Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
An Easter Story Part II is coming ( I promise ).....but first....
Fate smiled on me this past weekend, and I was lucky enough to enjoy the company of two very cool little people. But I'll have to tell you about my midget debauchery another time. Today is reserved for an experience that starts with my kids and leads into barbecue sauce soaked mouth ejaculations. Doesn't that paint a pretty picture? Now before you label me as some sort of sick, demented weirdo (as if that hasn't happened already), let me explain how my children can have anything to do with a poorly stretched orgasm analogy.
As I was saying: My kids came to visit this weekend and a magical time was had by all. There was much coloring and scissor handling, and numerous games of "Wait until Daddy is done this cigarette...". By the evening of the second night, I was exhausted and in no condition to cook a healthy, nutritious meal. That could only mean one thing.
"Guess what kids! WE'RE GOING TO McDONALDS FOR DINNER! YAYYYYYYYYY!"
That's right. I'm so close to collecting my "Father of the Year" trophy, I can taste it. And it tastes sweet. And kind of coppery.
Jackets were applied in a mad rush to get out the door, and reach our destination. I don't let my kids eat McDonalds too often, and I am kind of an evil prick, so in their heads, I could change my mind at any time. So until their little morsels of "chicken" mcnuggets were halfway down their cute little throats, nothing was guaranteed. Luckily for them, I was feeling generous that day, and so didn't feel the need to torment them with false promises of fast food.
We arrived at Ronald's Pleasure Palace, and walked towards the doors. As we were about to enter though, something caught my eye, and I slowed from a brisk walk to a gentle shuffle. My kids realized what was happening and started to panic. "Daddy's changing his mind" my 7 year old worried out loud. "Yeah, he can be such a douchebag" countered my adorable little 5 year old. I couldn't muster a response. Only a saliva garbled mumble, as I slowly pointed towards the sight that had captivated my attention.
Could it be true? Probably, since they were advertising it as such. The fabled McRib had finally returned home. What a day to be alive.
For those of you not "in the know", let me enlighten you. The McRib enjoyed a fair amount of popularity in that long ago time known by current historians as the "hairmetaloic era", or the 1980s. The patties themselves were each lovingly removed by hand, from the boneless rib cages of the (previously thought extinct) Horned Porkosaur. The patties were then fried up and generously dunked in barbecue sauce tastier than god's vagina (I'm going to hell for that, aren't I). Add some onions and some pickles, and you have a sandwich more addictive than heroin soaked crack. These things were fucking good back in the day. I mean, just look at this:
Don't you just want to grab it with both hands and fuck the shit out of it? Maybe that's just me. Another part of the McRib that made it so tantalizing was the way that the evil geniuses at McDonalds would let us get a taste for it, only to snatch it away from our collective hearts as if to say "That's enough fatty....that's enough". They've been doing this for a long time. Pulling it out of the restaurants, only to usher it back in a few years later for a "limited time only". Evil fucking geniuses. In any case, its been a long time since I've seen it in a Winnipeg McDonalds, and I was very eager to get my McRib on. Probably to be followed closely by the nasty McShits, but that's Future Kris's problem.
I think at this point my kids hit up the Playland, although to be honest with you, I'm not too sure. I kind of forgot about them as soon as the visions of boneless pork patties started dancing in my head. I'm pretty sure I had them with me when I left...Hmmm....
I strode confidently up to the nearest McDonalds employee and smiled a great big, toothy smile.
"............What would you like sir?"
"Do you have to even ask? McRib me! Post Haste!"
"Who talks like that, anyway?"
"People, that's who! And why can't I taste BBQ sauce yet?"
As the girl walks away from the counter, I silently wonder how well the BBQ sauce will hide the taste of human spit. Damn it. Before I could wonder too much though, my feast was presented to me, complete with backing orchestra. I swear I'm not making that up. Okay, I'm making that up, but c'mon! What would be more appropriate? I walked past the Playland (probably containing my kids), took my seat, opened the magical box and....
Wow, that looks pretty fucking gross, doesn't it? Even worse...I "posed" the sandwich before taking the picture. I actually cleaned that shit up a bit before documenting it. What's sadder: the fact that this sandwich looks like a porkified abortion, or the fact that I actually took the time and trouble to make it prettier before taking a picture of it in a crowded McDonalds restaurant during the dinner rush? Both pretty fucking sad I suppose...
I know the actual product never looks like the marketing, but they could have at least tried a little. I mean, look at the bun! It just stops before the patty is even fully covered. And it should be literally dipped in BBQ sauce, not just half assed smeared with it. I am unimpressed.
