I am the fattest guy I know

I am fat.  I need to lose a lot of weight.  Eighty pounds would do it, however I would be happy with thirty pounds and wearing very baggy t-shirts. 

Girls -even the chubby ones  - don't like fat guys; my sparkling personality doesn't help much in my case, either. 

Doctors do like fat guys because it helps subsidize their mistresses and speed boats. 

Chinese restaurants do not like fat guys.  Just last week I went to a Chinese buffet and they sat me in the corner, behind the coke machine and directly beside the kitchen; every time I went to get another plate of food, I had to dodge the wait staff and suffer -what I assume to be- cursing in Mandarin.

I am realist, so I know any weight loss will not be long term, at best I will maintain a healthy lifestyle for a few months until the siren's call of 2 Double Whoppers and 5 Taco Supremes will be too much to resist. 

Regardless of the long term success, I will lose a lot of weigh for the right reason: to get touched by an awkward looking woman with low self esteem. 

Of course I just ordered a pizza from Papa John's, so I will start the diet tomorrow - maybe. 

The Harrowing Adventures of Bob's Birthday: The Night I engaged C**k Swab

The following post contains graphic language, sophomoric humor and explicit sexual innuendo. If doesn't entice you to read it, I don't know what will.

I didn't score with a sea cow, eat a steak or prank call an ex, but I did learn quite a bit about marketing to dead people and the pitfalls of anal sex with strange women.

Before heading out for drinks, I went to dinner with my father and little brother. I wanted to go to Red Lobster, however since mom couldn't make it (she was taking a nap, it seems being awake for more than five hours at a time is asking too much,) I decided it best to put off my official birthday dinner and go to Ponderosa instead.

I didn't even bother ordering the burnt piece of shoe leather Ponderosa calls a steak, instead I went with the buffet. The barely palatable food coupled with six glasses of Mountain Dew was not how I envisioned the dinner to be, although the fifteen minutes I spent in the little boy's room was part of the original plan.

After dinner, I thanked for my dad for the irritating my problematic valve, ribbed my little brother for not purchasing me a gift or even recognizing what the occasion was, and came home to find my birthday cake, which as I mentioned in the previous post, was my family's sole gift to me – and apparently their way of saying, we can barely tolerate you, eat this and begone.

Several hours later, I went to a bar with a couple friends, Travis and Jenna, one of whom was to serve as our designated driver, except for a couple small problems: she was under twenty-one and her license was literally held together with tape, which should have set off red flags to any bar employee. Thankfully, I live in Newark, Ohio and underage drinking is not only encouraged, it is a necessary ingredient in the bottom line.

We walked into the bar, found a table, after which I ordered a Red Bull & Vodka. After twenty minutes of sipping what turned out to be a Vodka spritzed with Red Bull, I noticed one my friends, Ron, across the bar. I hadn't seen him for several months, and since the last time we spoke his baby's mama had left him, leaving him with a fairly substantial house payment to make on his lonesome. Travis called him over to sit down.

It is hard to describe Ron, he is a genuinely nice guy who happens to say the most inappropriate and sexual explicit things in everyday conversation. One minute, he is talking about the weather being cold then segues, without a pause, into documenting how wet his (then) girlfriend gets when he used chocolate sauce on his member. And the more perverse the statement, the happier he seems to be.

Usually, I would call such behavior creepy, but Ron somehow seems blissful when discussing in graphic detail just how his girlfriend tickles his balls; it is a heartwarming in a Hustler sort of way. Needless to say, I find Ron to be an endless source of entertainment and hilarity.

I told Ron that I heard about his breakup and asked how he was holding up; right as it appeared we may have an actual heart-to-heart talk, one of his friends came by. I went to school with Brandon, I don't really have anything against him but I wanted call him a good friend, either; he was a braggart without any appreciation of how often he was the punch line. Immediately after I shook hands with him, another high school classmate, Brad, came by. I liked him, he had a good sense of humor and dressed up dead people – two fantastic qualities in my estimation.

Who knows how the subject came up, although with the company present it was probably inevitable. Since his breakup, Ron had hooked up with one woman. His exact words: "I fucked her in the ass."

Thinking that I misunderstood him, I said, "What?"

He repeated: "I fucked her in the ass."

He then showed me a video from his camera phone where his delicate peach was making out with another random bar whore. I am usually all for exploitive video of lesbian activity but not this time however, there were a couple glaring problems: 1), My friend Ron boinked her in the arse; and 2), she looked like Olive Oyl's ugly step-sister.

Brandon, not to be out done, related his own recent experience with anal sex.

As he so eloquently put it: "I fucked this girl...right in the ass."

I would have been happy had the discussion ended there but then Brad chimed in. "Tell him Brandon what happened next? Okay, I will tell him. After he fucked her, he had his cock swabbed."

Even though he didn't admit to as much, it seems Brandon contracted a venereal disease. He quickly assured me that he was clean and even had a certificate to prove it, although he lamented his new nickname, Cock Swab – apparently it made picking up women difficult.

Of all the things I have ever heard, cock swab may be the coolest, it is definitely right up there with throating a frozen kielbasa..

Brad colorfully explained the procedure: you stick what amounts to a large Q-Tip inside the hole of the pee-pee, swish it around and pull it back out. During the explanation, Brandon had a disturbed look on his face, it looked as if he was re-experiencing the distinct pleasure of being probed with a cotton headed stick. As far as birthdays go, this was one was turning out fantastic.

Brandon left soon after with his certificate of cleanliness in tow, so how did I spend the next ninety minutes? Talking about dead people, particularly how to market to them.

Brad worked with his father in a small funeral home business. I warned him all too real potential of a zombie apocalypse, he laughed; I wasn't kidding.

We spoke about the difficulties of running a small company. Like any small business, marketing was one of the more difficult aspects, exacerbating the problem further in Brad's case was the fact that most of his cliental was dead. Haley Joel Osmond and gypsies aside, speaking to the dead is difficult, effectively marketing to them is next to impossible.

