Of Girlfriends And Gamers

I’m no Cmdr. Sheppard, nor am I Kratos, Christ, I’m not even Mario (that little fucker can jump). What I AM is someone who has been laid, multiple times, by multiple women. Without an exchange of money, I might add.

I also game.

But Tiny, aren’t those two worlds mutually exclusive?

The short answer is no.

The long answer is more of a snarky indictment about you using the phrase “mutually exclusive” on my blog, you pompous little git!

Here’s the way I see it, video games are God’s answer to the period. And before all my luscious lady readers get all up in arms over that statement, take a midol and listen.

We love sex, us menfolk. We crave it, we think about it, we do really silly things in the persuit of it. Things like Axe Body Spray or sleeping with your best friend or anything related to Twilight. Seriously, if your husband or boyfriend was honestly excited about the Twilight films, if he hasn’t already left you for Team Marriage Equality, he will my dear, I’m sorry…have another Midol and a Cosmo. I bet he made a fabulous one.

So back to the dumb sexual animal class that me and my brethren belong. We dig sex. What most of us also dig are video games.

But Tiny, my boyfriend doesn’t play Call of Duty or World of Warcraft, he’s not a gamer!

Really?? Seriously?? You think your boyfriend isn’t a gamer? Here’s a little trap for you to use. Ask him why last years Madden sucked. Just bring it up casually in conversation over the perfect little dinner you’re having at that special place you like. If you ask him, he’ll start listing all the technical and gameplay issues like he was explaining string theory. He won’t even know for a few minutes that he has been outed. Sister golden hair, we men game. It’s fact.

We were once hunters and gatherers. We conquered lands and led crusades. We shipped off for war and explored new cultures. Have you noticed how little of that we now do?
Like WAY little. Do you know why we used to do all of that? We did it FOR you and we did it BECAUSE of you. Sorry girls, but we needed to be free of you to do man things like fell great beasts, topple wicked empires and fart with impunity.

Video Games let us do two out of three. They feed our dumb grunting masculinity. And what did the heroes do upon returning home? They did you! In rough ways, manly ways, ways that have been immortalized in statues and frescos and all manner of crude ancient Internet porn. Yes, video games. Recognize.

So when your man is lost to you on his third pass of Mass Effect 3, let him play awhile and then whisper in his ear “Baby, no matter how many Reapers you kill, Commander Sheppard won’t blow you, but I will. Clock is ticking”

If he’s not playing Mass Effect 3, this may not work as well. Maybe just make another Cosmo and wait. The stupid little shit can’t play all night.

Can he?

Why Our License Photos All Suck Balls…

So I moved back to my home state recently. I was liquid and reverted back to a solid. Science chuckles, yo! Woot woot! No, it was actually a state, of the union. One of the continental States, not like those anti-social dicks, Alaska and Hawaii. Wierdos. With their Pipelines and grass skirts and deadly crab fishing and poi. If we hadn’t saved their asses in WWII, those guys would be speaking Alaskan and Hawaiian right now, the ungreatful jerks!

But I regress…

So, moved back, needing a new license for the privilage of operating a motorized carriage on the hiways and byways of our auto obsessed nation. Otherwise I might be forced to ride Weapons of Mass Transit. And I can’t ride the bus because it rhymes with pus and that starts with P and I might pee myself on the bus. It’s more common than you think.

But I detest…

What level of hell is the DMV? Let me please take a number and I will tell you. Oh look, its the 78th level. And there are thirty levels ahead of me. Well shoot me in the ass and call me Bono. I swear a gypsy family was roasting a goat in the seats next to me. Maybe pant pee isn’t such a bad thing? All the while, the voice of G.O.D. (Government-employee On Duty) would drone out numbers with all the enthusiasm of Droopy having an orgasm. (Bing it, kids). “Number 48? Number 48? (Execrable pause) Number 49? Mr. McSmall is most definitely not 49.” And this ALWAYS happens to me when I go to the Departmento De La Motre Vehicle, and by always I mean only for the purposes of this smashing yarn (Which is SOO my next band name! Dibbs!!!), when they are about 8 numbers away from your number, you realize many of your fellow citizens are smart, or busy. Or smart and busy. And gone. Because they fly through the numbers with the cold speed and deft precision only a government employee starring down a mandatory 15 minute break could execute. Until they get to the number JUST before yours. You scan the room for number 77, so you can make snap judgements about who he is, what his net worth might be, and if he has a body stashed in his trunk. It’s more common than you think.

