way through you start to think, "Is this guy just making this shit up?" But you don't want to be a rude so you start to rationalize; "Well maybe he did double team some chick with Billy Idol. They are both kind of the same age…"

The "Tell Tale Heart" of a bullshit story is if Spalding Grey goes for the high five at the end of his story. The high five is the quintessential sign that not only are you listening to a lie,

…"SO THEN I TOLD MY BOSS TO GO FUCK HIMSELF!!!!"

…you are also watching someone try to pave over a lifetime's worth of regret.

There are many ways to deal with regret. Some people invent "I'm the shit/high five me" stories. Others sit quietly in a hotel room, rubbing their forehead whilst writing a blog about people who have regret. Still others become chronic whistlers. Or maybe they constantly hum a tune that doesn't exist.

Every job I ever had there was always someone walking around going, "Bah bah boo….de dah dah dee". And it wasn't every once in a while. It would be every time there was a moment of silence longer than 12 seconds.
"Dee dee die…Dah bah bah boo…!"

It's like: "What song IS that? And more importantly: Does it ever end? There's no melody. What the fuck!!!!"

It actually the soundtrack to someone trying to drown out the voice in his/her head that is saying things like, "Why are you still working here? I thought you wanted to travel. Why did you just sit there and do nothing? You should have got out of this relationship 17 years ago, Dah dah deeeee, dah dah dah doooooooo"

But when someone goes the "Made up story/high five" route, they are taking more of the Joseph Stalin approach. They rewrite history; start deleting people from their family photos and adding accomplishments to their resumes. (FYI: Special Forces credit is a major red flag.)

So the next time someone goes to give you the high five,
"….SO THEN I SAID FUCK IT, AND I BANGED HER SISTER TOO!!!!!"

Do not reciprocate. Just be very still and start reciting the dialogue from the Robin Williams/Matt Damon scene in Good Wil Hunting. "It's not your fault….It's not your fault…It's not your fault…"

And hopefully the storyteller will collapse and weep in your arms.

But then again, what the fuck do I know? Which brings me to the most important truth that I've learned:


TRUTH #4

MOST PEOPLE ARE CUNTS:

A lot of people don't listen to their inner voice, which is sad, because it's that voice that tells you what you want in life. Ignoring this voice causes misery and then before you know it, you've become a cunt.

I've been a cunt for years. For two decades, I basically had access to two emotions: Depression and Rage. I became a cunt because I grew up with cunts. Any time I would try and step out to do something different, all the other cunts would chime in and tell me to get back in formation.

The reason for this is because the last thing a cunt wants is for you to be happy and for you to make your dreams a reality. A cunt wants you to stay right there and spoon with all the other cunts. It's a form of dysfunctional intimacy.

I learned this recently when I decided to move to Los Angeles. I had been thinking for a while that I had basically done everything I could do in New York. So why not give it a shot and see what's at the next level? I thought it made sense.

But the second I started to tell others of my plan, I noticed that a lot of people tried to talk me out of it. They painted a bleak future for me out in La-La Land.

"Stage time is tough man." "There are a lot of joke thieves out there." "Everyone is a phony in LA."

It was really bothering me but then I got some great advice from a friend of mine, who isn't a cunt. He's actually more of a dick but I think he got that rep from other cunts. Cunts don't like people who ignore their shit. It steals their power. Thus, anyone who ignores a cunt, is immediately branded "A Dick."

Anyway, this Dick basically told me that anytime he was making a major move in his life, be it a career move, getting married, or whatever, he learned that people's reaction, had nothing to do with him. It was all about them.

It was a pretty amazing piece of information. Because once he told me that, I began to notice it everywhere I went. Not only in my own life but even in the conversations of random people during the day.

I'd hear stuff like:

Douche Bag #1:
"I'm putting an addition on my house."

Douche Bag #2:
"Really?….You sure you want to do that? A buddy of mine was telling me it's kind of a bad time to take out a home improvement loan. Plus ,what about your backyard? Don't you want to…blah,blah,blah…."

If you could plug headphones into that second guy's ears you would have heard:

"Fuck, how come I'm not doing that? His house is going to be worth more than mine. I shouldn't have blown all that money in A.C. I'm a loser! FUCK!"