Brad revealed the best advertising for the funeral home was television commercials, granted good word of mouth was hard to beat, too. I started to mention the sizable benefits of a serial killer or plague to his profit margins, then decided to keep that trade secret to myself.

The rest of my group grew antsy, I think they felt left out, so I drank. My buddy Chase showed up about this time. I had a few more beers, a couple shots, said goodbye to Ron and Brad, then left for Steak & Shake.

Chase drove me, Travis and Jenna to get the grub. I was up front about my intentions, I planned on harassing the waitress. When we got there, the place was mostly empty except for the cook, a teenage waitress and two fat girls sitting in the back. I asked the waitress her age, she responded 18. This night was really going to turn out fantastic.

Her name was Brittany. She wasn't really cute or my type, but she was a teenager and I was slightly drunk, which was more than enough for me. I tried to be funny, which is to say I was obnoxious and overbearing.

At one point I said, "Just play with me and you will get a good tip."

What I meant to say was "play along with me."

Thankfully Brittany arched her brow and laughed off my Freudian slip, otherwise I may have went to jail.

I am not sure if it was my behavior, the fact that it was 3:00 am or her own ineptitude, but Brittany was a horrible waitress. However she did pour my half finished milkshake into a to-go cup upon request.

I am a man of my word, so when it was time to check out I asked her what tip sounded fair. She said ten dollars, so that is what I wrote on my credit card slip – $10.00 on a $9.91 bill.

Some more stuff happened when I came home that morning but it isn't really too interesting, except for the part where I searched a building site for a large black man whom my mother was sure was attempting to run off with an uninstalled bath tub. It was that type of night.

Happy Birthday Big Sexy "Bob"

I am not sure why my name is in quotes, perhaps because it isn't a proper name like Big Sexy.

This cake serves as my sole birthday present from my mother, father and little brother. The sticker indicated the original price to be $12.87, however that number is crossed out and to the side discount is hand written.

I should be grateful regardless of the amount spent, although I do hope the cake cost more than a McDonald's value meal - or at the very least, I hope it wasn't scavenged from the dumpster.

Delineating One Year in a Single Day

I don't like birthdays. It isn't that I am that old, though I am no longer considered part of MTV's target demographic, the biggest problem is that one year suddenly pops up at you in one day.

Today I am 26, tomorrow I am suddenly 27, to mark a year of existence at a single stroke of the clock is disconcerting and unfair, especially for the Peter Pans amongst us.

It would be better if we had quarter birthday's or even a half year celebration, incremental aging is almost okay.

What I am trying to say is, I don't want to grow up, and even though I am able to retard my emotional and intellectual development, time will not stop no matter how insistent (or petulant) I act to the contrary.

Happy Birthday To Me, reluctant as it may be.

While in Jail, Paris lost 10lbs and her mind - I think she is better off in both regards

All things considered, Paris looks good, pretty even.

That is a saying a lot from a guy who would rather impale himself on an odd-toed ungulates' horn than be in the same room with her.

Is it normal for a woman to leave jail looking better than when she went in?

Who knew that twenty days in the clink could wipe the whore right off of you.

Nippon Weeps, while Godzilla Celebrates (Re)Ascension to Title of World's Greatest Devourer

I am not sure how to feel about his injury. On the one hand, I am overjoyed that the greatest threat to America's supremacy and/or democracy is now thrawted; however, I am disappointed Kobayashi was felled about his own mouth and not one of our own hot dog swallowing champions– like her or her or her.

Although it is fitting for the world's greatest competitive eater to lose not to another man or pile of processed meat but rather to jaw arthritis – which will now forever be known as Kobayashi Disease.

God speed you diminuitive human garbage disposal; rest well knowing your gluttunous accomplishments well never be forgotten, but most likely will be eclipsed by a morbidly obese bus driver or divorced soccer mom using food to compensate for her sense of lonliness and self loathing.

Poet Laureate

There was a time, when I fancied myself the next William Blake or Lord Byron, during that same period I ingested large amounts of ephedrine and caffeine, I was also a regular viewer of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

That pretty much explains the following:

Sam

I met a man
His name was Sam
He liked to chop up children
I asked him why
He answered how
And I left him to his mayhem




The light in her eyes

How to begin
Perhaps I'll start from the end
She died in my bed
The disease didn't do it
Not like the doctor said it would
Jeannine wasted away
At first it was slowly, one day at a time
Her bedtime was sooner, her wake time was later
The weight came next, though she was never much to begin with
Soaking weight at 110 pounds soon gave way to bone dry at 85
I didn't mind this or that, nor was I bothered by countless lost little things

The problem came ever so present, slow became fast
Laboring to breathe, smiling taxed her resolve
Still, it wasn't too much to ask
My love remained steadfast
One day it happened, when she began to die
Her auburn eyes no longer shone, the lights had grown quite dim
I knew then it was all but over, though in truth my torture was just about to begin

She no longer smiled; her mouth was formed in an ever-present frown
Then food no longer stayed put, everything down came back up
Her words were few, the tone always terse
No longer did she love me, her days were filled with hating life
This went on for an eternity, in truth it lasted nearly eight months
I looked down at the empty shell, to think we had ever made love
It had to end...but how?
The doctor said three months, which was nearly two years ago to the day
Who knew how much longer I would bear this miserable burden

I waited till she fell into fretful slumber
I watched for hours, reminiscing about our first kiss, remembering the times we made love
The time was now, memories would have to suffice
I took her pillow, the very same one I used to hog
I placed it above her head
Then I applied all grief's pressure on her face

She ceased struggling after a minute
Her face looked sereneI had to know the truth
Fingers delicately uplifted her lids
My sweet, sweet Jeannine your eyes now shine dead



Overheard at Bus Stop # 9

What happened? You shot him in the head? Stop whimpering and tell me why. He didn't have proper change...well, of course it is justifiable homicide.



