There's a sizeable spot on my right tonsil which has been there for almost a week now. Since I don't have health insurance (a certain company told me I make too much to qualify for their policy) I delayed going to the hospital for as long as possible; however after a few days with a burning sore in the back of my mouth, I figured it was time to suck it up and see a doctor.
I called in to work this morning, woke up after 11, went to the Urgent Care facility. At the entrance of the building a group of old folks stood in a circle, smoking a poorly rolled cigarette, coughing wildly. Their coughs were so rapid and continuous, any doubt that I was at the wrong place was wiped away right there. What I didn't understand was how they could keep giggling the way they did when, by the sound of their hacking, they were so obviously sick. That wasn't really any of my business so I didn't give them too much thought, and continued inside.
A door without a knob had a tattered sign that read, Waiting Room. I put my hand through the hole where the knob should have been and was greeted by a receptionist with a fat cigar hanging from her mouth. "What the hell do YOU want?" she asked. I told her about my mouth situation. She asked if I had health insurance. I said, "no." An obese man in a tanktop, which read FREE MOUSTACHE RIDES---14 AND UP, leaned on his right side, farted and said, "Insure that." To this, everyone in the room laughed hysterically, even the guy with the head wound. I would have laughed too but I'm allergic to eggs and, though I didn't see any, if I inhaled too deeply I would've broke out in hives.
The receptionist lady was still laughing when she handed the questionnaire forms to me, that is, until she started hacking and spat a loogie on the floor. Evidently I gave a look of disgust; she simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "the rats'll eat it." After that I filled out a few forms, gave them back to her, and waited. Thank God I thought ahead and brought my copy of Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson, because it was an hour before I even saw a nurse. Still, with all the hooting, hollering, dancing, and yelling the other patients did I couldn't make it past page seventeen.
When it was my turn to be seen, the nurse called me into her room and did the preliminary examinations; weight, blood pressure, pulse rate, penis measurement. At the last one she just giggled while muttering something about a stack of dimes. I wanted to tell her that I had more than a stack of dimes, that I'd be paying with a credit card and that I could afford the bill, but thought against it. Having finished the tests, she exited the room. Another hour went by and I was beginning to think I'd been forgotten. That's when the door flew open, as if it had been kicked, and in walked Dr. Wolfenstein shouting, "OW! OW! OWWWWWWWWWW! Daddies lock up your daughters, the Doc is IN!" Somehow, somewhere through speakers unseen came the Salt N Pepa song, "Push It" and I got excited. Meanwhile, Dr. Wolfenstein sort of danced around the room, howling and shouting curse words until the song finished. Then, just as quickly as it came, the music died out. It was time for business.
He started asking me doctor questions.
"Do you smoke?"
"No."
Do you drink?"
"No" (I lied.)
"Think you're better than me?" he asked, producing a flask from his back pocket.
"No" (I was afraid I'd offended him.)
"Damn right you're not. Don't forget which one of us is the doctor, twirp."
He checked my ears and eyes before looking in my mouth, and after having done so, told me it was time for a strep test. I misunderstood him and started lifting up my shirt, while lightly grinding into him. He asked if I was some sort of queen acting like that.
I told the doc that's what I thought people did for strip tests and he told me I was stupid and that he said"strep test."
Boy was my face red! He did the test then left. Five minutes passed and he returned, scowling.
"Listen here twirp;you like wasting my time? All you've got is a virus. There's nothing I can do. Get the hell outta my office!" he was near breaking point.
I walked to the receptionist's desk to pay the bill and she too was scowling; apparently word of my not having strep throat spread fast.
With the other patients leering at me, I slunk to the door, opened it, and was gone.
I'm kind of bummed out I didn't get any antibiotics for this sore in my mouth, but on the bright side I got to hear that awesome Salt N Pepa song, so I guess things could be worse. Right?

No big whoop.