So the next time you tell a cunt about a major move you're making, just sit back and enjoy their reaction. I like to do a lot of nodding and not say anything. The silence usually causes cunts to get nervous and in some weird way they actually start to hear all the negativity that they just spewed. At that point they usually try and cover their tracks and say something positive.

Just keep staring at them and you'll get to watch them unravel in front of you. It's has a nice Hannibal Lector quality to it, in that you get to see what their fears are in life.

"Tell me about the Lambs Clarice!"

So anyway, those are my truths: Stay away from whores, people that high five and cunts. I just reread that last sentence and realized that I probably haven't told you anything you didn't already know. So considering I'm a late bloomer with the whole, "Learning from past failures" thing: If you have any wisdom you could pass on to me, by all means leave it below.

Thanks

Who Will Protect You?

I was recently given a gift that would enable me to watch my TV wherever I go. All I have to do is sync this mechanism up to my TV, Phone, and Computer and next thing you know, I can watch Animal Planet while sitting in the upper deck of Controlthewatersupply.com Field.

How cool is that? I think it's awesome. I believe in the future every human will have one of those, "I broke my neck but somehow I can still walk" halos drilled into his/her skull, with a video I-Pod mounted six inches in front of his/her face and an optional drool cup to be mounted under the chin.

Every TV series, every movie, and every youtube video will all be available to watch at any moment. Maybe they will be able to sync it up to your brain and all you would have to do is think of the show you wanted to watch and it would then magically appear.

And instead of having conversations, you will simply select dialogue from any of the three sources and then use said clip to convey your feelings.

For example: If someone wanted to ask me how I was doing, they would just select audio of a Mike Douglas/Bill Bixby interview. Then I would respond with my own sound bytes.

Mike Douglas – "How you doing Bill?"
Tony Montana – "Fack you mang."
Carrie Bradshaw – "But you're doing so well."
Jack Nicholson "The Departed" - "That's called a paradox."


When we arrive at this level of advancement, we won't have to waste time having conversations. Then we could spend our quality time focusing on more important things in the future like: How to turn an Office Max desk into a canoe while fighting off a polar bear.

I'm in an extra cynical mood today because I was reading about NYC's plans to make it a greener city. All it consisted of were a bunch of scams to get more money. One of the bright ideas was to charge cars 8 dollars to come into the city during the hours of 6AM to 6PM. This is supposed to help ease the traffic/pollution problems in Manhattan.

People are already paying 6 bucks to drive in. So I'm to believe that in order to avoid a two-dollar surcharge, people are going to jump on a train and fight for a seat, with a bunch of other douche bags. And then spend the rest of the day worrying about what time the last train heads out of town, instead of just paying the fee and riding in the comfort of their own car? That's never going to happen.

The only decent proposal they had, was to plant more trees. Other than that, they weren't asking people to change their lifestyles one bit. It just was full steam ahead with fucking your brains out and filling up your Excursion with more rug rats. That's the kind of forward thinking that makes me want to learn the skill of being able to start a fire without a match.

I think that's really the next step you need to take in order to survive as a human in the future. Fuck learning about computers and all this techno shit. You need to kick it old school. Learn how to kill a rabbit, skin it and cook it over a fire that you started with two rocks and some dead accountants spreadsheet.

Learn what berries to eat and take some self-defense classes, so you can protect yourself, when a clan of former plumbers comes over the hill, lead by a barely recognizable Michael Richards.

When the whole world goes to shit, the first six months will be the most critical. I think it will take at least three days for the average person to stop waiting for Will Smith to show up. During this time, if you can just get your ass out into the wilderness, you could then sit on a hill and watch the apocalypse play itself out.

The greatest thing about the Apocalypse will be instant Abs. Nothing gets you cut faster than the total collapse of society.
Granted most of us will end up looking like Tom Hanks in that movie he made with the soccer ball, but I still think there are going to be a lot of hotties running around.

God what bad fuckin' time to be famous: The End of the World.
There's going to be a lot of US Magazine hate fucks going down.