Terminally Alive

The behemoth that is my life
Hath hastened my descent to hell
Each moment brings a new found pain
I hear salvations voice as if it were a silent bell

The hourglass is nearly spent
Hours become seconds, minutes become days
What does a man say when everything is done
When all his life has passed by as if in a painful haze

Judgment was passed in the mother's warm cradle
Justification came next in the selfishness of yesteryear
It is time to accept the inevitable damnation
I shall cast out this festering fear

If I am to die, it is because I do so live
Everyday was a new misery yet flowers still bloomed
And winter did lead to springs morning dew
Perhaps I am harsh and wallowing only in the gloom

But what would you do
If every tomorrow tantalizingly teased a new found doom

I am glad she didn't, too.

Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty (and my birthright) in the following conversation.


Mom: You won't believe what happened last weekend?

Me: What?

Mom: Sarah (her sister, my aunt) was going to call the police on Timmy and Chris (Sarah's sons.)

Me: Why?

Mom: They wouldn't share a line of coke with her.

Me: very uncomfortable pause

Mom: But I talked her out of it. What was she going to tell the police, "my sons won't share their cocaine with me."

Me: even more uncomfortable pause

Mom: I am so glad that I didn't do drugs with my children.

Me: most uncomfortable pause ever

Why we have guns: to enable children to kill mythic, industrial farm spawned beasts.

I used to idolize Hugh Jackman. I even fantasized about having his baby – on several different occasions, including last Valentine's Day. Don't worry, I am over Wolverine now, although he will always hold a special place in my heart.

My new hero is Jamison Stone. He killed a 1,051 pound hog. I was initially taken aback by the story because the news headline didn't read Rosie Downed in Alabama, but quickly recovered and read the particulars of the story:

"He said he shot the huge animal eight times with a .50-caliber revolver and chased it for three hours through hilly woods before finishing it off with a point-blank shot."

How can an eleven year old kill the animal equivalent of a Volkswagen Bug? With a .50-caliber revolver of course.

You might ask why an eleven year old is using a .50-caliber revolver in the first place, but then you would be in clear violation of the second amendment - I should know, I finished law school orientation (and earned one credit no less.)

Quip Pro Ho

The only reason I wrote this was to use the title Quip Pro Ho. That is it. Nonetheless, since I have no desire to ever date again and am a self attributed asshole, there is little personal consequence for these words. But still, if you don't like the following post: kiss my ass and die - not necessarily but hopefully in that order.

I do admit what is supposed to be broadside of a barn sarcasm comes off as little more than an angry, puerile rant. Blame my mother and Sailor Moon - I do.

I wasn't always a feminist. In seventh grade, I was awarded sexist of the year, my family took me out to Ponderosa to celebrate. In college, I had the opportunity to watch a prostitute perform lewd sexual acts on stage, all in the name of women's rights but passed due my then immature belief that you pay for a sex show out of pocket, not out of tuition money – that and she had a used, haggard look about her, kind of like what happens to beef jerky when left in the microwave longer than 20 minutes, but what career sex worker doesn't?

However, as I have grown older and wiser, my belief has changed; I have undergone a social awakening to the perfect positive presented by feminism. I am now an ardent feminist, a believer in the absolute equality between men and women - as long as it benefits women.

I can't imagine the daily terror that women are subjected to in the workplace. To think that a man, in particularly a supervisor, would hone in with laser like precision on low cut blouse is horrific beyond description. A woman has every right to dress like a hooker in the workplace, then complain about it to to an attorney and successfully sue for millions of dollars, all because her male coworkers dared to lewdly stare at the proffered merchandise. It doesn't have to make sense if the EEOC and Gloria Allred say so.

Not only do women have to endure the stigma of being objectified for sex objects when acting like sex objects, they also suffer the indignity of earning 80% the salary of their male peers for doing 80% of the work. Who cares if Jim puts in a fifty hour work week and Jill puts in the standard forty. They should make the same amount, if not necessarily earn it. Why? Because women and men are equal, except when it comes to incentives in the workplace, birth control rights, and physical performance standards.

I did an informal survey of the local teenage lifeguards in my area. 3 out of 5 were women who weighed less than 120 pounds. Obviously they would be completely incapable of towing my drowned corpse to dry land, or that of any post pubescent male for that matter. Who cares? They look good in their swimsuits and are more than capable of policing the young children running around the periphery of the pool.

The same is true for police officers and fire women. The job requirement standards should be physically less demanding for women. Who cares if it potentially endangers their well being and that of the public at large, fitness for duty is of no matter when compared to self image and gender based quotas.

And to think that there was a time when reproductive rights were limited. Why should birth control end when the sperm meets the egg; it only makes sense for a woman to have the right to prevent birth up to and (possibly) during the ninth month of pregnancy. My feminist intuition leads me to believe that even after birth, say during the first three or so years of child rearing, a woman should have the right to change their mind – if only for the sake of convenience, their career and social calendar. I can only imagine how hard it is remove a puke stain from a little black dress.

What is more empowering than meaningless, lust driven sex? Women should be viewed and defined by their sexual urges and indiscretions, just like men. If a man can sleep with fifty women; it is every women's duty to sleep with at least fifty one men (and five women during an experimental phase in college.)

There is nothing wrong with being a whore as long as you are in control of the exchange and receive equal value for the service. What is marriage but a patriarchal attempt to make a woman submissive to their husband, a one sided contract if you will that only provides unimportant things live love, security and happiness. The only way to prevent this domination is for a woman to fuck as many men as possible in the shortest amount of time – based on my research from reading Cosmo, Seventeen and Vogue, this period of time is from ages 12 to 65.