But I re-dress…

Number 77 makes his move. His slow, elderly, please-dont-fall-down-and-can’t-get-up, move. I’m sure I heard a glacier blurt out “Jesus, get a load of this fucking guy! Andele, Speedy! Arriba!” And as the glacier laughed and laughed, karma melted him and drowned his ass in the ocean, taking several polar bears with him. Don’t cry too hard, Virgina. Most of the bears had advanced diabetes from surviving purely on bottles of Coca-cola. It’s better this way. Trust me. And by Trust Me, I mean don’t trust a damn thing I say, I couldn’t even get a government job!

But I digest…

So Father Time-Suck makes it to the counter. Maybe he just needs to use the loo, or he wants to spread joy in his twighlight years by passing out stale hard candy…oh. No, he’s renewing his license, getting tabs for his truck, tabs for a horse trailer, licensing a boat, inquirering about a motorcycle endorsement (WTF??) And needs to re-register to vote. The forms of ID he presents are the stone tablet, marking the era of his birth, the shovel head he taught himself arithmetic on, and I think, his expired license. The one made of papyrus and whale bladder. Well then, this shouldn’t take long at all.

But I regret…

…ever learning how to drive, now. I’ve been waiting so long, I had to run out and have a colonoscopy, because I reached that magical age just sitting here. 10 more minutes and my IRA matures. Grampa NASCAR is wrapping it up with several loud “What’s and Huh’s??” And shuffles out the door to an unsuspecting throng of oblivious drivers. Good luck with that, dudes! Then its the moment I’ve been waiting for! My ticket, in my now sweaty palm, as if it were a fixed lottery and I held the winner….they announce that it is 5:00pm and they are now closed.

I peed myself on the bus ride home…out if spite. Twice.

Like Hof, I Must Be Big In Germany…

Liebster is German, right??

So, being someone who is afraid of Germans in general (Ask most of Europe, they’ll fill you in) I most humbly and with precision automotive craftsmanship, accept this blah…

The true protagonist of this dime store novella, would be He Who Hath Nominated Me. rbdavis5 and his Jeep and his blog and his delightful distain for some things, none of which is beer or Jeeps. And we all know what you get when you spell Jeep backwards…dyslexia. Thank you rbd, I shall continue the chain letter, lest God smite a kitten or some shit.

Wait, there are fucking rules??? Aww, poop.

It’s all about 11 with the Germans and this “Liebsterschwazennüganprizen”.

I answer 11 questions that rbdavis5 devised, then I nominate 11 bloggers to infect..er…nominate. Then I come up with 11 questions for them to answer. And when we are done, I think we are Masons or Illuminati or Shriners or some such. They drive tiny cars. Giggle/snort.

Ok, here are my answers, but know that I didn’t study a lick and may have bought the key on the internets.

1. Why do you have a blog?
I was looking for a foreclosure, but got a great deal on a short-sale.

2. Why do you read my blog?
I tell everyone it’s for the articles, but really it’s the naked women and dirty jokes. Where’s my invite to the Mansion??

3. If you could be rich, but never write again would you?
Why, is Rich illiterate?? We should get Rich hooked on phonics.

4. How much beer can you fit into your bathtub? Oh! Oh!! Oh!! I know this!! Giraffe!

5. How did you know that answer about the beer and the bathtub? It’s the animal with the longest neck in the world, duh!

6. What’s the difference between an author and a writer? The exact same difference between a Douchebag and a Hipster.

7. What is your favorite thing to have on when you’re writing/blogging? Traditional 16th Century Kenji Armor and pink Chucks.

8. If you could have a 2 minute conversation with a publisher (not to sell a book) what would you say [no expletives please]? I’d ask if the Devil was nice. I bet he is. And short, I imagine he’s short, like Tom Cruise.

9. Have you raised awareness or at least a beer because of PGS ? I hoisted a Guinness to Fallout 3 and Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, so yes.

10. How often do you blog ? How often do you wish you blogged? Two questions, I shall ignore your skirting of the Liebsterschwazennüganprizen rules AND your questions.

11. How much is too much when it comes to blogging?
When you pee blood. That might be too much, maybe.

Whew! Nailed it!!

