Survey Says!

I was recently asked a question which I answered truthfully that I now wish to pose to anyone reading this post. This is in no way a scientific survey; it'’s simply a means by which to satisfy my own curiosity.

The Question - "“Would you go down on a guy for ten million dollars?"

My Answer - "“You bet your ass! I'’d require the money up front of course and would absolutely refuse to go above and beyond the call of duty by way of wearing wigs, makeup, schoolgirl uniforms or participating in any other 'alternative'” role-playing activities...Oh, and swallowing is most definitely out of the question."

P.S. - To any readers out there intent on loading my comment section with infantile homophobic witticisms, condemnations and asinine theories regarding my sexuality, I offer this preemptive strike:

IT'’S TEN MILLION DOLLARS DUMBSHITS!!!! The majority of you nimrods have no idea what ten thousand dollars looks like, much less ten million and the odds of you or I ever coming close to seeing such a life altering amount of cash are about as slim as Gary Coleman's chances of punching somebody above the crotch. I'’m also reasonably certain that an even greater majority of you, female and male alike has engaged in that particular practice pro bono on one or more occasions either in the heat of passion, while incarcerated or while playfully engaged in drug or alcohol induced "“experimentation"” (you know who you are) and you don't hear me judging you so just answer the friggin'’ question and spare me your lame little retorts.

One From The Vault

For the greater part of the past decade I was involved in the telemarketing industry in one form or another (and I'’m just now recovering from the self-loathing imbued by such). The following is a draft of fictional dialog I wrote based on my friendship with a former coworker from those very strange days. It was part of a writing collaboration for a potential cable series that dissolved due to creative differences. The draft is dated 1-12-05 but I'’ve done a little editing since then. It appears long but it's a fast read.

INT: NIGHT -– The East Village, New York

(After work, Matt and Greg are making their way to one of their favorite bars. Greg is nonchalantly rolling a joint, confident his brashness and relaxed demeanor will aid in avoiding undo attention.)

Matt

Dude, you'’re about the most anti social person I'’ve ever met in my life. If you were invited to a "‘The World Ends In An Hour, Meet Me In The Secret Bunker"’ party, I bet you'’d no show.

Greg

Who else is invited?

Matt

Goddamn, you'’d actually nitpick over a bomb shelter'’s guest list?

Greg

I'’m very particular about who I want to spend Armageddon with. You gotta'’ bear in mind that the people attending this shindig are among the last people on Earth, they should at the very least be people I can stand to look at. I'’ll tell you this, if the majority of the guests were people from work, I'’d opt for taking my chances braving a nuclear winter and the inevitable genetic mutation.

Matt

So you'’re saying you'’d rather suffer monstrous disfiguration and fatal radiation sickness than live in relative safety with your coworkers?

Greg

More or less, yeah. (finishes rolling the joint. Seeing the street relatively empty, he lights it, takes a quick puff then hands it to Matt.)

Matt

That'’s pretty heavy, man. (He takes a toke and coughs ). I think you'’re full a'’ shit though. I have a feeling that I'’ll eventually wear you down; you'’ll come to my party, you can'’t help yourself. Chicks, pot, all the beer you can...Awe, shit.

(Matt looks up, prompting Greg to do the same. Greg instantly realizes they'’re passing by the apartment building Matt'’s ex-girlfriend lives in.)

Greg

(rolling his eyes) Oh for God'’s sake, you'’re not gonna'’ start that shit again are you?

Matt

Start what? (staring up at her window longingly)

Greg

Holding on to the goddamn joint till it goes out, for one. (he reaches over to take back the joint. A sullen looking Matt offers no resistance.) And going through this absurd posttraumatic break up obsession of yours.

Matt

(with a sigh) I can'’t help the way I feel, man. All this could have turned out better than it did. I feel defeated, you know? Empty...tossed aside.

Greg

Empty? You broke up with her you nitwit. How in the hell have you been tossed aside?

Matt

Well, it'’s not like she ever called me to try to reconcile or anything.

Greg

Holy shit man, what a piece a’ work. If stupid were money you'’d be Citibank. You are so fucking dense, light must just bend around you, I swear to God...Hey, I have an idea how you can get her back, wanna'’ hear it? (he lights the joint takes a long toke and hands it back to Matt)

Matt

By all means Gregorio, I'’m fucking riveted. I'’m certain you have not yet begun to mock me. (he takes a few tokes, noting the amused smirk on Greg's face.)

Greg

Heavens no, the night is still young. Now, I guarantee that if you simply follow my instructions, Meghan will come back running to you; so watch closely, there will be a short quiz later.