It is not like there is consequences to such behavior, as I mentioned earlier, pregnancy isn't a problem and most venereal diseases take years to kill you – if at all. Look at how well this philosophy has worked in Africa, of course in that example the behavior is largely perpetuated by men; the African continent has yet to experience full feminist conversion, the people have been too busy starving, engaging in brutal civil wars and dying of AIDS.

I have only touched on what it means to be a feminist, strike that, what it means to be a modern woman. The only common thread that my inferior male brain can find throughout is the notion of Quid Pro Quo: whether it be in the workplace, in the bedroom , or a dank and dark alley with sterile medical coat hangers, all that matter is that women receive a more-or-less equal exchange or substitution of goods or services – obviously the definition of equal should be determined by women for women and in spite of (or to spite) men.

I am a woman, here me rack up thousands of dollars in billable hours to my shrink.

Backhanded Compliment

We were about to make love. Like any twenty-two year old, I was quite looking forward to the next minute and thirty seconds. I hadn't even managed one outward thrust when my girlfriend looked at me with a very sincere and serious look and whispered:

You feel big tonight, Bob. What happened?

What was I supposed to say to that...thanks, I think it was the Chicken Parmigiana?

My actual response was a non-descriptive grunt -- you see, I was about to get laid and everything else, even my self respect and manhood, was of no immediate importance

A few minutes later, when I again felt so very small, I attempted to rationalize what she meant. After mulling over the implication of her words, I came to two conclusions: my girlfriend was a bitch, and I had a little joystick.

An exercise in the inane.

I have a lot of questions, many of them probably shouldn't be answered.

Could you identify an anorexic in Ethiopia? Could you identify an Ethiopian in LA?

If women only care about money, and men only care about looks, why doesn't anyone like Paris Hilton?

If two wrongs don't make a right, would three do the trick?

Does experience trump wisdom? Or is my level 12 Cleric an isolated case?

Is it ok to cheat on your taxes if you are having an affair with your accountant?

Can you be sarcastic about being sardonic? Would that be considered ironic?

Is it ok to racially profile a racist? If so, does it matter if he is gay? Would it then be considered a hate crime?

If "Washington (D.C.) is a Hollywood for ugly people. (And) Hollywood is a Washington for the simpleminded" what does that mean for Fred Thompson?

I haven't even read Ulysses.

I am a pretentious asshole, albeit a clever one. The myspace email exchange below exemplifies both qualities. Incidentally, she never replied to the last message.


----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: Kristy Date: May 15, 200710:43AM
I like your page... you seem like a pretty interesting guy :)
----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: Bob Date: May 15, 2007 11:37 AM Interesting, huh? I have been called much worse. I am glad you like the page - it does a man good to have a attractive fans.
----------------- Original Message ----------------- From: Kristy Date: May 16, 2007 8:42 AM
So Bob, if you don't like palindromes, why don't you just go by Robert?
----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Bob Date: May 16, 2007 1:37 PM
Terbor is definitely not a palindromic name, so you are right. But really, why not go by Bobby, Roberto or even Big Sexy? Each name would work and be correct to one degree or another, yet not a one captures all that is me, my essence if you will.

Birth certificate aside, I was born to be a Bob. A mountain is a mountain; a river is a river; and a Bob is me. Unless, of course, you are Buddhist then a mountain is a river; a river is a mountain; and a Bob is you. And my disgust with the palindrome has less to do with my name then with James Joyce's Ulysses - tattarrattat my ass.

Know when to fold'em.

To demonstrate how much my writing has matured and grown, here is a blog posting from two years ago. You can very well see that I am now on my way to being the next Margaux Hemingway.

Texas Hold'em is hard. The game has entirely too many human variables--is he bluffing, does she have a set, and I am hungry, pass the pizza are but a few. My complete inability to calculate hand permutations is a different story entirely; math is for losers with future prospects.

Last Friday night, I went against my better judgment and attempted to play in a Texas Hold'em game with a few friends. Nine people were involved and forty-five dollars was at stake. My goal was to not finish in last place, like my mom always said about competition: you will probably always be a loser, but at least you can strive to not be a total bitch.

The game consisted of two women, six guys and one homosexual. I started off slow, my strategy was to bide my time until I managed pocket aces, apparently that wasn't a reasonable idea. A half hour passed and nary an ace had come my way. Inspiration struck in the form of pocket kings. It was now or never, my time was literally in hand.

I started off strong; I raised five-hundred chips and saw the flop. The highest card showing was a ten, three suits were represented and a straight draw was all but an impossible feat. I raised another five-hundred chips, only three people remained and I had a two thousand chips left. The next card was a five, which matched the other five on the board; I figured no one was chasing a trio of fives and decided to raise the bet one-thousand chips. My two opponents, who happened to be married, were still very much game.

Fear boiled in my gut, sweat drenched my unibrow; however, I was pot committed, reason no longer played a part in the hand. The next card was a deuce, it was lonesome on the table, so I knew my Kings were high pair and a straight or flush was now impossible. Three fives would beat me as could two pair,, so I decided to raise five-hundred more chips and let logic be damned. The married duo called my bet and we all showed our hands. The wife had a five, the husband wouldn't show, I had two kings; my prayer to Che Kung had went unheard.

Even with fewer than five hundred chips, I managed to stay in play for over an hour; I rebuilt my chip stack, lost it once again and eventually ended up sixth. I accomplished all of this without looking one person in the face. Reading people is difficult and I had trouble enough deducing when to bet. Next time I am going to stare into the eyes, gaze into the portals of their souls; who knows, I might just manage fifth.

Oh, and least you feel too sorry for me, I was only out five dollars and had an entire pizza to myself. She who perpetuated three fives had cheese and pepperoni connections galore. All in all, it was a good night's work that ended with a long morning on the porcelain throne.

"Oh-My-God, Becky! Look at her butt!"

I took another swig from the Smirnoff bottle, then thought about what was ahead – I promptly starting chugging from the bottle.

