Bachelor Party Part 2: Vertical Dillemas and Liquid Solutions

See the first video here.

Bachelor Party Part 1

Boing - or - The Chosen People's Harp

$500 Parking Spot - or - Away I Say Thou Yeasty Swag-Bellied Foot-Licker

When I got home the other night from some much needed excess and relaxation, I thought that I would have to move my car as it was parked on a major street. Parking in my neighborhood is never easy to find and vexes me quite often, except for this night. Much to my surprise, I was legally parked in one of those unbelievably hard to come by and highly coveted, totally free parking spots. It was well lit, in a good neighborhood, across the street from the green house in which I work, in front of well lit fountain dedicated to a surprisingly manly woman named “Peaches”, and all in all a conveniently located and more over an exceedingly legal parking spot. I remember commenting to myself, “isn’t it great that there are still these free parking spots her and there around my neighborhood? It makes my life so much easier, and simultaneously decreases the level of world-suck by ensuring that I won’t get some bullshit $50 parking ticket, which in turn frees up my capital to invest in wind power generators, or solar panel technology, or environmental protection lobbyist, or beers, and as a result make the world a better place for everyone forever, or just me for an hour or so until my twitch comes back."

Regardless.

The next day I went to lunch. I had to deposit a pay check during my half hour lunch break so I phoned in an order at my new favorite deli, piatto pronto while walking out to my car. When I was about 15 feet away, I stopped dead in my tracks. This is why.









Someone in my quickly gentrifying neighborhood practiced an act of random aggression against my car, my new car, the one I just got in October for thousands of dollars that I don’t have. Someone ran a lap around my car, in a well-lit area, on a constantly busy street, scrapping a key against my paint job. Deep. I don’t think that I’ve pissed anyone off this badly, ever. I think it’s a pointless and random act of vandalism against my paint job. Now, I am not a materialistic person, and I try to avoid connecting happiness with inanimate objects but I choose to buy this car and I really like it and I don’t want a scratch circling the entirety of it, reminding me every time I go to my car that some impressively insignificant heap of human bullshit thought that it would be fun to scratch up my paint job. So now I have to shell out the $500 insurance deductible so that it can get repainted. The entire car must be repainted, except for the roof. Yes, every single piece of metal on my car was scratched up by this rancorous douche-ass. My last vehicle was a pick-up truck. I miss that truck. The more dings, scratches, mud, rust, and holes on it, the better it looked. That is not true with the scion. So I have decided to do the noble thing and insult my car’s aggressor with the finest of Shakespearian insults.

To the loathed issue of thy father's loins;

In civility thou seem'st so empty. In fact, thou art i' th' worst rank of manhood. For your offence, thou shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to th'heart, and there th'offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes, thou bootless sheep-biting scut! Bathe Thyself, thou villainous half-faced ruttish flap-mouthed coxcomb! Thou frothy pox-marked nut hook. Thou art a dull and muddy-mettled rascal. Thou art a fishmonger. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. May the worms of conscience still begnaw thy soul.

Forever yours,
Obsquatch

Monkey Pig Is Made Of Awesome + Extra Chromosomes Of Love - or - I Wonder If It Still Tastes Like Bacon

What time is it? It’s Monkey Pig Time.

Nathan, of Sons of Susan, sent me this link and because I like monkeys and pigs so much, I decided to share it with you.

Villagers were shocked after a monkey-like piglet was born in China.

Curious locals flocked to the home of owner Feng Changlin after news of the piglet spread in Fengzhang village, Xiping township.

"It's hideous. No one will be willing to buy it, and it scares the family to even look at it!" Feng told Oriental Today.

He says the piglet looks just like a monkey, with two thin lips, a small nose and two big eyes. Its rear legs are also much longer than its forelegs, causing it to jump instead of walk.

Feng's wife said the monkey-faced piglet was one of five newborns of a sow which the family had raised for nine years.

"My God, it was so scary. I didn't known what it was. I was really frightened," she said.

"But our son likes to play with it, and he stopped us from getting rid of it. He even feeds it milk."

Neighbours have suggested the couple keep the piglet to see how it looks as it matures.


I love you monkey pig.

Don’t Ask Why, Just Trust Me On This - or - Obsquatch's Crummy Book Club

Go to your bookshelf and find The Catcher In The Rye, I know you have a copy. Read chapter 17, if not the whole book. Listen for the distinct mental “snap” around page 130; you won’t have to listen in too hard, it’s kinda easy to hear. Then empty your bank account and head for hills, like a madman. I love this goddamn book, full of phonies and morons.

Earlier in the book there are some great references to Mark, Verse 5 1-20, that I never picked up on before. I'm not a biblical man, myself, but I dusted off my copy of the Good Book while I was reading this good book. It was worth it.

