The Correct Words

what you meant to say…

We’re bonded by a common language.  So here are a few words you’ve been using wrong:


What you meant to say is “asocial”.  Anti-social is sociopathy; it’s a mental condition in which a person consistently shows no regard for right and wrong, and ignores the feelings of others.  Asocial means lacking motivation for social interaction.  George McFly was asocial.  Biff Tannen was anti-social.


You probably meant to say “prominent.”  Prolific means plentiful…as in large numbers or quantities.  Prominent means important, famous, or widely and popularly known.  Bunnies are prolific.  Bugs Bunny is prominent.


Ladies, what you meant to say is “Thanks.  You seem like a good person, and I hope in no uncertain terms you misconstrue my gratitude and acknowledgement of your overall decency as any minute sexual attraction in you or even the most minuscule desire to closen our passerby interaction beyond mere cordial strangers.”  Nice is characterized by great accuracy, precision, skill, or delicacy.  A Michelin star assortment of sushi is nice.  I am a good person.

This Ole Bottle


After a poetically emasculating work day, I like to pick up a few bottles of Trader Joe’s finest cheap wines.  A nice musky sub-ten dollar vino sanding the palette is among life’s best ways to rejuvenate the once strapping hairs surrounding male nipples.

I typically buy a Cotillion Pinot Noir for its playful label illustrating Animal Farm’s night of Eyes Wide Shut.

But…tonight…this ole bottle, never hath I gandered, leapt out at me…

Toad Hollow.  Just look at that toad!  He’s trampling grape vines in a velvet red vest while peering through tears of the lightest vino…with his pinky out.  It could only further transcend if his cane were also a mid-century sheathed sword.  A must buy.  The toad looked too pretentious to pass on.

Even…my goodness…even the vineyard is named after gold (famously the most pompous of metals).  It’s also from the RUSSIAN River Valley.  There could be no more poignant way to don the inauguration of 2017 than with this gaudy sardonic noir.

The back label rambles on to describe Pinot Noir as “the diva of the reds who loves to sleep late and awaken slowly as the sun gently warms her flesh.”  Sun.  Gently warms.  HER.  Flesh.  Pissshhh.  We all know that of all the alcohols…whisky is the lady – strong, warming, and beautifully complex.  Wine’s a man – overcrowded, boastful about reputation, better with age, yet most often a disappointment.

What kind of ostentatious wine even has the audacity to tell me to “Please recycle”?  Bitch, you get me drunk.  Don’t get me sloshed and then preach about Mother Nature, yo.  You’z less than ten dollars.  Know your place.

I go to uncork and again the toad greets me embossed at the cap.  I get it already.  You gold.  Cool cane bro.

Slow with care, I gradually raise the cork out the top and AGAIN…Don Toad vandalizes my retina.  For fuck’s sake…

The anticipation of taste becomes overwhelming.  I can’t wait to point my nose in the clouds then sip, slurp, and swirl the hype down this ole gullet.  One raise above the brow, one long sensual introduction at the nose, and…tastes like shit.

Will I ever buy this tawdry diva again?  Meh.  We’ll see if it’s appropriate again in another four years.

I Got Hacked.

Joke’s on you, sir hacker.

My site looks weird because I got hacked.  But the joke’s on you, genius sir/madam hacker of presumably exquisite sociability and stunning appearance. (please don’t attack me again)

I don’t write anymore. You’re wasting your time with this website like I wasted mine.

The dream’s over.

Once upon decades ago, I wrote. I was read by thousands, plagiarized by dozens, and heralded as a literary lord by my dog. But now… My dog has been taken. My life has grayed corporate. And no one even reads my emails.

So, let us do each other a favor, thee ravishing hacker. Move on. Latch thyself to another whose dreams rise. Be like my life’s beautiful women. Ignore me.

Cats 101 – Snowshoe Siamese

Grumpy Cat’s my spirit animal.

After a grueling day, I rested over a few drinks and began to wonder.  What breed is Grumpy Cat?  Thy master Google says she’s a Snowshoe.  A rare breed.  My spirit animal is a rare Snowshoe breed that originated in the United States in the 1960s.

A few more drinks and I found myself spinning down the rabbit hole of endless Cats 101 videos on Youtube.

Little mo’ whisky and it turns out that Maru’s a Scottish Fold.

Japanese Maru can trace his lineage back to a single Scottish barn cat named Suzy.  Talk…about…interesting.  Maru’s Japanese with Ginger roots.

I LOVE info-tainment.  It brings back the feeling of returning from recess, walking into class, and then noticing the TV cart in front of the chalkboard.

View post on

Teacher’s tired, so we’z gonna pretend to learn something from the picture box now.  Ain’t much better than a stiff drink and pseudo education.

Continuing the adventure of discovering all breeds in Cats 101, I found out that I need to adopt a Ragdoll.  They’re so friendly that they’re referred to as “puppy cats.”  Mutha…fuck’n…awww.

One last whisky toast, and it just dawns on me.  Ho-ly…fuck.  I’m going to die alone.

What am I doing with my life?  I’m single.  I should be scoping out breasts and meeting chicks.  But, here I am…spending my free time checking out pussies.

Ugh.  I should sober up.

View post on

I Like This Alot

I like this cup alot.

I’m a HUGE fan of Allie Brosh (aka Hyperbole and a Half).  She’s hilarious, beautiful, and broken.  She’s perfect.  I would crane-kick ice cream out my nephew’s mouth to meet her.

These are my new prized possessions:

alot of mugs

It’s alot of mugs!

View post on

Every sip of coffee from my new favorite mug leaves me feeling warm and tingly in my tummy.  As I glimmer into the thoughtless eyes of my Alots, I can’t help but wonder…

Where the HELL is MY BOOK, TAMS?!


It’s getting close to TWO YEARS since I let my sister “borrow” my book.

Why do older sisters always take and never return?  Why doth sisters not honor baby-bro belongings?

I’ve even lost so many sweaters and sweatpants per a sister’s prerogative.  Why?!  It’s not like my size is comfortable.  Girls like their men’s clothes baggy.  I’ve got a lady’s figure.

Do older sisters really find comfort being cloaked in a baby brother’s girlish despair?  I should have some things of my own.  Let’s break the cycle.  I’ve already lost so much.