The thing about speedo trunks is the tightness around your junk. It is a constant, confining pressure that registers every slight movement. If you want to judge what direction the wind is blowing, put on a pair of speedos and let nature blow you. Magnifying the usual discomfort one feels while wearing speedo trunks was the fact that pair I had on was several sizes too small.

My fraternity and pledge brother, Rick, had been a competitive swimmer. When the siren's call of Mary Jane supplanted sterility and choline, he retired his trunks. Since I didn't own a pair of speedos myself, it was nice of him to loan me his.

While you couldn't necessarily tell the difference by looking at us, Rick and I weren't in the same weight class. Rick was a very fit 160 pounds; I was a svelte 240 pounds. Thankfully, speedos are elastic by nature and even our significant disparity in size was manageable – of course, after five minutes wearing Rick's speedos, I had no feeling below the the taint.

In a little under fifteen minutes I had drank a half bottle of vodka and shotgunned several beers. I wasn't nearly drunk enough for what was to come next.

My pledge class was up next to perform a synchronized swimming routine. I thought hazing ending freshman year, yet here I was a sophomore about to humiliate myself for the good of the house. At the time, I grimly accepted my role, but in retrospect I would have been better off having my stomach pumped with charcoal instead.

Delta Gamma -- a sorority comprised of deceptively attractive women, the kind of girls who look real good after eight or nine beers -- hosted a yearly charity event, Anchor Splash. It raised thousands of dollars for the retarded or was it the blind, I never really understood the difference myself.

The synchronized swimming event capped off a week of fund raising activities, which involved good natured competition between the various Greek houses to see who would raise the most money and win the most events. There was even a trophy for the winner.

Sir Mix-a-Lot's feminist triumph Baby Got Back was our song. I was the star. It was my job to shake that ass – and shake that ass I did.

I can only imagine what my backside performance looked like to the crowd. I like to think it was viewed as an undulating mass contained only by thin layer of synthetic which at any moment threatened to break away to reveal the unspeakable horror within. On the other hand, based on the awkward silence broken by intervals of sporadic, nervous laughter, I think it was much worse than that.

At the song's conclusion, I was supposed to jump into the water, along with my brothers, and perform a water routine. I jumped into the pool and immediately started to drown.
I didn't drink enough alcohol to prevent stage fright, however I had consumed enough to greatly inhibit moderate motor control. I flapped my arms at frantic pace, which in turn negated my natural state of buoyancy. I was literally drinking the pool in when one of the guys took me by the shoulder indicated the water was only four feet deep.

To be fair, between the copious amounts of alcohol and lack of of blood flow to my lower extremities, my near death experience in forty eight inches of water should have been expected – remember, it is possible to drown from a teaspoon of water, especially if you are a complete and utter moron.

Our routine ended, I clamored up the side of the pool and nearly lost the speedos along the way. After readjusting the trunks to the crowd's abject horror, I stumbled off after my fraternity brothers. We didn't win the synchronized swimming portion of the competition.

Apparently, the two judges, who happened to be professors in the history department, were not impressed by the rhythmic writhing of my ass. It was at the moment that I crossed off history as a potential major.

My shaky show at shaking my booty notwithstanding, my fraternity won the overall Anchor Splash competition. We broke the trophy later that night.

Memories - As Recalled on May 22, 2007

I remember the strangest things in vivid detail. Those moments that are forever etched in memory, not because they are necessarily important or noteworthy, instead for no other reason than just because.

The consequences of not doing your third grade project on parrots.

Dad, in a very rare fit of anger, attempted to throw me onto my bed; he missed three feet to the right. Being thrown into a wall is an interesting, albeit harrowing experience, it is one of the reasons why I have always respected those little people who choose to be tossed - that and the cute little jumpsuits.


A Sad Song Was Playing

My first dance at Lincoln Middle School. There was a girl I liked, so I asked her to dance. The feeling was not mutual. She said no. My friend, Scotty Culver, badgered until she finally relented and agree to a single dance. It was my turn to say no.

My refusal wasn't due to pride or anger, I never believed she would accept and her turnabout of thought was both suprising and terrifying. I left the gymnasium and wandered the hall where a long necked and pug nosed seventh grader made fun of my acne encrusted face.


She looked like Jennifer Love Hewitt with a Ghetto Booty.

It was my second year participating in the Relay for Life. Linda was there, too. I had known her for two years at Denison, she was the sweetest person I had ever known. We cuddled in a nearby tent. I should have kissed her, but I settled for listening to her harmonious heart beat instead.

She is happily married now to a stand up guy. Everything worked out best for her, but I still wonder what if.


Graduated with Distinction in Religion

A professor apologized to me. He wished it was possible to give me a grade of pass rather than a C. I had skipped two months of classes, I was enrolled in two of his course at the time, and he was the one apologizing to me. I don't regret what I did (or didn't) do in college, but I am so very sorry to have listened to his heartfelt apology.


I bought her dinner, gave the other two cash so why I do feel like the one who was prostituted?

My first real kiss didn't involve tongue, or at least two tongues. I somehow managed to lick her teeth. She laughed in my face. I tried again as it really couldn't go any worse. It really didn't go much better.

Later that night, after a riveting game of midnight bowling, I proffered one hundred dollars of my graduation money as enticement for two girls to make out with four guys (I was reluctantly included.)

These two girls represented kisses two and three. Lesley, magical number two, kissed me and said immediately thereafter, "You did it wrong." That was somehow worse than abject laughter.

Samantha was kiss number three. It involved an alarming amount of saliva and tongue, it came to the point where I had to choose to either: break the embrace and breath or suffocate in pleasant agony. Samantha said I wasn't that bad. I think she was lying but my oxygen deprived brain and broken psyche didn't mind.

My friend Tom, one of the other kissing-in-the-bowling-alley's-parking-lot-at-2:30am participants, ended up dating both girls – though not simultaneously, he was only 4'10" after all.