But who gives a shit what it looks like, right? Its the taste that counts, right? Right you are, and on that front...it fails miserably as well. Fucking Yuck. It feels like someone just kicked my taste buds in the balls. This is probably just confined to the restaurant I visited, but lets break it down:
1. Bun is way too small.
2. BBQ sauce is barely there
3. Patty was just a touch above room temperature. Fine dining, your name is not "luke warm mystery meat patty".
The fact that I can't enjoy a McRib the same way I did back in the day is tantamount to the greatest injustice in the history of the world. I am disillusioned and distraught and it's a good thing I didn't have a razor blade with me, I'll tell you that much.
Anyone else currently enjoying the resurgence of the McRib? What are your thoughts? I want to give it another chance, at another McDs, but am too afraid of being heartbroken again. I guess it will have to be enough that I know the McRib is available (for a limited time) if I feel the need to gastronomically torture myself again.
Now if Burger King would bring back those little 3 packs of mini burgers....
Monday, March 24, 2008
As I hoisted myself off of my sweat damp sheets, my legs shook with anticipation. Cigarette firmly clamped between my teeth, I made the final push to stand, and stood, quietly shivering and sweating at the same time. With little thought, the cigarette dropped from my mouth, and I stubbed it out with one bare foot, slowly grinding it into the shag carpet. I need to redecorate anyway.
A silvery beam of moonlight twisted its way into my bedroom, through a ragged hole in the blinds. I walked over and quietly parted the blinds with two fingers. The moonlight illuminated my eyes, causing me to squint, exposing an alarming number of wrinkles that weren't there only 5 years ago. The promise of soft, pink glow emanating from beyond the horizon of cold steel and concrete told me that it was about 4 am. Another fit of coughs racked my body, obliterating the quiet solitude of my apartment. Two days removed from my fortieth year on this earth, so why did it feel closer to sixty? Jesus Christ I need a drink.
Spots danced inside my field of vision as I backed away from the window, the moonlight still leaving its distinct impression. My head was starting its eventual daily ritual of slow, soft throbbing. The throbbing was almost a pleasure compared to the pounding that would more than likely follow. A new day, a new hangover. I lowered myself carefully back into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, trying hard not to notice the way my knees were shaking at the effort. As I placed my unshaven face into my hands, a familiar smell crept into my nostrils. I could feel my throat growing dryer and more parched as the smell of her perfume completely invaded my senses. It had been months since she said goodbye for the last time, but still, her presence invaded every corner of my waking thoughts. I absent mindedly lit another cigarette, in a subconscious attempt to choke out the smell of her that seemed to cling onto anything and everything that she had ever come into contact with. Anybody else venturing into this room would never smell the faint odor of months removed perfume, but I had a feeling I would be smelling it for the rest of my days. Part of the penance for what I did, I suppose.
The sweet smoke curling its way down my throat did nothing to quench the sandy, gritty feeling that resided there, so I reached for the half empty glass sitting on the nightstand. The ice had long since melted, but the 30 year old scotch still held an intoxicating aroma. I fished the soggy, yellow cigarette butt out of the bottom of the glass and tossed it onto the floor. I raised the glass to my lips, and sighed in anticipation. As the warm liquid splashed across my lips, I heard the distinctive squeak of a loose floorboard, coming from the hall. The squeak ended as abruptly as it started, and was met with stark silence. The cold sweats were again starting to form at my brow and the base of my naked torso. Ever so slowly I set the half empty glass back home on the nightstand and stood, wincing at every creak and crack in my joints, imagining them as loud as hollow gunshots.
I stepped carefully around several floorboards that would have emitted their own telltale moan, had I not avoided them, and approached my bedroom closet. The door was slightly ajar, meaning I wouldn't have to cause any inconvenient sounds, as I reached up onto the top shelf. My hand closed silently on the cold, steel grip of my familiar friend, and I quickly tucked it into the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms. Confidence quickly replaced the fuzzy, thick feeling in my forehead as I eased the bedroom door open and made my way into the hallway.
Again, avoiding key floorboards, I made my way down the hall, a slightly nauseating crunching noise getting louder and more noticeable, the closer I made it to the kitchen. As the faint glow of light from the next room invaded the darkened hallway and washed over my grizzled face, I removed my pistol from the waistband, and deftly thumbed the safety off. A bead of sweat rolled down my naked back, I lifted the weapon into a comfortable firing stance, and closed the distance to the kitchen. As I entered the room I realized that the soft glow was coming from the open refrigerator door, partially blocked by a hulking, looming figure. I stepped back in shock and lifted the gun a foot higher. My grip on the pistol slackened, as the only thought running through my head was "How did the son of a bitch find me?"..................