The next book I'm going to read is probably The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A.J. Jacobs. It was recommended to me by an atheist.

Garfield Minus Garfield

My cousin brought this website to my attention. Garfield, as a comic strip, is much better if you remove Garfield from it.

Here is a blurb.

"Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness in a quiet American suburb."

Here are a few examples of how much funnier, creepier, and honest to the brutality of life the comic strip becomes once you eliminate that pesky main character.









So check out Garfield Minus Garfield and I assure you that you'll rekindle a love for Jon Boy.

The Entire List, Truncated – or – Stuff I’ve Done That You Don’t Know About, And Shouldn’t, But Will Soon, Unless You Stop Reading Here.

Since my last post, I’ve…

…Bought six new plants including this doozie called Nepenthes Miranda. It, just like some of my childhood friends, eats bugs.



…Gotten dumped by someone I wasn’t even dating, but would have, but wasn’t. After the whole tiny ordeal was over, I figured out that I’d like to get dumped by people I’m not involved with more often. It makes the whole I’m-sad-because-I-got-dumped thing seem totally blown out of proportion. Meh.



…Flown to California to watch grown men wear armor and fight with swords. I wore a Viking helmet, as did my heterosexual life partner, Dave. We also ate chicken wings. We also got drunk a lot. It was our collaborative 30th birthday party. A different friend of mine, Ollie, celebrated his 30th birthday by getting his real estate license. Watching men on horses joust each other while drinking out of a flagon is more fun than taking test, so I win the best 30th birthday party contest. Ollie will be rich soon, but I’ll still have the memories of knowing that my knight, the yellow knight, was the first knight to die at Medieval Times on my birthday.


…Performed with The Sons of Susan at The Hideout. It was our best show yet. We opened for a band called, The Devil Makes Three, whose newest album has quickly become my go to drinking album. Songs about drinking make drinking so much more satisfying than drinking alone; and always remember, drinking alone is the first sign of alcoholism and I’ll be damned if The Devil Makes Three is gonna make me an alcoholic*.

…Avoided doing laundry. You might ask, “Obsquatch, what do you do about clean underwear?” Well, I’ve been improvising. Everyday is an adventure.


…Finally taken some pictures of the greenhouse at Gethsemane. Take a peek at where I work.


…Played the Jaw Harp, or as I know them, the Jew Harp, into a bonafied multi-thousand dollar microphone, in a bonafied recording studio with a bonafied 48 channel SSL board, for a bonafied rock band’s next album. The monetary value of the gear used during this session easily exceeds $500,000. I bought two Jew Harps for the session for at totall of $14.98. I didn’t know that they came in Alto, Tenor and Soprano; I thought they just went “boing.” Oh how little I know about the chosen people’s harp. The session was bonafied-idly awesome.

…Eaten Taco Bell, White Castle, In ‘n Out Burger, McDonalds, Burger King, more White Castle, Wendy’s, Jack In The Box, and Pizza Hut. Tonight, I’m going to the Handle Bar for BBQ Satan and cheep beer.


To all that are curious, the 2nd Annual Sketchy Mustache Competition marches onward! There is no end date as of yet. Submit pictures and you will be sure to get them posted on this very site. My stache has reached epic proportions and has was trimmed back tonight. Fear not! I only trimmed it back so that I could donate the trimmings to Mustache-tions for Passion, the facial hair equivalent of Locks for Love. Some happy pre-teen with a life threatening condition is slowly and methodically running his fingers through the lushious fibers of his new mustache. It feels good to help heal the world of bald upper lips.


*Thanks for the punch line, Last Will And Testament Of Marlboro Patch.

So Much To Say, So Little HTML

I got older. I celebrated with my buddy Dave in California. Here is proof.

People With Mustaches - or - Yes! This Is What I'm Freakin' Talking About, People!

I feel like a grade schooler on picture day. Look at these Bad Ass Mustaches! I'm so impressed!


My X-boss, Don Frio enjoying his new line of work.


Caroline, the petite yet powerful, feminine yet scruffy singer for The Sons of Susan.



Jorge Sanchez is a poet, a professor, a father and proud owner of a sketchy mustache.


And, finally, my latest entry into the 2nd Annual Sketchy Mustache Competition.

It's Just A Lizard...

...Hanging out on a Black Aralia. I named him Harald as he heraled in one of the best and worst weekends that I can remember. I'm sure I'll go into details, just not at 2am.

Sketchy Mustache Competition – or – I Only Get Good Ideas When I’m Naked

Maybe I’m on a posting rampage. Maybe I’m afraid of what will happen next month. Maybe I need to get out more and find something besides books, laundry and YouTube to entertain me. Maybe it’s bunnies.