I have a really sweet shirt that reads: GOT YOUR TICKETS? TO THE GUN SHOW, and under the latter half of that statement are arrows pointing to my arms. Only on special occasions do I bust that shirt out, for example, like when I wanna get laid or something. Well it goes without saying that this past Friday was a special occasion. My friends and I went to a backwoods bar which reaked of dead fish and chicken soup body odor. Exactly the type of place one goes to when looking to get laid.
So we got there and I took the best seat (the one next to the kegs) and within five minutes, the Budweiser tap goes empty. BUZZKILL. Of course I could have just as easily ordered a Labatt but I'm an American and I only drink alcoholic beverages that support freedom. I didn't have to worry though, because the barmaid was quick on her feet and ordered a fresh keg to replace it.
In walks Steve Austin's twin brother, STONE COLD PETE AUSTIN. I shouldn't say "walk" because it was more of an exercise mixed with a chant; Stone Cold Pete barged through the employee's doors, swinging his arms over his head as he advanced. Left foot step, left arm over head, right foot step, right arm over head. All this while grunting, "HOOGUH-CHAKKA!! HOOGUH CHAKKA!!" At the bar he unscrewed the empty keg, but something went wrong and the bar, along with myself, was sprayed with beer foam. The barmaid apologized for any inconvenience, however I wasn't bothered; in fact I was living in a dream come true. Fast forward a few minutes and Stone Cold Pete returns with a full keg of Budweiser. I swear at that moment heavenly choirs sat upon my shoulders and sang sweet songs of alcoholic bliss in my ears. I'm not sure if I had one already but at that moment I grew a stiff one, if you know what I mean.
So, Stone Cold Pete starts attaching the tap to the keg and makes some comment about beer spraying everywhere. I tell him not to worry about it, and that should any beer start spraying at me, I'll just tip my pint glass in that direction. There was no hint of mockery or sarcasm in my voice as I said this; I was being cordial, conversational, and attempting a light joke.
It wasn't perceived like that. Stone Cold Pete gave me a glowering glare, a look that was both hard as stone and cold as ice, (like frozen granite, perhaps?) and said, "Stone Cold Pete no think funny. Stone Cold Pete believe in paying for beer."
Immediately, I realized I had offended a celebrity's relative and was a bit downtrodden. To make up for my faux pas I sat at the bar and slugged more pints. After I finished fifty or so, I walked over to the billiards room where the rest of my entourage was. Little did I know, Stone Cold Pete was in there as well, showing off his pool skills. He came over to me, pointed at my arms and said, "You call those guns? Looks more like a .22 and a BB gun."
Since I'm a straight man I can't say I know too much about guns, but given the context of what he said and how he said it, I knew I had just been insulted. Without giving me time to respond, Stone Cold Pete walked off laughing and grunting, "HOOGUH-CHAKKA!! HOOGUH-CHAKKA!!" simultaneously.
Now I don't know about you, but when I'm drunk and someone insults me, it's PAYBACK TIME. Here's what I did. I sat at the bar and thought to myself, "Alright Dragonfly, if I were Stone Cold Pete Austin and I worked at a bar, what would my job duties include?" That's when I saw a mop and bucket in the corner and knew exactly what must be done. I sought out Stone Cold Pete and apologized for my earlier comments, told him I was a custodian and that I'd make it up to him by cleaning up the joint before closing time. He was cool with it, shook my hand, and I began mopping.
Here's the genius part: I didn't actually clean anything!!!!!!!!!
I filled the bucket with sink water, no detergent or nothing, just water and mopped; the whole time yelling things like, "Oh baby, this floor is gonna shine!" and "Wow! I think I can see my reflection! This floor is soooo clean! Can you believe it?" After that I went into the bathroom. You know what I did there?
I peed without flushing!
A prank like that wouldn't go unnoticed too long so I convinced my friends to get the hell out of there and fast! We piled into Earl's cousin's car and burned rubber.
Boy I tell ya, that Sone Cold Pete Austin sure is a fuckin' idiot.

Nature is awesome. Sometimes I find myself yearning to be in the woods because it feels so...so...natural. For that reason Earl, Raenisha, Groff and I took a hike through a forest today. The sun was shining, birds were tweeting, a summer breeze was blowing, and Groff was crouched behind a pine, crapping. Raenisha called him a "dirty white boy," which could have been trouble had he not been so convinced she was referencing Foreigner, but instead of being offended Groff just broke into song. Talk about a close call.
We had been walking for fifteen minutes or so when Earl spotted something moving behind a patch of trees. Being the brave soul he is, Earl decided to inspect the situation. Well, wouldn't you know he found none other than a full grown bear? Groff leaned close to me and whispered, "Oh my God dude, it's Big Foot!" If I hadn't grabbed his arm, he most likely would've run off screaming. Very quickly, Earl turned toward the three of us, finger over his mouth, and silenced the group. Kneeling down, he searched the ground for a projectile and, having found a large rock, proceeded to speak in hushed tones. He said, "listen guys, the key to survival is to wound the animal in such a place that it will think twice before even attacking." We nodded. He continued, "that's why I'm going to peg that little bitch of a beast right in the mouth. She'll be in so much pain, she won't be able to eat us, or anything else, for months."
It sounded like a good plan, but then I asked, "what if it just makes her super angry?"
Earl shot a look in my direction, making me feel like an idiot and asked, "what, you think she's going to claw me to death? Stop watching so much TV, stupid." Then he landed that rock square on the bear's mouth.

I got back from Intensive Care an hour ago, and Earl's doing much better than we thought he would. After the doctors bandaged him up, I tried getting Earl to see the bright side of things by telling him it's much better to have three fingers than none, but I don't think it worked too well. Thankfully, Raenisha will be at his bedside all night comforting him in his hour of need. So I ask those of you out there reading this to send Earl your deepest condolences for him to read when the hospital releases him.
Man, if there's anything I learned today, it's that bears are a far worse threat than any of us could ever imagine.