I eventually bedded the one not named Lesley - you will never know how much that cost.

Lesley ended up with a pager and a summer of having Tom's hands attached to her chest.

Children at Play

They were both wearing wife beaters. The look almost worked for the girl, which is why the boy appeared all the more foolish. She was two heads taller, he was ghetto in the most Casper sense of the word. Welcome to Mound City Little League.

Newark has three separate (and very distinct) youth baseball programs: Mound City; Kiwanis; and North Newark. Kiwanis is the least competitive of the three, which is why I played there as a child. North Newark appeals to the homogeneous crowd, those who incidentally share the same ethnicity, neighborhood and stock profile. Mound City, where my brother has played for the last three years, is arguably the most competitive because it literally takes all kinds.

One could argue that families at Mound City are working class, however, since many of them subsist solely on government aid, working may not be the optimal word. Yet, whereas many are clad in wife beaters and jean shorts, you are just as likely to run into a Church of God devotee wearing a full length skirt on a 90 degree day or a harried working single mother who manages a convenience store when she is not attending her three son's baseball games.

There is an interesting dichotomy between observant Christian wife, single woman struggling to somehow extend an already full twenty-four day and welfare mother who has five kids separated by three years as if by government sanctioned design. But what is even more intriguing are the similarities between the three, and really all the people who attend the games at Mound City Little League. Diversity is a word, these people are real life.

Mothers always yell words of encouragement to their embarrassed child up to bat. Fathers always preach fundamentals and plate discipline, while deceptively whispering amongst themselves about how they would do things differently if they were coach, when what they really want to say is if they were the ones who were swinging the bat.

Everyone nurtures, everyone lives vicariously from swing to swing, class and race fade to the commonality found in six innings of little league baseball.

I often derisively laugh at the people in my town, it is easier to judge those like me and condemn those who appear too much apart. Children playing baseball doesn't change the fundamental nature of such a man, but for two hours even the cynic who shrouds himself in the absurd takes pause, eats a hot dog and enjoys the game.

Taco Bell: Ruination & Lamentation

I remember two things from Senior AP English : 1) Never stop for a stranger on the side of the road. They will probably kill, rob and eat you, especially if they are hot and wearing naught but a bikini; 2) My writing is obtuse and pedestrian in nature.

The following is evidence of both.

It was nearing midnight and I was heading for Taco Bell. I wasn't particularly hungry, but I was particularly fat.

On the way, I happened upon a poor soul, he couldn't be more than eighteen years old, who was jumping up and down in front of his car. The car was planted in the middle of the right lane on 21st Street, the busiest roadway in my hometown.

I was feeling magnanimous (perhaps due to the sweet thought of sour cream in my future) and decided not run his stupid ass over. Instead, I pulled in front of his car and asked if I could help.

He explained that he ran out of gas and asked if I would push his car 1000ft to a nearby gas station. Bear in mind that his car was parked in the middle of street with no caution lights or any discernible light source whatsoever.

I had three major reservations with his request:

• First and foremost, I am fat and lazy. While it was possible that I could push the car the requisite distance, it was highly improbable.
• Second, the nearest gas station was located on a slight incline, as was much of the distance required to get there. And we all know pushing a car up a hill, slight as it may initially appear, often results in, "Oh Shit, Shit..." SPLAT
  
• Finally, this situation seemed like the prologue to a bad (are there any other kind) Stephen King novel. Who runs out gas in the middle of a busy street at night, then forgets to use their emergency blinkers. I had a strong inkling he wanted to rob, rape, pillage and/or devour me.

I told him that pushing his car to the gas station was a no go, instead I would drive him there, thereupon he could fill a plastic gas container. We pushed his car 10 or so feet to the right, I then told him to turn on his emergency lights. As if to signify the half-assed journey to come, only one light worked.

Since I don't routinely carry a gas container, I assumed the gas station would have one. You know what they say about assumptions, they are only true when it comes to race, religion and gender.

The station attendant didn't have a container to borrow, nor was there one available for purchase. I mentioned using a jumbo sized soda cup instead, the attendant said no to my suggestion. Who am I to question the sagacity of a gas station attendant working third shift.

I drove to the next gas station. Low and behold, they didn't have a container we could borrow either, but they were available for purchase, which I promptly did.

Why did I purchase it? There is a very rationale reason: The kid didn't have any money because he "left it at his apartment."

The container only cost $3.50 or 3 1/2 Taco Supremes. It held one and half gallons of gas, which cost $2.50 (this definitely dates the story) or 1Chicken Quesadilla. After investing half of my potential Taco Bell feast in a kid who had the foresight to both run out of gas and not to carry a wallet, I drove him back to the car.

The police were waiting. As I mentioned earlier the road was well traveled, even at this late hour, and it wouldn't do to have a car blocking a lane or in anyway impeding the officers' nightly run to Teejayes for a Barnyard Buster.

I explained the situation to the officers, highlighting my good deeds and partial sacrifice of a late night snack. The kid seemed to clam up at the sight of their uniforms and, for some inexplicable reason, could not speak his own piece. After he poured in the gas, I took my container and continued on my journey for the finest in Tex Mex cuisine.

The kid didn't even say thank you, although I think I overheard him mutter, "God damn it"when I drove away.

The officers stuck around. They were still there, along with the kid, when I headed home, fifteen minutes and five taco supreme later.

I hope he was arrested, though I am not sure denying a chubby twenty something lettuce, tomato,cheese, hamburger and sour cream situated in a crunchy tortilla shell is a criminal offense – but it damn well should be.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

My mother turned 49 years young on Friday. She went out with her younger sister to celebrate. Today, while at her belated birthday dinner, we shared the following conversation.

Mom: I didn't have a very good birthday.

Me: Why?

Mom: Well...I was driving around with (my sister) Sarah and....