I am currently hosting, and winning, the 2nd annual Sketchy Mustache Competition. I don’t know how long the competition will last, or if there are any rules besides grow a sketchy mustache, or what the prize for the sketchiest mustache will be, or who the judges will be, or who else besides me is competing. I’m still working on the details. And I’m still beating the competition, hands down. I didn’t shave for a month. Then I did, just now. I have to be at work in 2 minutes but I wanted to show you the new look. Enjoy!



-----------------UPDATE-------------------
6/18/08 4:07pm
Van Campbell has entered the competition. Van is the drummer in the clearly bad ass band, The Black Diamond Heavies. Here is his submission with his approved caption.

"I'm a gay cop"


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
5/18/08 5:37pm
My Brother, Adam, has entered the competition only because he has "no social obligations for about a month." I believe he will be going for the '14 year-old who can't really grow a mustache but has a bunch of clumps of hair above his lip' look. Good luck, Adam!


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
5/19/08 2:02am
"Let the sketchiness begin. I accept your challenge. Although, you have a 3-week head start on me, my mustache will be so sketchy that it will actually be illegal for me to operate a van within 200 yards of a school zone."
-Cuchulainn


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
5/20/08 12:07am
I have noticed two things after my first day out and about with the sketchy 'stache.
1)This thing itches
2)More than a handful of friends and co-workers have gone out of their way to say, "No, Officer. I don't know how fast I was going."


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
5/20/08 3:54am
I have invited Lis, a good friend of mine from college who has seen me in a cowboy hat and a neon blue speedo track suit, to participate in this, the most noble of contests. She has not yet responded, so I thought the following image might help. This is my temporary entry for Lis into the 2nd Annual Sketchy Mustache Competition. I might have created a monster. A sexy, fashionable, well mannered yet scruffy and surprisingly dapper (for a lady with a mustache) monster. Lord help us all.


-----------------UPDATE-------------------
6/25/08 8:17pm
1) 2 co-workers, a band-mate, my old boss and my best friend from grade school have stopped shaving and joined the competition.
2) Still no work from Mustache-Lis. I expect to hear from her soon.
3) Join us.

-----------------UPDATE-------------------
7/8/08 2:06am
Adam, my brother, sent me this picture...

That is sketchy.
Join the competition. Pass judgment on the competitors. Submit photos or votes via the "comment" button and I will gladly, and sheepishly, publish your opinions as facts. Fake mustaches are approved and encouraged for the facially impaired.

Without Two Titles, I Must Rely On Other Peoples Videos For Amusement

So there are these two brothers, the Vlog Brothers, that don't write letters to each other, they post videos on YouTube for the world to see. They have inspired me to be a "Nerd-Fighter". They remind each other, "Don't Forget To Be Awesome." This is my favorite video so far.


Check them out, you will feel good.

Foie Gras Is For The Birds, And From The Birds - or - Easily Crushable Dreams

I got real sick late last week. I had to stay home from work on Monday. Actually, I went to work and left 35 minutes later, after everyone who worked there asked if I had been punched in the face the night before. I guess I looked kinda rough; blood shot eyes, stuffy nose, sore throat, bright green clumps of phlegm dripping out of my face. It was gross. I left work, only to return the next day to a genuinely concerned boss. “Do you feel 100%?” Nope. “Why did you come in?” I need the money. “You have sick days. Go home, sleep and feel better.” Does that mean I got paid for sleeping yesterday? “7.5 hours. You don’t get paid for lunch.” I didn’t eat lunch yesterday. “And you didn’t get paid for it, either.” Before this job, I have never had a job with sick days, I usually just had to make up the time later in the week when I didn’t have any free time anyway. It made me realize something.

I want the life. I want the good life.

I want all the good stuff the world has to offer. I want the job. That great job that pays so much money for such little effort. The job that demands respect, and looks great on a resume and a business card. Something socially conscience and authoritative. CEO of saving the world. I want the girl. The Bond girl. The good girl turned bad girl that would walk out on you in a second if she sees fit, or leave you tied up for days with no food or water, but at heart is still a good girl. With perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect legs and a secret that could destroy you and everything within a four-block radius. I want the house. That huge one with the great view that you drive past every day on your way to work and it makes you gag because you know there are rooms in that monstrosity that are never used but are filled with stuff that you hate just so there is stuff in there. I want the huge closet with the rows of suits, the racks of ties, the slickest tee-shirts and those untouched spandex workout shorts. I want the prescription sunglasses, the impromptu trips to Hawaii, Europe and Jersey, the perfect suntan, a gold chain given to me by a dead hero of mine and a monkey head paper weight. I want shoes with real arch support and a pair of dogs that follow every command including, “fly”. I want the lobster, the duck and the veil, all on top of each other with a toothpick through them. I want skylights in every room I enter and canned applause to play when I walk into a room. I want the sound of whale songs mixed with luxury car engines to lull me to sleep at night and women in veils, with first names that start with three consonances or three vouls, to fan me with banana leaves while I sleep. I want Foie Gras from a goose that has only eaten Foie Gras. I want a catapult in my back yard, next to life sized chess board with midgets in costumes as the pieces. I want artwork on my walls, a stocked freezer in the basement and room for two in my shower. Two elephants. I want to wake up in the morning, put on a white fuzzy bathrobe, pour a cup of coffee, walk out onto a huge patio overlooking the ocean and say, “ahhhhh, what a morning.” I want my blood to heal the blind. I want my hobbies to include kite surfing, stunt aeronautics, lounge act, baby seal advocate, and professional smirker. I want to own a solid gold something ridiculous, like an ironing board or garage door opener. I want my poop to sell on E-bay for more than the price of the food that I ate to make it. I want the good stuff.