"Hey Carl, what's up man?"
"Funny you should ask. Me and my Clan of former cell phone salesmen just had forced sex with one of the chicks on Friends" "Nice, I just broke Larry King's glasses. Hey do you know how to make a sling shot out of suspenders?"

Anyway, so that's what I'm thinking about today: The end of the fucking world. All the signs are there. I just heard another jumbo jet pass over my building, making that hole just a little bigger. We are one nice day into the spring season, and it's already uncomfortably hot.

But despite this, I'm more interested in the fact that Alec Baldwin left an angry message on his daughter's cell phone. I watched every clip I could find, even though he didn't say anything that out of the ordinary. Even though my parents said shit ten times worse to me when I was a kid. AND even though I fuckin' deserved it cause by the time I was in the sixth grade I thought I knew everything. Despite all that, I just sat there and watched the reports for hours. Letting another opportunity to learn how to start a fire with two staplers and the residue from a three-hole punch slip away.

Hot Topic

Holy fucking shit I just tried out this new ring tone …..Just kidding.

In the last month the spam has gotten out of control here on my space. My account got hacked, and I had to change my password. Somebody gave me the heads up the other day that if you get kicked off My Space unexpectedly and the next page that pops up is that, "YOU NEED TO BE LOGGED IN TO DO THAT!!!" Don't fill it out. It's a fake page and they'll steal your password and then the world will end. Just get off the Internet and re log in. And as a further precaution, after you log in, change your password. As far as I know, that's what is going on. If anyone else has any more info, just add it below.

Oh and to the 8% of the population: COULD YOU PLEASE STOP RESPONDING TO SPAM, SO I DON'T HAVE TO SPEND HALF MY DAY DELETING MESSAGES FROM VICTORIA'S SECRET? THANK YOU.

MARCH'S BLOG OFFICIALLY BEGINS HERE: (You don't pay your cable on time either)

I woke up the other day and the first thing I saw, was a bunch of shit in my closet. Just a mass of unorganized crap staring me in the face, like Third World Children outside of a Costa Rican airport. So rather than face that problem, I rolled over, looked across the room, and saw clothes bulging out of my IKEA chest of drawers. I immediately thought of that chapter in "Alls Quiet on the Western Front" when one of the soldiers walks by holding his guts in, so they wouldn't spill out onto the ground.

At that point I rolled over onto my back, stared at the ceiling, let the thought of killing myself pass, and I got out of bed.

About 20 minutes later I got up, walked into my living room and surveyed the landscape. There were two socks and a dress shoe by the TV. On the coffee table there were some magazines and a cereal bowl with dried Apple Granola sandblasted on the rim. The Kitchen was worse. There were a bunch of dishes in the sink and a week's worth of newspapers lying on the dining room floor. My apartment looked like it was the establishing shot to some awful movie about a confirmed bachelor, who was about to meet some perky cunt that would make him want to be a better man.

At that point, I realized that my apartment, once again, was a fucking mess. How did I allow this phenomenon to happen again?

The truth is, I don't know how it happens. Once a month I clean my apartment. And I don't just mean moving shit around into organized piles of chaos. I'm talking about throwing shit out, sweeping underneath couches, while stating affirmations about the new way I'm going to live my life.

"That's it. From here on out, we're going to put everything away and in it's place. And I'll never have to clean up a mountain of shit again."

That mantra, lasts for a couple of days. Then the daily bullshit that is day-to-day life steals my focus, and three weeks later it's a fuckin' mess and the process starts all over again.

But this time was different. Instead of launching into my usual tirade of, "God Damn it Bill. You're such fuckin' loser. When are you going to get your shit together…." This time I stood in the middle of it all going, "Why does this keep happening?" And then this voice in the back of my head, responded with the greatest solution my central nervous system has ever produced: "Why don't you just throw it all out."

And I was like, "Beg your pardon?"
"I said, 'Why don't you just throw it all out?'"
"Throw what out?"
"Everything."
"Everything?"
"Yeah. Everything. Dump it. You don't need it."

I wanted to argue back, but I couldn't think of a counterpoint. And ever since that moment, I can't get the thought of getting rid of all my shit, out of my head. "WHY do I keep all this shit?"