Now 11 bloggers, huh? Ok, I may be bad at counting, so I’m only nominating this many…

Mrs Fever

Shareen A.

georgefloreswrite

bensbitterblog

HarsH ReaLiTy

kirstywirsty

The Jaded Apothecary

dreamshadow59

a pretty white name

mischavalentine

Kerbey

Sweet, it turns out that “This Many” is 11, see the Masons must be involved.

Now my questions for my 11 victims!

1. Are you going out dressed like that?

2. Who shot JR?

3. Do these jeans make my ass look fat?

4. If I were dating you, how would you dump me?

5. Did you hear that??

6. What’s in your wallet?

7. Gangnam Style, Electric Slide or The Hustle?

8. Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy or Dogma?

9. Are you afraid of Germans?

10. Do you think I was too harsh with rbdavis5 over the Two Question thing? Should I have answered the questions anyway?

11. Do you even know who I am???

So with way more keystrokes than thought, that is my acceptance, nomination, question portion of Appease a German week! Happy Liebsterschwazennüganprizen Day everyone!!!

I’m off to claim my fez and little car.

Shrinaz 4 Life!

Now Serving…Patient Zero.

I don’t get sick, and by that I mean, fuck if I’m not sick right now. The sinus pressure, the achey body, the cough and the runny nose all add up to me being an extra whiny, pain in the adenoids.

Oh, what’s a person to do? Certainly not ask for advice. Cold remedies are like assholes, everybody bleaches them.

Try zinc, use echinacea. Antihistamines, no try bronchio-dialators. Soup works. Spicy food works better. Try a 2×4 to the head! No, you can’t go wrong with a brick to the face!

What I find interesting when I have a cold, my disdain for humanity grows exponentially. Not only do I no longer have the ability to tolerate stupidity, but I develop animosity for the people who spread this Rhino Virus, or Noro-Virus or Bird Flu or SARS or whatever the hell my immune system is waging war with. God damn, just wash your hands people. I’m not asking you to wear a Hazmat suit (Made popular in such films as Outbreak, Contagion and ET the Extra Terrestrial). I bet I could trace back my malady to a dead rhesus monkey. See! Reese’s Pieces? Rhesus Monkey?? ET was the prophetic blueprint for the coming global pandemic! All the signs are there! All of them except any of them. Soylent Green is people! It’s people…

I might have a fever, I can’t tell.

So the next time someone extends their hand in friendship, slap it away, point and scream at great volume “UNCLEAN!!!!” then drink a gallon of hand sanitizer* while curled up naked in a scalding shower, rocking back and forth, muttering “phone home, phone home, phone home.”…trust me, it works almost as well as a brick in the face.

Tiny no like sicky-sick.

* please don’t drink hand sanitizer, k? I’m angry that I even need to say that.

God Dammit, Time!?!!

Every year, every motherlovin’ year, we have this fight! Sure you are the measurement by which we know past from present, present from future. The way we calculate age, the distance between paychecks and it’s YOU who allow us to understand the concept of ‘late’, and by late, I mean, she peed on the little stick and a pink rabbit died or some shit. Time, you are very wondrous and powerful and unstoppable and for the most part, we are BFFs, pinky swear.

But what the fuck are you thinking??? About this you every year, you go and cruelly snatch away an hour! Gone. Boom. Was 2:00 now it’s 3:00. That is some cold Slytherin ju-ju right there, Mr. Time! You never even bother to ask if I’m good with it! What if I had plans? Maybe a nice sandwich or a pedicure or sexual relations with a very busy professional! Perhaps you think it’s funny to dick with me every Spring, maybe it’s some kind of grooming, some form of Stockholm syndrome, just as I begin to revolt in the Fall, you quickly give me the gift of a whole hour! To do with as I please! So distracted by my shiny gift, I almost fail to notice “I can’t put my finger on it, but this hour look very familiar…Hang on, is this from Spring??’ By then I was already caught in your Timey embrace, thus fixing a problem that never existed in the first place. Time, you would have made a great consultant.

So here we are again, facing your wrath or sadistic sense of humor or gift of more daylight or whatevs. You know, just like last year, and the few before that, I won’t be speaking to you for awhile. Stewing over the lost sleep, the earlier alarm, the utter disregard for the time-space continuum in the name of farmers. FARMERS!! I swear to Christ, if your little stunt messes with my DVR, we throw down!! Gangnam Style! Because you don’t mess with the clock in S. Korea, do you Mr Time?? No you don’t! You only mess with the US of A, land of Real Housewives and 50 Shades of Gray and The Snuggie and Type II Diabetes and Charlie Sheen and ok, I see your point now…sorry, I’ll go change my clocks.