Thursday, March 13, 2008
I stepped out onto my balcony this morning, as I do every morning, to enjoy my first carcinogens of the day, and was immediately struck by how beautiful it was outside. The sun wasn't shining all that brightly yet, but it was 7 am, and already, the thermometer was showing a healthy couple of degrees north of freezing. This may not seem all that warm to some of you reading this, but believe me, after you have spent the last 4 months "enjoying" sub arctic temperatures, anything north of freezing feels like the fucking Caribbean.
I finished my cigarette, leaned out over the balcony to greet the day, and damn near broke into song. I'm sure if I had, countless people would have left their houses to join me. Everyone would have known the words, and it would have been highly choreographed. In short, this morning felt like the opening minutes of a fucking Disney cartoon. I fucking love Spring.
I deftly dropkicked my winter jacket back into the closet, giving it the finger all the while. Fuck you winter coat. I won't need you ever again, so get fucked. Until next November anyway. Then I'll need you again, so don't hold a grudge. Don't you hate when articles of clothing hold a grudge? I slipped on my cool, stylish spring coat and ventured out into the world.
As I strolled the couple of blocks to my bus stop, I breathed in the wonderful Spring air, and quietly enjoyed my surroundings. It was a moment, that's for sure. I took it all in, and it was magical. The glistening pools of melted snow, rippled by the tread of passing cars. The warm breeze gently blowing through my hair, seeming to kiss me sweetly on the forehead. The soft, melodic twittering of passing songbirds. The slow rustle of discarded trash dancing along the pavement. Wait....what?
What the fuck is up with all of this garbage littering the streets? It's seriously fucking with my perfect world view of all that is Spring. This is my first year living in the big, bad city, and I never realized how many assholes out there still throw their trash on the street. All of this trash builds up and builds up over winter, collecting underneath layers of snow, only to show its ugly face once the white stuff starts to recede. It's somewhat difficult to enjoy a beautiful Spring day, when you're busy dodging all types of dirty, smelly trash blowing about your feet. Fucking assholes I tells ya. Seriously, what kind of dick still throws garbage on the ground like the world is your personal fucking garbage dump? If you are this type of dick, stop getting enjoyment out of this blog right now. Keep reading it, because I like to see my hit numbers climb, but don't you dare fucking enjoy it.
Here is a small catalogue of what I witnessed on my walk to the bus stop. Keep in mind that this is only a 2 block trip, and I live in a relatively nice neighborhood.
36 empty crushed Slurpee cups
15 chocolate bar wrappers
2 empty quarts of motor oil (WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!)
42 random pieces of fast food trash (burger boxes, fry containers, empty bags)
28 empty potato chip bags
79 cigarette packages
1 used condom (what a lucky girl or guy that must've been. Getting plowed in a back alley. Tres Classy)
GROSS. G-R-FUCKING-O-S-S GROSS.
I'm just utterly confused by all of this. Now I'm not the bleeding heart type. I don't carry a massive boner for Mother Nature or anything, it's just that its fucking gross seeing all this garbage on my street. So why do people still do this? I know that we, as a society, are pretty goddamn lazy, but C'MON! Hold onto that trash until you see a trash can or something. They're fucking everywhere. I'm not asking you to carry garbage around in your pockets all day or anything. Come the fuck on. I seriously expected to see a Native American with a solitary fucking tear rolling down his cheek, as I rounded the corner to get on my bus.
So what can you do? I'll tell you, because I'm helpful like that. The next time you see someone throwing some garbage on the street, pick it up, and smash it right into the offender's face. The only way Mother Nature can fight back is by sending locusts or a swarm of frogs at us or some such shit, so believe me, this is the less violent approach. Smash that garbage right into the guy's face, then stand back and mock him a little. I recommend something along the lines of "Whatsa matter? Gonna cry? Huh, gonna cry?" Nothing is quite as infuriating to a grown man or woman as "Gonna cry?". Of course, if this action results in severe blowback in the form of a punch to your face, I accept no responsibility. But be confident in the knowledge that you made a difference. Good luck, and godspeed.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Disclaimer: This is going to be a personal post, so if you are not comfortable with that, fucking deal with it.