I have a box of baseball programs from games I've gone to over the past 15 years. FOR WHAT? I never look at them. I just keep adding programs to the box each year, with the same stupid thought of, "This is going to be worth something some day." NO IT ISN'T!!!! I have to throw it out. Do I really need to save the pencil that I kept score with at the Astro Dome? Is that what I'm going to show my grandchildren some day?

Instead of talking to them about overcoming obstacles, or stories of fighting in combat and watching a buddy die, I'm going to talk about, "And then in the late 1990's, I went to County Stadium on a cold April afternoon, and watched the Milwaukee Brewers play the Oakland A's. WELL THAT'S BECAUSE BACK THEN THEY PLAYED IN THE AMERICAN LEAGUE! SO THEY WERE PLAYING THE OAKLAND A'S. NOW SHUT UP AND LET GRANDPA FINISH! Anyway, this is the free Milwaukee Brewer T shirt that Citibank Visa gave me for signing up for a credit card that had a 32% annual interest rate. It ended up being the reason your mother couldn't afford to go to college and that you now live in squalor. But getting back on topic, the mustard stain is from a bratwurst that I…"


So my apartment was a mess, but I felt good. I was finally asking questions. "How the fuck did I end up owning 80 fucking t-shirts?" I wish my brain would have kicked in, as I was buying the 72nd t-shirt and said: "Hey, not trying to nit pick here but, don't you already have some of these? No wait, you can't even close the drawers of your dresser. It would be ridiculous to buy another T-shirt. AND you're in Time Square so it's going to cost at least 25 dollars. HEY FUCK HEAD! PUT IT DOWN! I said, PUT IT DOWN!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU'RE ANOTHER MINDLESS DRONE, WALKING FROM STORE TO STORE BUYING SHIT THAT YOU DON'T NEED. YOU'RE NOT FILLING THE VOID! YOU'RE IN THE MATRIX. WHY DON'T YOU LEARN HOW TO SUSTAIN A LOVING RELATIONSHIP WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING? YOU EVER THINK OF WORKING ON THAT PART OF YOUR LIFE? WELL HAVE YOU??!!!! MAYBE IF YOU DID, YOU WOULDN'T FEEL THE NEED TO BUY ANOTHER FUCKING AC/DC T SHIRT!…………I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!!!!!!"

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Or maybe it did, and I just blocked it all out. Either way, I went ahead and bought another faded AC/DC shirt. (Just as a side note: I hate how the AC DC T-Shirt has become sort of a joke T-Shirt. Kind of like the "Get Lucky in Kentucky" T-shirt. I want to tell people that I don't wear an AC/DC or, for that matter, an Iron Maiden T shirt in a tongue and cheek kind of way. I wear it cause I like those bands. I'd love to walk up to someone that's in his 20's, with a crazy look on my face, point at my shirt and say, "HEY KID! THIS ISN'T A FUCKIN' JOKE TO ME!"

God, I wonder if my parents felt that way in the 70's when liking Elvis became hilarious. I guess when I honestly take a look at my favorite childhood groups: AC/DC features a Danny DeVito sized lead guitarist, in a schoolboy outfit, who moons the crowd. And Iron Maiden sings 15-minute songs about albatrosses, while a 60- foot burn victim dances across the stage. All right, maybe it is a little silly. But have some respect.)

So anyway, I think I'm going to do it. I'm going to toss out all my shit. I'm scared to do it, cause I know every other thing I look at is going to have some sort of sentimental value. But, there are a lot of advantages to not owning anything. For example:

I hate doing dishes. So if I only own one dish, one glass, and a bowl, I've solved the problem. The worst-case scenario is a 30 second job. Getting back to the Third World, those people never have a messy home, for the simple fact that they don't have enough money to afford clutter. Granted their children are filthy, but I have indoor plumbing. So I think I have all my bases covered.

Another advantage: Emotionless House Fires. Whenever somebody's house burns down you always see him/her on the news crying hysterically in the street. "Fifty years of memories were lost in that blaze today. I don't know what I'm going to do."
Meanwhile the guys in the news van are watching the feed going, "Dude, would you fuck her?"

If you don't own shit, you can have it replaced before the reporter puts the mic in your face.