Me: And?

Mom: I shit my pants.

Me: You what?

Mom: I thought it was just fart but I shit instead. All over.

Me: between bouts of laughter You don't know how timely this discussion really is. Anyway, it isn't' a big deal. I shit in my hand; you shit in your pants. It is in the genes so to speak. Or at least in your jeans.

Mom: Fuck you. I want to go home.

Me: Can I write about this?

Mom: stares daggers in my direction

She didn't say no, now did she.

I pooped (on) myself

I was seventeen years old, soon to be eighteen. I had recently graduated high school. My entire (disappointing) life was ahead of me. This was to be my last summer before college, a three month buffer between yesterday and tomorrow. What is a boy to do? Quite a bit actually but the most memorable experience was when my mom showed a shit smeared rag to my friends.

One day, while walking through the family dining room, a question entered my head: I wonder what a fart feels like? Since I had no point of reference, and as my stomach had the familiar feeling of tightness that signified gas, I decided to find out.

I gently slipped my right hand in the back of my pants beneath my tighty whities. I grunted twice then farted in my hand. It didn't feel at all as I expected. What was supposed to be an airy breezed turned out to feel quite wet, sloppy and sticky. Wait a minute, I thought. That wasn't fart, I just shit in my hand.

Not knowing the proper protocol for when one defecates on oneself, I was a bit lost as to what to do. Was there someone I could call? Since the matter was presently oozing in my hand, I opted waddle towards the bathroom.

I opened the closet door; grabbed a wash rag; shuffled to the sink; placed the wash cloth underneath the faucet; turned the water on; dampened the rag; put it in the back of my pants (mind you that I now have both hands lodged behind my ass cheeks); and carefully attempted to sop up the pile of poop that was slowly leaking out of my right hand.

After cleaning off my hand(s), I dropped the wash cloth in the bin meant for dirty laundry. I mean, it was definitely soiled and needed to be washed. Thinking nothing of it, I momentarily laughed at my own stupidity then went out to see a movie with friends.

Several days later, my mom shoved a brown stained cloth in my face. "What the fuck is this?", she asked. "I pooped in my hand. What did you expect me to do with it?" At the time I thought she was taken aback by my response because she didn't immediately wallop me in the head, instead mom formed a tight smile, took the shit smeared rag and went on her merry way.

Later that afternoon, my friend Tom came by. Immediately after greeting him at the door, mom shoved me aside and exclaimed, "Look what Bob did." She presented the rag and continued, "He shit himself and used this rag to clean it up. He then put it in my dirty clothes bin. What kind of sick fuck does that?" Tom nearly collapsed from laughter.

Mom repeated this performance over the next week for every person who knew me or was slightly acquainted with my person that came to the door - I believe she even showed the evidence of my fart gone literally to shit to our paperboy.

I learned two things from the experience: first, some fits of fancy are best left unexplored; second, perhaps most important, if you shit yourself and use a wash rag to clean up the mess, make sure to dispose of it in the trash and not the laundry bin.

It is not that I am honest, competitive or smart. I am just an asshole.

The Texas hold 'em poker tournament started with twenty four people, it was now down to me, my friend and two ancillary characters. The top three places paid out cash money.

My friend bets out big in first position, I raise him all-in, as I have substantial edge in chips, he calls. I have an AJ suited, he has a pair of 9s. I catch a J on the turn that holds up for the win. He finished in fourth place, netting him zero dollars for several hours of work. My friend quietly begins to fume.

I won the tournament shortly thereafter. First place paid $200.00. After we left the church – I am seriously considering a career playing on the Catholic Charity Poker Circuit - my friend lays into me for knocking him out. He makes the very valid point: we would have likely finished 1st and 2nd, thus netting more money overall, had we not butted heads against each other.
In my defense, I really wanted to win. I also don't like to share.

The Infamous Mr. Wilson

First semester, sophomore year in college was supposed to be special. All of my classes were scheduled on Tuesday and Thursday, which left me with a four day weekend to take trips, visit friends and explore all that I could be. It didn't quite work out that way.

I spent my sophomore year in a drunken haze, interrupted by very brief bouts of sobriety and the pained realization at what my life had become. This story isn't about the bathroom fixtures I destroyed, the women I stalked or even the pledge I threatened to disembowel, instead this is a lesson on how best to alienate a professor, then rub his face in the fact.

I was technically a political science major – Buddha's call of non-being still hadn't taken hold, so it only made sense that I take a political philosophy class, especially one taught by the most lenient professor in the department. Although the 9:00 am start time did give me pause. The instructor, Professor Steinberg, was reputed to give only one take home exam, which accounted for your entire grade, and he also did not keep attendance, unlike the rest of the den mother's in the department. For a burgeoning alcoholic who took classes two days week, promptly skipped those two days and spent the entire week hopped up on hops and rye, it seemed perfect.

Much to my immediate chagrin, Steinberg had recently changed his policy and required a minimum class attendance of only four unexcused absences with each additional absence resulting in a lowered letter grade. He even went so far as to take a roll call before each lecture. This wouldn't do, there was no way I could feasibly be up by 9:00 am, hell it wasn't unusual for me to be passed out until 9:00 pm.

After two weeks and four classes, I decided to treat his new policy as an unsubstantiated bluff – the man was nearing retirement and senility, he had better things to do than babysit a bunch of disinterested drunks playing at being students. I proceeded to skip the next twelve weeks and twenty four classes. Bear in mind the class met for sixteen weeks and a thirty-two classes total.

I sauntered into his class like I owned it – okay, actually I stumbled into the class half drunk from the night before, but I was a confident drunk nonetheless. Several of my friends, who were also in the class, had warned me throughout the semester that Steinberg was serious about the new attendance policy, I usually responded with a unintelligible grunt or by shotgunning a beer. Professor Steinberg took attendance. Dolan soon gave way Wagner, my name was up next.