I guess this “sick day” thing kinda got to my head. That, and the all the cold medicine. I didn’t take two days off in a row, I worked today and I feel much better, but not as good as I would feel if I had the good stuff.

Sasquatch, Speeder and Slick Get A Beach House – or – Hey! What’s Up With These Lousy Tips?

I got my first official bonus from Regis, the owner of Gethsemane. I was dragging my ass into work at 6:30am when I walked by the boss, who yelled at me, “Hey, you!” because I guess that he doesn’t know my name. I snapped out of my 6:30am daze and spun on my heels to see what he wanted. “Hey, you! Take this!” And in that cinematically overused gesture where a soldier gives his lover a keepsake to remember him by just before he goes off to war, Regis, my boss, pressed something into my palm and closed my fingers around it. It was a toad. A big toad. The size of a Chihuahua’s head. He was cold and clammy and not very active; the toad, not Regis, who is more old and frumpy but becomes very animated when he is angry. So now I had a toad. It was resting comfortably, or what seemed to me to be comfortable for a toad, in my right hand. My pointer finger and thumb were wrapped around his back legs and his front legs were perched on the edge of my palm so his head was sticking out of the side of my hand. I looked at the toad. I looked at Regis. I looked back at the toad, he looked content as he was slowly warming up in my hand. I looked back at Regis with obvious confusion slathered across my face as I was now, quite unexpectedly, holding a large toad in my right hand, given to me by the owner of the store whom I had never even spoken to before, all of which was taking place at 6:30 in the morning. Regis grunted. His face alone told me that he was done with me, any potential for conversation was over, we did not need to talk about this, I should just take the toad and be done with it. I said “Thank you?” with as much sincerity as I could muster and spun back around on my heels and walked into the greenhouse. After spending a minute staring at and sizing up the toad I was holding, I decided to name him Sasquatch. I put him under a Mahogany Fern by our fishpond. There Sasquatch sat for four hours while enjoying the view of the frightened two foot coy fish and the screaming children frightening the two foot coy fish. He hadn't moved more that four inches by lunch time, when Regis said to me, “Hey you! Where’s that toad I gave you? I’m taking him back.” I went over the the Mahogany Fern, wrapped my hand around Sasquatch, said goodbye and calmly gave my new friend back to my boss, never to be seen again; the toad, not Regis who I see regularly and who now knows my name but still calls me "Hey you". I miss Sasquatch.

The next day, one of the schelepers (the guys that deliver the 50+ pound bags of soil to customer’s cars so that the common folk don’t have to do any work) came cruising into the greenhouse, hands clasped around some kind of treasure and said, “Dude. I got something for ya.” Yep, another frog. This was a tree frog, a little green guy. He was cute and jumpy and he pissed all over my hands. I named him Speeder and put him under the same Mahogany Fern with the great view of the pond. He quickly hoped away into deeper foliage and out of sight. I haven’t seen him since. I miss Speeder.

The next day, I was unpacking some six foot Oleander trees from California when one of the leaves jumped at me. A yellow tree frog, a sticky one with big eyes and long fingers, started hopping around inside the tree. He finally calmed down and I nabbed him. I dubbed him Slick (because he was sticky) and put him in a $599.99 collection of Bonsai Ficus Benjamina trees right in front of the Mahogany Fern. I figured that my normal decision of real estate, the fern, although alluring with it’s sweeping views of the fishpond and choruses of screaming children, didn’t have a very good track record with all these little travelers that had come my way. He catapulted himself out of my hand and into the bonsai pot, where he towered over the little clay hut and the painted little men playing lutes and going fishing. Then like the end of every Godzilla movie, Slick jumped past the Mahogany Fern and right into the fistpond, further terrifying the already skittish coy fish. He same under the small waterfall and I haven't seen him since. I miss Slick.

I told Regis the next day that, after he had given me Sasquatch, two other frogs had come into my life. He grunted. “Maybe someone is trying to tell you something. Maybe you should kiss one of um.” All that did was remind me of just how single I am. Maybe I’ll go check out Craig’s list.