"Can you comment on the tragedy here today?"
"What tragedy? I lost a futon and a pair of slacks. Go fuck yourself."

Cut back to the news van:
Fat white guys high-five as if one of them made a witty remark to a Hooter's waitress.

So that's it. I'm tapping out. I'm tossing my shit and I'm not buying any more new stuff. No more consumption. That's how my apartment got this way in the first place. Every time I leave my apartment I buy something new, and bring it back. And over time, it adds up. It's just like gaining weight. Couple pounds a month and the next thing you know, you're laying on four box springs, talking to Maury Povich via satellite.

Well not me. From here on out, I'm going to have the kind of apartment that if someone breaks in, they are going to be like, FUCK!

And it's a good thing. Not buying any new shit is eco-friendly. In fact if everyone did what I'm about to do the rain forest would be saved. If we didn't buy shit that we didn't need the grass would be greener. Of course this country's economy would collapse. And then I'd feel like douche, for spawning the movement and then I'd have to endure a backlash. They'd put me on the cover of Newsweek with the caption: "The Man Who Killed the Bean Bag"

So you guys keep doing what your doing. I'm not trying to be an Evil Doer. Keep heading out to the malls and filling your homes up with shit. As long as it isn't fertilizer, then you're in the clear. And that's what America is all about. It's actually what the world is all about, but their just jealous of us and all our shit. Can you imagine not being able to get a doughnut anywhere you wanted? These fuckin' people from other places, they make me sick. In fact if I don't continue to buy shit then I might as well get the fuck out this country.

That settles it. I'm going to go buy the new I Pod so I can stick my old I Pod in a drawer next to my original I Pod, next to my old palm pilot and three chargers to other shit that I don't use anymore. I want my obituary to read: "Man dies during discarded cell phone avalanche, in own apartment."

Is that?

I was walking in mid-town Manhattan today and I'm pretty sure I saw Billie Jean King. I was going to say hello, but I was afraid that it wasn't her. Then I'd have to be like, "Oh, I thought you were a 60 year old lesbian, who won Wimbledon 32 years ago. My fault." Which then would have created an unnecessary argument.

I figure that later on that night, some poor bastard would have to sit on a couch lying to his wife. "No sweetheart, you look nothing like Billie Jean King. You look like…."
FUCK….THINK!!!!! WHO'S A HOT HOLLYWOOD ACTRESS WITH SHORT BLACK HAIR IN HER 30'S THAT WON'T PISS MY WIFE OFF, IF I USE HER AS A REFERENCE?

"Ahh…Wynonna Ryder?"

WYNONNA RYDER?!??!!!!

WELL WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? YOU'RE OLD AND YOU HAVE A BIG HEAD. YOU LOOK LIKE BILLIE JEAN KING!!!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO? I LOOK LIKE ED ASNER, YOU DON'T SEE ME CRYING ON A COUCH!!! ……Honey wait….I didn't mean that…I just got upset…honey WAIT!…I'M SORRY!!!!!"


That whole situation reminded me of those celebrity look-a-like things you see on myspace. If you haven't come across one, it's basically a pie chart that states what amalgam of famous people you look like. And no matter how fucked up some of these people look, the end result is always the same, "According to the chart, I'm 60% Halle Berry, 17% Jessica Simpson, 20% Eva Longoria…"


I'm always tempted to leave a comment: "Oh yeah, I can see that. At first I couldn't, but then I realized that all of you have noses, and then it became apparent. How come you don't have an agent."

I understand it though. They couldn't have an honest pie chart. It would devastate people. "Your 15% Maude, 45% Present Day Elizabeth Taylor, with just a dash of LaWanda Page"

To be honest, I would never have the nerve to plug my name in there. First of all, there have only been like 5 famous red headed dudes since I've been a kid, none of whom you really want to look like. Donny Most, Ron Howard, Eric Stolz…etc. So my breakdown would be something like, "60% Ralph Malph, 45% Ritchie Cunningham, and a heaping spoon of that kid from the Mask."

That would have fucked me up. Which is why I didn't say anything to Billie Jean King today. Even though I'm a huge sports fan, I still didn't say shit. I missed an opportunity to say a quick "What's up" to a winner of 12 Majors. Bitch won on all three surfaces, has a career Grand Slam and I didn't say anything cause I didn't want to ruin someone's day.