I come from a broken family. I'm not looking for any sympathy, just stating the facts. My parents divorced when I was around 7 years old, and did not have the most civil relationship for a long time afterwards. They do a pretty good job of getting along now, but when I was a wee lad...not so much. I remember many occasions where my siblings and I were thrown into the middle of an ongoing argument between the two, and were essentially asked to take sides. This is not a comfortable position for a 7 year old to be thrust into, and definitely not one that I recommend. But such is life, and you have to deal with it. I'm also the type of person that doesn't really believe in regret. I think all of your decisions and experiences in life generally contribute to what kind of person you are now, and I'm pretty happy with who Kris is. Things could always be worse. Unless you're living in a ditch and subsisting on bugs and various small mammals. If that is your situation, I think regret is appropriate. As I have two beautiful children, live in a nice apartment, and have lots of family and loved ones around, I wouldn't change anything about my life and how it has played out so far.
Another thing I wouldn't change is who my parents are. I think they did a bang up job in sculpting a fairly well adjusted human being (if not a little conceited with subtle shades of delusions of grandeur) and they should be highly praised for doing so. Let's face it, there's a lot of fucked up people out there, and a lot of kids suffering in situations completely out of their control. My parents always had my best interests at heart, even if it didn't really feel like it sometimes. With age and maturity I have come to realize that just because you don't buy me a new toy every week, you're not the Antichrist. I have really young parents, and there were struggles growing up. But the cupboards were always full, and I always had two people in this world that cared about me more than anything else in the history of forever. Granted, in two separate households, but it was still pretty special.
After the divorce I lived with my dad for a short time. Exactly how long is a tiny bit of information that has been pushed out of my memory banks over the years, to be replaced with such gems as "Which film won the Best Picture Oscar in 1992" and "When did the Boston Bruins last win the Stanley Cup" (Unforgiven and 1972, respectively) It probably wasn't much longer than a year before I moved in with my mom. The exact reasons are a little too personal for this outlet, but it is what it is. So for the majority of my childhood, my mom was my primary caregiver. A lot of my personality traits and behaviors can probably be traced back to her for better or worse. But that's not to say my father was absent. I spent every other weekend with him and I can honestly say I cherish all of the time I was allowed to be in his presence.
My dad is one of the most genuinely caring, kind human beings I know. He hasn't exactly had an easy life, and has spent alot of it being kicked around, both physically and emotionally. Through all of this though, he has put us (meaning my siblings and I) first, and has always made sure that we are healthy and happy, sometimes to his own detriment. He has always had a really refreshing view of life and is always quick to spin off a little bit of wisdom that might not seem to make sense at the time, but always turns out to be insightful and significant. He can (in an instant) go from being the doting teddy bear-like grandfather of 3 grandchildren, to the foul, raunchy joke telling regular guy who is always fun to converse with.
He is a conservative through and through, but not in the preachy "I'm better than you" sense, and has a standard of morals that is hard to match. Even through all of the shit that has been sent his way over the years, he has always believed in turning the other cheek, and I respect the hell out of that. Too many people in this world are far too obsessed with what life HASN'T given them and all of the injustices in their lives, but my dad focuses on all of the great things that he has been given. Don't get me wrong. I'm not an emotionless bastard, there are people out there that have been handed a really shitty lot in life, and are due a little bit of sympathy. But those aren't the types of people I'm talking about. I think we all have that person in our circle of friends who feels the need to bitch and moan about all of the shitty things in his or her life. That individual that is always looking for a little bit of pity. If you are thinking right now "I don't know anybody like that", I've got news for you. You're probably that guy.
My dad enjoys an unending love of the Toronto Maple Leafs. He is hardcore about his beloved Leafs, even being able to boast that he was in attendance at the very first game played in the Air Canada Centre. His love for the Leafs shows how true and solid his character is, because let's face it, it's not easy to be a Leafs fan. It's been a long time since they've had a good hockey team (Hi Dad) so there have been plenty of opportunities for him to jump ship and cheer for a better team. The Bruins immediately come to mind, but I digress. He doesn't care how shitty they are because dammit, they're his team and he's in this for the long run. That loyalty speaks volumes about what kind of human being he is, and I respect the hell out of that too.
Although my dad is far from perfect, he is definitely one of those people that you can stand back confidently and remark about "If there were more people around like this, the world would be a far better place". He isn't a millionaire, but he is the richest guy I know in the currency that I myself value above all others. He is someone that I can truly admire and aspire to be more like. He is a role model of the highest order. Not in behaviors exclusively, but in pure human decency. It may sound cliche and contrived, but if someday I become half the man my father is, I'll know that I've done okay in this world.