(Greg approaches the front of the building, stops and looks up at Meghan'’s window. With his arms outstretched, palms facing upward and his eyes tightly shut, he proceeds to bellow out her name repeatedly in the shrillest, whiniest and pathetic sounding voice he can muster; a hideous screeching remeniscent of a cross between Our Gang'’s Alfalfa and Yoko Ono. Matt, immediately gripped by a coughing and laughing fit, lunges at Greg, grabs him in a tight bear hug and lifts him off the ground carrying him away from the front of the building. They then continue their journey to the bar, laughing and smoking, Greg continuing to periodically call out Meghan'’s name in the pathetic voice until they finally reach the bar.)

Thinking Out Loud

I wonder if the phrase, "I'm gonna'’ go Abu Ghraib on yo' ass." will ever become popular.

Isn'’t it ironic that the Japanese named a monster Godzilla despite their inability to pronounce the letter L?

I wonder if oral sex was invented before or after bathing became common practice.

I've always had a sinking suspicion that cockfights are outlawed based solely on the name.

I'’d become a bounty hunter just as an excuse to grow a mullet.

I'’m reasonably certain I could exist exclusively on a bacon, hashish and Popsicle diet.

I refuse to go to heaven if it doesn'’t have a red light district.

Crystal meth is making cocaine look downright respectable.

I don't believe Jesus was single. Carpenters make good money; he was quite a catch.

I think Charles Manson just needs a hug.

A Friend Indeed

In our increasingly complex world, varying degrees of interpretation exist when attempting to define seemingly straightforward concepts. The concept of friendship comes to mind as an example. Friendship is not a black and white proposition; it exists on many levels.

Acquaintances - An acquaintance is someone with whom a detached camaraderie is maintained. Not interesting enough to be friends with yet not irritating enough to discard, they generally serve as a source of mundane conversation and not much of anything else. Acquaintances are good to have because you don't have to overextend yourself for them. As a general rule, no one is expected to assist a mere acquaintance in a bar fight or to pull him/her out of a burning building.

Just Friends - A classification generally employed by members of the opposite sex who find you physically repulsive but enjoy having you around for purposes of amusement or convenience.

Friends - Essentially, acquaintances with benefits, people you have much in common with and whose company you enjoy for the most part with a minimal (yet distinct) amount of detachment. Everyone can attest to possessing a number of people in their lives they call friends who in essence are simply schmucks they keep around to borrow money from, get drunk or high with or solicit their assistance when moving.

Best Friends - A person you allow into your personal space because you believe he/she can be trusted in any situation.

A) A best friend will take the wheel of your Bronco and engage the cops in a low speed highway chase in order to give you the alone time necessary in the back seat to clear your head after decapitating your ex-wife and eviscerating her boyfriend.

B) A best friend would never record your phone conversations in which you reveal performing presidential fellatio and alert the press to it.

What's In A Name?

With independence day approaching once more my thoughts turn to the political correctness obsession that has gripped our society. It occurs to me that the priority for the men who affixed their signatures to the declaration of independence was to assert the fundamental rights of a select portion of the citizenry (white males) of the fledgling nation they were painstakingly constructing. The eloquent verbiage of the document leads one to believe that these rights are all inclusive, pertaining to every person born on American soil or pledging their allegiance to such. History offers a much different interpretation. Throughout our relatively short existence as a nation, examples abound of gross inequality, intolerance and disenfranchisement suffered by portions of our citizenry not of the white male persuasion.

It took over 200 years of bloodshed and social upheaval to stir the collective guilt of our nation and furnish opportunistic vote seekers with a fashionable cause to support. In the blink of an eye it became socially unacceptable to use descriptive words and phrases deemed offensive to the sensibilities of any and all demographic groups with a historical gripe against past transgressions committed against those who lived before them. Such a hollow, meaningless gesture is supposed to pardon the genocide of the Indians (That's right I said Indians not "Native Americans". If your were born in America, you're a native American), slavery, Jim Crowe, inequality between the sexes, gay bashing, etc... It's too little too late as far as I'm concerned. The damage has been done, just let it go. To refer to me as a "Latino" rather than a "spic", doesn't prevent an overzealous cop from racially profiling me. To refer to a black man as an "African American" doesn't prevent anyone from saying it but actually thinking "nigger". I prefer to know where someone really stands. I'm more inclined to believe the word of an honest bigot than one of a P.C. yuppie assclown loudly proclaiming to anyone within earshot that he has a Latino friend. Well whoopdie friggin' doo for you sparky!

Unfortunately, we appear to be stuck with political correctness for the time being so I'd be remiss if I didn't poke a little fun at it. The following is a brief list of groups and classifications desperately in need of a politically correct moniker:

Dead - Inert

Homeless- Domicile Deficient

Infertile - Gestationally Challenged

Flatulent - Methane Enhanced

Dog Groomer - Canine Esthetician

Has-been Actor - Paid Endorsement Specialist

Serial Killer - Bundyphrenic

God Bless America - We Need It Bad!