Actually, I just didn't want to deal with the three second awkward feeling I would have had, after I found out it wasn't her. And once I walked away, I can't see myself giving a fuck about the rest of the mistaken person's day and anyone that's in her life. I don't know that whore. See? Now I have to be dick. Now I have to lash out at this complete stranger or possibly the real Billie Jean King, cause I blew it.

This whole thing might seem weird to you. But you have to understand that I only give a shit about famous people from the mid sixties to about 1994. In my world, anyone famous after that, is just someone who's younger than me, with a lot more money. Fuck Kobe Bryant. I'd rather meet Andrew Tony.

So in order to gracefully bow out of this blog, I'm going to end with a pie chart of Billie Jean's Championships vs my TV resume. Sort of a battle of the sexes re-match. (Just for the record, Bobby Riggs was like 106 when she beat him. Check it out on Classic Sports. She might as well have played Larry from the Three Stooges. But such is life as a woman. Sure you bleed from the crotch once a month, but you tee off 15 yards in front of me. So as long as Billie wasn't on her period, there was no way that she wasn't going to win. My point is, I could have a bake off right now with Julia Child, serve a cold pop tart and win. See what I'm saying? Fuck all of you. In my world it makes sense. Plus you wanted more blogs this year so I don't have time for quality control.)

Anyway here are the final stats. I think she wins in straight sets.

Billie Jean VS Billie Burr

6 Wimbledon 3 Comic View
4 US Open 2 Letterman
1 French Open 2 Conan O'Brien
1 Australian Open 1 I love the 80's

Dr. Bill

Dr. Bill

I'm sick of people telling me that I'm angry. "Dude you are an angry guy man." The amount of times I hear that during any given weekend is incredible. Telling me that I'm angry is like telling P-Diddy, his mouth is still open even when he's not speaking. The point doesn't even need to be made.

Yet, I hear it all the time. "Dude you're angry." "You're angry." "YOU, are an angry man." I don't even know how to respond to that. It's like "I know I'm angry. I'm there when the shit happens. Do you think I'm walking around feeling as though I'm some ray of fuckin' sunshine? Cause I'm not. So why don't you SHUT THE FUCK UP..."…and then the anger comes.

I have to be happier. Not cause I want to make a change, it's more so I can stop having that conversation. My life has become a never-ending episode of Dr. Phil: One person after another just stating the obvious. "You're angry."

For the record I find Dr. Phil to be a genius. He gives out advice that anyone could come up with, but he says it R-E-A-L-L-Y S-L-O-W, with a hint of volume, while leaning forward. When you combine that perfect storm of bullshit, it appears as though he is saying something profound. Then you throw in his slight Southern accent and you got yourself a hit show. It's beautiful.

"YOU–NEED–TO–STOP-SPENDING-TIME-AT-THE-TRACK (dramatic pause) AND-START-SPENDING-TIME-WITH-YOUR-WIFE!" (Applause break) "Ok when we get back I'm going to tell a coke head to STOP-DOING-COKE (pause) AND-START-RAISING-HIS-CHILDREN."

I bet back in the day, he was sitting in his office, listening to some
Douche bag go on and on about his childhood. He probably started staring out the window going "What am I doing? This is my life? I'm just going to sit here and listen to people bitch all day? There has to be a way to do this, make millions of dollars and bang some whores afterwards. God, where can I get in front of a sea of doe-eyed optimists that still believe in Christmas? God Damn it, I have to get on Oprah! Fuck analysis, I'll just tell 'em what they want to hear. Keep it simple. YOU-NEED-TO GET-A-BETTER-HUSBAND! I'll make MILLIONS! I'M OUTTA HERE!"

And he did it. So good for him. See? There was a happy positive thought about Dr. Phil. So I'm not all about the anger. Good for Dr. Phil. Good for him. I hope he makes millions more and never gets roped into a sex scandal involving inappropriate touching with an audience member.