What Do You Mean, Redd Foxx Isn’t In Mumford & Sons???

What the hell happened to music? Granted, it’s all subjective and individual tastes vary. But if the music industry bases it’s output on the tastes of the masses, then the masses can eat a bowl of Nicki Minaj’s armpit hair. Warmed. Like pasta or ramen.

My biggest peeve is the new Folk Rock sound made popular by such acts as Sandford and Sons, The Luminonions, The Head and The Heartburn, The Long Decemberists and Phillip Phillimina Philanthropist Phillerup Glass-Half-Phil Phillips (Your…American…Idol!!!).

Look, I like banjos as much as the next guy. And by that I mean both me and the next guy don’t like banjos. And sure, all the aforementioned musical acts write stirring lyrics about such topics as birds and longing and rain drops and severe mental illness and the like. They even have soaring choruses such as “Ho” and “Ha” or even “Ooooh oh oh oooOOOh!”, obvious nods of the musical hat to Byron or Keats or Whitman or Walden or Waldo. Whatever.

So when will this pre-fabricated trend of down home, folkified emasculated “rock” end? Never. It will never, ever end. And by that, I mean it will end at some point, but will FEEL like forever! Like forever with a fiddle, a whiny vocalist, a group chorus and a banjo.

This is another thing that pisses me off about these groups, I see through them and am amazed most people can’t! They are like the earthy, hipster sensitive guy at the bar. It’s their shtick. They talk about getting back to basics, how social and environmental justice is imperative in a society consumed by consumption, they quote philosophers and eschew conformity. And deep down, they really just want to get rich and get laid. But they would be the first to deny such base urges…as long as they get to play Jimmy Fallon and bang Taylor Swift. Or play Taylor Swift and bang Jimmy Fallon. Whatever floats your banjo.

Until the time that this genre of “Dusty Overall Rock” finally is sent out to pasture, I will be “Ho-ing” and “ooh-ing” to myself as I edit my new book “The Joy of Cooking Nicki Minaj’s Body Hair : A Heart Healthy Guide To Folical Cuisine And Crappy Pop”

Bon appitite, bitches!

The Sun Is A Dick

So the Sun is shining brightly today, warming this little patch of the planet with it’s mildly radioactive glow. Birds chirp, squirrels bleat and elderly neighbors stroll the streets like the Walking Dead. A stunning foreshadow of the power and the glory of spring.

Eat my Ass, Mr. Sun!

The dark gloom and bitter cold suits me just fine, thank you very much. When Sol starts showing his face around these parts, people get all perky. Perky gives me angina. In my brain. It’s also a scientific fact that I just made up, that sunshine induces the production of naturally occurring hormone called Phukinidiotonin. In small amounts, the compound is relatively harmless. If, as seen during times of extended sunlight, the system becomes flooded, the results are catastrophic. Effects may include, but are not limited to…

-Random pleasant exchanges with strangers. (dontsayhitome, dontsayhitome, dontsayhitome…Oh, Hi to you too, you guy I’ve seen like twice!)

-Singing along with shitty songs on the radio. (Would Call Me Maybe have existed in a world with no Sun??)

-The clothing-to-pasty white skin ratio goes to blinding. (my retinas hate you right now)

-The incessant need to describe the beautiful day to others who have the full and working function of all five senses. (is it a beautiful day? I really couldn’t tell with all the warmth and sunshine paralyzing my brain stem. Thank GOD you were here to tell me. I’m frightened, hold me.)

Look, I’m not some bitter, troll-like curmudgeon. Quite the contrary, I’m a spiteful, Gollum-esque, codger. WAY different! And when it’s cold, and when it’s wet, and when the wind howls and skies are dark…no one calls you a shut-in for playing Skyrim 5 straight days. Once the Sun comes out, on or about day 4 that nosey neighbor has the nice police officer perform a welfare check on your house. Awkward.

Doesnt the Sun cause cancer or something? Well then don’t tell me I should quit smoking you hypocrite!

Gotta go, there’s a break in the sunshine and I want to make it to Carl’s Jr before the rays beam down again, and my skin goes all sparkly.