If it hasn't been painfully spelled out yet, let me take over the role of "master of the obvious". I love and respect my father in amounts that can't even be measured. That's something that probably isn't said as often as it should be.
So let's tie all of this back into the opening paragraph. I was questioning whether or not I'm an asshole. My dad had a birthday come and go not too long ago. He turned 50. This is a fairly significant birthday. There just seems to be a distinction with 50. A party was in order and was fairly well attended. A great time was had by all. Now let me warn you. The next few sentences may cause a few of you to lose some respect for me. But if that is the outcome, so be it. If I can't be honest here, then what's the point?
I failed to get my father even a fucking birthday card. On his 50th birthday. Not even a fucking card. I feel more twisted and fucked up about this than I have about anything in a very long time. And I have to admit to something else. The fact that I didn't get him a card isn't even the worst part. The worst part is that I didn't even realize how much this hurt him until we had a heart to heart a few days ago. Am I that self centred? This is the type of thing that shakes me to the core, because as I covered in the first paragraph, I tend to think of myself as a good guy. And this behavior is so fucking far from good.
So of course I apologized profusely, but am still feeling really weird about the whole thing. It was the type of moment that really makes you question your motives and tendencies. I really don't know how I am going to make up for this, but it is going to have to be epic. And the amazing thing about my father, is that even though it did bother him, as soon as it was out in the open, I'm sure he never thought about it again. We talked about it, he expressed himself, case closed. That is the very definition of a forgiving nature. But it's still bothering me, and probably will for a long time.
And I think that very point there, is the very essence of what made me decide to post about this. You see, my Dad reads this blog. He's actually probably one of my biggest fans, always telling me how much he enjoyed the most current post. How can I not love this man? So I know at some point he is going to read this, and even though it doesn't absolve what I did, I would like him to realize how much this event has affected me, and probably will continue to affect me for years to come. I think we communicate better than a lot of fathers and sons, but some things are hard to put into words when you're face to face.
So to my dad (and all of you that have been privy to this pseudo father/son moment):
I love you to pieces pops. Thanks for putting up with a son that doesn't really deserve it. And even though I'm taller than you now, I'll always be looking up to you.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
But that isn't the reason I felt compelled to pull my chair up to the magic box tonight and spill my thoughts all over the keyboard like an overexcited porn star (is a cum reference too crass? What do I care?)
When I awoke from my mini coma this afternoon, I noticed the little voicemail indicator on my phone was lit. Here's another little aside into my twisted thought process. I love surprises of any kind, but especially voicemail. I love getting voicemail because the promise of that little light could mean anything. It could be a cute little message from my daughter. My son is usually too busy playing video games to call his dear old dad, but my daughter calls me every day. It could be a friend with a grand plan of drinking and debauchery. It could be a much needed moral reprimand from various family members. In short, it could be ANYTHING, and I love the mystery of that little light.
So I dialed in my password and waited for the pleasant voicemail robot to deliver the news. I had 2 new messages. What fun, I thought!
Message number 1 was a little odd. Can't say I've ever gotten a message quite like it before. It left me with the conclusion that I had either pissed somebody off, or one of my friends was drunk dialing me again. It really could go either way, and unless the person in question reads this, I'll probably never know the answer. You see, the message consisted of about a minute of somebody making fart noises at me. What the fuck, right? I shit you not, there was no greeting, no explanation, no talking of any kind. Just a minute of straight fart noises, and the occasional pause for the caller to take a breath. I really don't know what to make of it. I have weird fucking friends, so I wouldn't put it past any one of them, but I really don't know. If you're out there, CONFESS, or this will surely drive me insane. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but I'm all about closure. If the message had been a minute of fart noises, followed by a big "Fuck you", that would be fine. At least I would know if it was anger or fucktardary at play (thanks Laurie). Maybe it was a wrong number. But how fucked up is that person that they would leave a message like that on someone else's voicemail. This is seriously driving me crazy....
Message number 2 was much easier to figure out, and of the much more exciting variety. In disclosing its contents, I'm surely exposing myself as a sad little nerd. Oh well, fuck it. I'm comfortable with my level of nerdom. Fucking spell checker hates me. To get the full effect of this you need a little back story first. How many of you are familiar with The Dark Knight?