Actually I don't even think I'm that angry. It's just that anger is my default emotion. When something breaks I don't get philosophical and go, "Gee why did that happen? Is this a sign from above telling me that I shouldn't have an IPOD?" I say, "Oh WHAT THE FUCK! Why is the back of this 300 dollar device mad out of fuckin' aluminum? I KNOW WHY! BECAUSE WHEN YOU DROP IT, YOU HAVE TO BUY ANOTHER ONE! FUCKIN' CUNTS!" I don't think that's too weird.

Not to mention, I think there are a lot of angry people out there that don't get called on it. Calling me on being angry is a no brainer. But what about Jerry Seinfeld? People see his act and say, "His act is about nothing." I don't get that when I see Jerry Seinfeld. I see a guy who has contempt for people. If you really listen to him, or watch his show, you'll see that he thinks the average every day person is a fuckin' moron. But he doesn't say it that way. He just says, WHY, do people blah blah blah." But you know when the moment that inspired the joke happened, in real life, he was like, WHY- are you -SUCH FUCKIN' ASSHOLE?"

If you look at the people he goes after in his show, most of them are people who are in the service industry. Cab drivers, maitre-des, people who ladle soup: To him they are all fuckin morons. Not to mention, he hangs out with the always warm and fuzzy Michael Richards.

Or what about Jim Carrey? The first time I saw Jim Carrey, he was being described as crazy and wacky. I thought that was hilarious. Just because you're bent over, talking out of your asshole, going, "Allllrighty then!", doesn't mean you don't think about smashing a lamp over someone's head. Granted I don't know the guy, but when I saw him my first thought was, "This guy wants to jump out of his own skin. He hates himself. And all that fucked up energy he's letting out, is still not filling the void and he's knows it."

Wow, this is what it's come to. I'm now pointing out other people who I feel are angry to get the attention off of me, while doing my own Dr. Phil analogy of people I've never met. Nice. I think this is a new low for me. Usually I don't bottom out in a new year until about June. I'm way ahead of schedule for 2007.

The reality is i know I'm a psycho. Not a body parts in a meat locker kind of psycho. I'm more of a twenty-five minute conversation with my television kind of psycho. I used to tell myself that it was normal and it was how I got material. But the chatter with inannimate objects is increasing on a daily basis. I need to get a fuckin' dog or something. That would be a nice bridge towards slowly getting along with other humans. Start with a toaster, move up to fish, then get some sort of mammal, and then reintroduce myself to the herd at a food court.

Food courts actually make me lose my shit. Just watching everyone there eating shit food and not questioning why they are doing it, drives me nuts. The only peaceful thought I have in a food court is, "Well if they continue to eat this crap, they're all going to die soon and maybe that will help clear up some of the traffic."

I'm going to get a bulldog. That's a great dog. Just sit there and chill in my apartment. And rather than talk to the TV, I'm going to talk to the dog about the shit on the TV. You know, I just reread the previous sentence. I have to get my shit together.

Alright, fuck this. No wait…What I meant to say was, "Just a moment…" Ahhhhhhhhhhh. I feel better already. This is going to be the new me. Pleasant. I am not going to lose my composure anymore. I am going to be a rational human being who responds in times of strife with logic, rather than emotion. It will be a complete makeover of my on stage persona. In fact, I have a wonderful story to tell all my beautiful blog readers with my new pleasant self for 2007.

When I went to the airport yesterday, to fly down to the gorgeous city of Atlanta, I left my cell phone in the cab. Gosh darn it. I just paid $325 dollars for that apparatus. (Hands on hips) Boy oh boy, was that inconvenient.
So I decided to call my cell phone, in hopes that a good Samaritan would have found the phone, and would only be too happy to return it to it's rightful owner. Holy heck was I surprised when no one answered the phone. Golly, that person must have sure been busy. Wow-wee-wow, sometimes a guy just can't catch a break.

Well (chuckle) that's what you have insurance for. (shrug)
Besides, I'm sure I'll run into Jason Bonham at a Guitar Center again, and be able to get another photo. But even if I don't, you know what they say, "As long as you have your health, everything is A.O.K." I hope all of you have a wonderful and fulfilling 2007, I'm off to fill out a police report for my lost cell phone. Too-da-loo.

All my best
William