Something needs to be done about these immigration policy problems, and done quickly. Yesterday I was gassing up my Accord when, out of nowhere, stormed a bunch of Mexican bandidos on four wheelers. As I approached the gas station doors, they circled me, firing cap guns in the air, and shouting "AYE! AYE! AYE! AREEBA!"
I was scared.
When they stopped circling, the leader told me that if I knew what was good for myself, I'd go for a little ride with them. Figuring my initial judgement of them to be harsh and stereotypical, I decided to give the Mexicans a second chance at a first impression; I smiled and gladly accepted his offer for a ride.


Five hours later I was tied up in their countryside shack, while they force-fed me burritoes and drew a handlebar moustache on my face. What a wretched mistake I'd made. I could tell these guys were real professionals and feared for my life. There were a few moments when I felt pretty special though; I think they mistook me for one of The Beatles. Every other word pointed in my direction was "Gringo" this and "Gringo" that. At least that was nice.
Probably the worst moment of the day was when they made me wear a Mariachi outfit, and had me declare my love for Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. I don't really love Herb Alpert, but in between takes the leader kept shouting, "Say it, bitch!"
Finally, they tired of torturing me and I was set free, but not before they gave me three glasses of Tequila. Stumbling through rural roads, wearing a mariachi outfit, a drawn on moustache, and three sheets to the wind, I was arrested by a trooper for being an illegal alien. En route to the Trooper's Barracks I lost consciousness, and somewhere along those lines it was realized that a mistake had been made. I didn't get home until this afternoon, and I still have a huge black smudge above my lip, but I'll never forget the friends I made at that shack, and those wise words they shared with me, "Los Lobos kick your ass. Los Lobos kick your face. Los Lobos kick your balls into Outer-Space."
Absolutely brilliant.

I just finished reading Herman Melville's book, Moby Dick, and not once is there any mention of him having a father, let alone him bearing the name Papa Boner.
And they call that literature?

Not a lot of updates lately because my internet connection has been shady, but no worry; I've been transferred to work at a high school with a sweet computer lab! I don't have a key to the room but as with any door, if you kick it hard enough, it opens. Don't be surprised if I start blogging from work.
Last week I received a letter from the ITT Tech people begging me to waste my money on them, and inside the envelope was another envelope with which I could send my response. I decided to make good use of that, and tell them exactly why I can't accept their offer. I should probably warn you there are events of a tragic nature in this letter. Also, after reading it you might wonder how it is that I update my blog. My "internet connection" is Groff and I use his computer when he lets me. Enough of my yammering though, I'll share my letter now.

Dear Itt,

While I am very grateful you sent me that Career Opportunity Card, it is with a heavy heart I decline your offer. I'm pretty surprised my mom didn't find your envelope in the mailbox and burn it. See, when I was a child my father tried developing a SUPER COMPUTER by combining the television with a microwave. He came close to completing it too, but during a test run of the "AL-9000" a circuit shorted out and he was electrocuted. Adding insult to injury, Seinfled was on the t.v. so while he choked and writhed we all laughed at Kramer's wacky antics. It wasn't until the microwave door blasted off, showering him in macaroni and cheese, that we realized something had gone wrong. The last memory I have of my father is him being covered with a white sheet by the coroners, face covered in cheese sauce, smoke pouring from his ears, and every hair on his head standing straight up.

Since then, mother has forbade us to acknowledge any technological advancements. Instead of machines we employ trained animals to help with our day to day tasks; dogs that wash dishes, carrier pigeons, and a cat that mows the lawn. So you see, I can't attend your university, mother would never allow it. Your Robotics course interests me though. I think I could build the world's best girlfriend and, maybe then, not feel so cold inside. But enough dreaming, I must return to my chores. Thanks again for writing. Hopefully, we can still be friends.

I really hope they're not let down that I can't be their student 'cause I'd feel bad if they were. Not only that, but it'd also be pretty awesome to build my own girlfriend.
Life hurts sometimes.

Ya know, after a long day of mopping floors, unplugging sinks, sawdusting vomit, and yelling at 7th graders for running through the halls, there's nothing I want more than to relax with a few cold ones. That's why when I get home I reach for an Old Mill and the remote control. Yep, a little frosty beer and a little bit of Phil Vassar equal a lot of good times. Good times and good feelings; what more could a guy want?

Old Mill. It doesn't get any better than this.

Two Haikus

"Where's the underwear?"
"Bend over and I'll show you."
"Oh Tom, you're funny!"



"I bet you can't, Joe!"
"Shoot a squirrel out of my ass??"
"What else would I mean?"


There are more, but those are the ones I found to be least offensive. You wussies.