The Dark Knight is the new Batman movie coming out this summer. My name is Kris, and I am addicted to Batman. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Not a big weight mind you, but a weight nonetheless. Now don't get me wrong. You're not going to catch me partaking in any kinky Batman costume clad S & M. I don't collect the comics, and I've never been to a convention. I just like the history and the pop culture of the thing. And I fucking LOVE Batman Begins. It is the best comic book adaptation to film ever. This is fucking iron clad fact, so don't try and push your Spiderman or X-men bullshit on me. It just won't fly. So naturally, The Dark Knight has me very excited. I don't go to movies often on the opening day, but this will be an exception. It tells the further adventures of Batman while introducing the characters of The Joker and Harvey Dent.
Harvey Dent is running for District Attorney of Gotham City in the new film, and he is played by the very talented Aaron Eckhart, who is fucking great in "Thank you for Smoking". About 2 weeks ago, a movie website clued me in to ibelieveinharveydent.com. It's a website connected to The Dark Knight, and it offered updates and such on the movie. I entered in my information in order to receive said updates, as I am curious about any news regarding the upcoming film. After that I didn't really think anymore about it.
Fast forward to this afternoon. I had picked up my phone, had finished listening to the cryptic fart noises in the first message and was waiting for the next message to begin. A voice began speaking. This is what the voice said:
“Hello, I’m Harvey Dent, Assistant District Attorney of Gotham, and I’m calling to ask for your support. We all know what’s wrong with Gotham. Crime is out of control. And instead of protecting our streets, too many cops have become criminals themselves.
This is why my mission has been to stamp out police corruption, and this is why I’m considering a run for district attorney. But I can’t do it alone. I need to know if you, the people of Gotham, want change. Do you want a Gotham free from the grip of criminals and the corrupt? Are you ready to join a crusade to take back our city? If this is a change you desire, if you are fed up with living in fear, go to ibelieveinharveydent.com and see how you can join the struggle to take back our city. I’m ready to fight for Gotham, if you are ready to fight too.”
HARVEY FUCKING DENT CALLED ME!!!!!
Sure it was only a recording, and a million other people probably got the same message, but HARVEY FUCKING DENT CALLED ME!!!!!
Sure it is something that is probably only appropriately exciting if you are between the ages of 10 and 15 but HARVEY FUCKING DENT CALLED ME!!!!!
Sure I'm probably a huge loser for getting this worked up about a piece of movie marketing but HARVEY FUCKING DENT CALLED ME!!!!!
Fuck all y'all that don't think this is the coolest thing ever. It was Aaron Eckhart's voice and everything and HARVEY FUCKING DENT CALLED ME!!!!!
Okay, I'm going out to get smashed now. Don't wait up for me.
Friday, March 7, 2008
So yeah, that's the reason for the lack of updates. I do apologize for my life getting in the way of you reading more bullshit about 20 year old toys and various snack foods. But then again, that is based on the assumption that you give a shit. I choose to believe that you do.
But how could this happen? I have a pretty level head, not usually prone to 5 hour phone conversations. Well, there are two very good reasons why this person has captivated so much of my attention.
1. Without me even having to mention it, or without her reading this dumping ground, she confessed to a love of Mexican Chili Chips. That right there is number one on my list of attractive qualities in the opposite sex. If you don't love Mexican Chili Chips, you can just fuck off. Maybe that's bordering on harsh, but I stand by it. Mexican Chili Chips = <3
2. She's a dirty filthy cigarette smoker. I'm sick of seeing non-smokers, but for some reason, that's usually who I end up with. I know I'm killing myself, so why not find someone that's killing themselves too? I'm sick of feeling guilty for interrupting an activity because I want to go outside and enjoy my tasty, tasty carcinogens.
Anyway, that's enough of that. Probably a little more personal than you're comfortable with, but you've got to take the good with the bad sometimes. I promise to incorporate at least 35% more "fucks" in my next post. Because if there is one thing I've learned, its that people who read this blog, enjoy my many uses of the word "motherfucker". At least that's the assumption I'm making based on the fact that my last post (about my daughter) received the lowest number of comments of any post I've made thus far. I don't know, what do you think? Vote with your comments. Do you like hearing the occasional heart warming "fuzzy" post? Or would you rather I stick to exploring new and interesting uses for the words "douchebaggery" and "fucktard"?
So how about an update? I've got two posts planned for the weekend, so hopefully you'll all come back sometime over the next few days and check that out. One will be bordering on "fuzzy" and one will be all out filth with no socially redeeming value whatsoever. Something for everyone! And remember....35% more "fucks". How can you say no to that?