Team Tiny, bitches!

A List Of Things That Happened

I’m a listy guy.

Lists, lists, lists! Love ’em! Cant list without them! I should list the reasons for you, why I’m such a Lister Mister!

(Total crap. I’m not into lists at all. I read something once about how lists are the holy grail of growing your blog. I should list the reasons for you, why I’m such a blatant attention whore.)

So without further blah…

Stuff That Happened

1. Argo won best picture. Ben Affleck is a two-time Oscar Winner.

2. Dinosarus. (Unless you are a Jesus freak and argue this one.)

3. In one penstroke, John Hancock proves to the 2nd Continental Congress that he was a blatant attention whore.

4. New Coke.

6. Hugo Chavez continues breathing.

7. A Kardashian did something, somewhere…and, like a billion people cared.

8. Gerard Butler’s abs in 300.

9. The sex scene between Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly in the movie Bound.

10. Jesus (Unless you are a Dinosaur freak and argue this one)

There you go. In case you were wondering, that stuff all happened…just writing it, I blew my own mind. And when I blow my own mind, I gently cup my hippocampus. Yeah, that just happened, too. You can thank me later.

Smart Is The New Retarded

Whoa, slow down there P.C. Police! I am fully aware of the thoroughly insensitive, wholly outdated and plain hurtful term I just used in the title of this post. I should have proffered up the acceptable descriptor, I apologize for such an egregious error on my part. You are absolutely right, I was remis in not using the image-positive terminology preferred in modern nomenclature.

I should have said Intelligent is the new Retarded.

I play for both teams here. After you are done chuckling in your head about the last sentence (tee hee..gay.), I’ll explain….ok, and moving on. So the teams are thus, those that are smart and ridiculed, ostracizied, made to be second class citizens. And those who do the ridiculing, ostracization and claim first class citizenship.

But Tiny, what about the third group? That neither judges nor self-agrandizes? Surely there is a gray area, it can’t simply be a case of black or white, either/or?

Shut up, yes it can! Both our groups resent your group to the point of not acknowledging your existance. Pound sand, you well adjusted, tolerant, normal jerk-ass!!!

But Tiny?

Lalalalalalalalanot listeninglalalalalalalala…

Aaaaanyhoo…smart people. Open descrimination has begun to be the norm, and it shouldn’t be a surprise. The non-smarts are the majority, they have banded together to keep us down! How do you smarties explain the fact that everyone you ever worked for has been an idiot, a simpleton, a Moron or just a bit wrong in the head? Now, let this sink in…you worked for them! So, either you are NOT smart, or its discrimination on a conspiritorial scale!

But Tiny, what about Bill Gates and the late Steve Jobs?

Jesus, you again?? That’s like namechecking RJ Mitte or Corky or Leonardo DiCaprio…sometimes people succeed in-spite of their adversity. But Jobs is dead, Adveristy-1, Jobs-0. Sad, I know. I’ll make a weepy playlist for my Zune HD.

In closing, I’m truly an insensitive ass AND I have shown you all, with well defined explaination and many charts and diagrams, exactly why Smart is the new Retarded.

But Tiny, you haven’t done any of those things…

I realize that.

I’m Smart.

The Geek Shall Inherit The Earth

I’m admittedly the nerd/geek in my circle of friends and family. Yet all things being relative, in my circle, just knowing who Greedo is, let alone who shot first, is enough to garner the title and subsequent eye-rolls from my Muggled peeps.

My Neekdom or Gerdness is not the strongest of kung-fu. I have, at one time or another owned items listed below…

– First Edition Fiend Folio
– A Jakub Slemr Championship Preconstruct
– shadowrun for both the SNES/Genesis
– Full Schematics of the NCC-1701D
– Qui-Gon, Darth Maul, Obi-Wan interlocking animated banks.

And despite all of that, I have managed to touch a woman’s boob. Intentionally. With her full knowledge and permission.

So I carry with me some nerd cred, with the length of time I was in the life, I might even be considered OG (Original Geek). But I never gave myself over fully. I don’t Cosplay. I have never LARPed. I can’t name all the actors who played the Doctor. I would never purchase a reproduction of Aragorn’s sword, Andúril – Flame of the West!

Ahem.

I walk between the two worlds now. Speaking both tongues. To paraphrase the great scholar and philosopher, Robert Downy Jr…

“You never go full Geek. Never.”