Steinberg's tone seemed to change as he called my name. While earlier he used a monotone voice, he grew agitated and lively when he said: "ROBERT WILSON. WILSON?" I meekly replied: "Here." He stared directly into my eyes, as if to somehow bore a hole into my soul, took a long pause and said: "So you are the infamous Mr Wilson, huh. I thought you dropped this class. We really need to talk. Stay after class."

I don't remember that day's lecture, which makes it much like every other class I hadn't attended. However Steinberg's admonishment had quickly sobered me up. I faced the real possibility of failing his class, which would have an adverse effect on my stellar 2.5 GPA. A variety of questions flooded my thoughts: Was there anything I could do or say? What relative could I kill off as an excuse? Was I the one who reeked of beer, stale cigarette smoke and Eric's Incredible Pizza?

The next thing I the knew the bell sounded. Class was over. My friends could barely hide their smirks, like sarcastic sharks they circled my chair, they knew what was coming. After the assholes left, Professor Steinberg walked over to my desk.

"By all accounts, you should fail this class." I made a motion to interject, Steinberg shook his head and continued: "I will make you deal. Turn in the final take home exam and I will give you a C. "

I was taken aback. I missed seventy-five percent of his class; I contributed absolutely nothing to the class discussion; I thumbed my nose at the professors' attendance and grading policy, yet I was still in position to pass.

Not to be one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I responded: "What if I write an absolutely fantastic paper, wouldn't that constitute at least a B?" He gave me a pained look, shook his head no and pointed to the door.

I decided it was best to take my leave. I had a busy day ahead. I needed to track down a recent obituary to show my African American Studies professor that my grandmother had recently died, thus explaining why I missed his 2:30 pm exam.

A Shallow Thought From The Deep Recesses Of My Mind.

I am apathetic about a lot of things. Sex, love and murder are but a notable few; however, my disinterest in music draws the most attention, perhaps even scorn. I am not really sure why, which is probably the point.

I have never been to a concert or even purchased a compact disc, could that be the root of my condition? Heavy exposure to an activity is often required for true appreciation and enjoyment - just ask any molested child.

Then again, maybe I don't need to saturate my life in a particular experience to know that isn't for me, I learned that valuable lesson from watching Chris Hansen on Dateline: To Catch A Predator.

The Call of Cthulhu and/or Cheney

Pasted below is an excerpt from a forum thread on my local paper's website, The Newark Advocate. Using H.P. Lovecraft's mythos to make a derisive counterarguement to a 9/11 conspiracy theorist is a bit much, I know.


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Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 8:31 am Post subject: more BUSH ADMINISTRATION terrorist propaganda
Tim Barnes
6 years after the fact,U.S Officials still have no concrete evidence that osama had anything to do with 9/11.Now if all you know it alls out there want to get an education check out govcoverup.com,to learn who the real terrorists are.

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Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 11:09 am Post subject:

wilsonr
Tim, you are absolutely right, as is Charlie Sheen and Rosie O'Donnell - 9/11 is a vast conspiracy created by a cabal between the munitions industry, neo-conservatives and Zionists. Their real objective is not to fight terrorism, instead they hope to call forth the star spawned Cthulhu. By awakening he who dreams in R'lyeh, the conspirators hope to resurrect the Old Gods and reshape this world to their liking. I am just glad you figured it all out, Tim - you are a real credit to the human race.
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..> ..>
Posted: Mon May 14, 2007 12:03 pm Post subject: wilsonr
Tim Barnes
thx,i can't take credit for figuring it out,just credit for trying to spread the word,to those that believe our gov't,is capable of LYING to us.6 months ago i pointed this out,and most said i needed help,hopefully now they understand,what,i learned back in sept.06.

–noun 1. a person born of unmarried parents; an illegitimate child.

Throughout the years my mother has had a variety of pet names for me: fat ass; stinky; terrorist; and bastard are but a few examples. The latter of which, bastard, is the one she used to the most frequently in my formative, prepubescent years – from ages 1 to 19.

I didn't at first understand what the word meant, or even that it had a negative connotation. This lasted until kindergarten when I was told by my teacher, Mrs. Andrews, that calling little Sally a bastard was most inappropriate.

Later that day, my mother was far from pleased when she learned of my verbal misstep. I still didn't understand what I did wrong, but between her snarling grimace and the cigarette smoke shooting out of her nose and mouth, she looked like a dragon from a recent He-Man episode. I thought it best to let the matter drop.

Obviously, I eventually learned the meaning of the word, or meanings as it were. And with time and heavy use, even the most pejorative of terms loses its sting . Mother moved on to and favored other derogatory names, though she would occasionally use her past stand by, which was fine with me as it brought back fond memories of Orko, Man-At-Arms and Teela.

One day, not so long ago, while searching for my birth certificate, I rediscovered my parent's wedding album. I vaguely remembered looking through it as a child, but I had long since forgotten it existed.

By all appearances, the wedding was an informal affair, both it and the reception took place in my aunt's backyard. I rather enjoyed seeing my family so happy and carefree; my mother actually resembled a petite, pretty young woman and not a mindless, draconian menace controlled by Beast-Man in the hope of helping Skeletor overthrow the Sorceress and all of Eternia.


Yet I was puzzled about something: who was the fair headed toddler with my mom and dad in most of the photos. He seemed very familiar, but I couldn't place where, that is until it came to me: I really am a bastard.

It was me in the photographs, each and everyone. I was present at their wedding, and not as fetus or in spirit, but as an actual, tangible and illegitimate person. It shouldn't really surprise me. My parents met in a bar, and my birth was heralded by a cony hot dog and what was thought to be a really bad case of gas, so really the whole situation made perfect sense.

I spent so many years thinking my mother was being needlessly cruel, when instead she was just being literal. Of course, I wonder what that says about her? There is a word for an unmarried woman who bears a child – mother.