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In all honesty though; I would have had nothing of substance to give to you.  June consisted of me hating my job and being all bitchy with bouts of anxiety.  Hypothetically- this anxiety became totally exacerbated when I attempted to smoke pot a couple times and I had a massive panic attack.

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Seriously dude?  A fucking panic attack?  From pot right?  Bob Saget’s character in Half Baked is absolutely disgusted with me.  Haha—”Have you ever sucked dick for pot?”  Priceless.  Come to mention it, my dad would probably be pretty disgusted with me as well.

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I get older and older, and acquire more and more complexes and insecurities.  Instead of getting high and rubbing one out to Dorothy right while Eclipse starts, I am instead obsessing over garbage……Am I making enough? Am I happy enough?  Do I want to be in Philly again?   Did you hear that? I think it’s my heart dude.  Dude come here and feel my heart.  Fuck I can’t catch my breathe.  Dude don’t laugh it’s not funny I can’t catch my breathe.  Call 911.  Please call 911 dude I ‘m freaking out over here.

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And then I eventually come back to reality and realize I am all but a shadow of a real man.  Real men everywhere were having their real men meetings and holding secret ballots to decide if I would be allowed to retain my penis.  Then the burly lumberjack stood up and proclaimed, “Why must we hold this vote under secret?  This is Ryan we are talking about.  I mean the guy wanted to go to the ER after smoking a joint.  I am sure there is not one real man in this great hall that is concerned at what faggoty repercussions may ensue should Miss Ryan find out that they voted against him”.  The carpenter, bull rider, and guy that smelts things all agreed and the vote was held in public.   By a vote of 3 billion to one it was decided that I am not a real man.  Removal all man-stuff is pending accommodation of the guy with the pliers schedule.  I will keep you updated.

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All this being said, I think I can comfortably say that there is a lot of crappy job stuff behind me as I have some really neat things going on.  I have to keep tight lipped but will let you know asap.  If you are as smart as I hope to dear God that I think you are, then I hope that you put two and two together and realize that I am a bit happier and will understandably be  writing in this horrible blog more often.  I promise.  Not really.  I’m lazy.

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PS–It’s my birthday and I’m off to Mexico.  Peace out dog.

1) I get embarrassed for dogs when I see them poop while they are being walked. They always look super vulnerable and awkward while they are squatting and it makes me turn away and blush. Occasionally the owner senses my embarrassment and tries to shoot me a reassuring nod that says, “Hey it’s no big deal. You don’t have to look away. I mean I’m the one that has to pick this mess up and stuff it in my pocket. Literally-in my pocket. Just relax there guy.” But I don’t relax.

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2) I’m right handed but I have one ambidextrous trait in that I brush my teeth with my left hand. Whenever the subject of ambidexterity (which is every other week where I roll) comes up, it never fails that I bring up this little fact expecting ooh’s and aah’s. However, nobody ever cares and there are no ooh’s, aah’s, or for that matter even blah’s. I try to recover with a tasteful black joke and sometimes it wins them over. Sometimes there are black people in the room and then of course, I have no recourse.—-source, porche, morse

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3) I have an obsession with the size of my head. Remember that cute kid from Jerry Maguire? Did you know the human head weighs 8 pounds? Really? Does it? Well little guy, I can tell you that a 15 year old Ryan went and put his fucking head on a scale. It came back absolutely horrific like 14 pounds or something. I freak out and my mom tries to convince me that there was no way for me to accurately weigh it because it was attached to my body and my body weight was messing with the scale reading. I never get convinced of this and quite honestly I do not feel that I grew into my head until about three weeks ago. Thanks anyway mom.

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There was a girl who came into the bar last night with an eye patch.  Yup-an eye patch.  Ps–ugh.  You see what you just did?  You thought there might be a pirate joke in here somewhere.  There’s not so keep walking Sally Ann.  I fucking hate you.  Don’t get me wrong-I adore Jack Sparrow and the fact that Johnny Depp is 18% better looking than me while being like 50 years old has a guy wanting to write an open letter to Jesus Christ and thank him for such beautiful things– but I swear to that same Jesus Christ;  If you mention pirates, ninjas, pirates vs ninjas, or have the balls to start spewing out those heinous Chuck Norris facts around me; I will pluck off one of said balls, unravel it and make it into a friendship bracelet for your mother

 Anyway– 

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Me: Dude, dude.  Who’s that chick?

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Bartender Pat: Oh that’s Sandy.  Cool chick.

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Me: Cool chick with an eye patch huh?  What-did the lead singer of Murder by Death choke on a tofu burrito and die? ….. Get it? Get Murder by Death? Haha.  Oh me and my obscure references.  Anyway-stupid hipsters making their boring little fashion statements.  Neat.

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Bartender Pat: Are you being a dick right now?
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Me: Bro you know what I mean.  The schtick gets a little old.

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Bartender Pat: Are you out of your mind?  She was at the dog park on 8th with her French Bulldog like last week.  She is doing her thing and some Pit bull or Doberman  started attacking hers.  She got in the middle of it and the dog bit her in the face.   A la- the eye patch.

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Me: Can I interject?

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Bartender Pat: Yeah.  What?

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Me:  I just wanted to point out that it is extremely gay you know what kind of dog she has.  A la-anal sex with a man
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Bartender Pat: Anyway.  Ryan, like everybody knows this story.  The Doberman/Pit’s owner goes ape shit and starts pulling it off her fucking face.  He manages to get it loose but the thing gets free and attacks her again—gets her right in the crotch.
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Me: Well this is panning out as a great inquiry . . .
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Bartender Pat: Literally right into her vagina.  Like, it starts shaking its head violently while it has her in its grip….by her vagina.  Seriously she might lose her fallopian tubes or something.

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Me: Or might lose her whole vagina vagina vagina? I seriously doubt that.

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Bartender Pat: They are saying she might need a vasectomy.

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Me: I think you mean a hysterectomy.

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Bartender Pat: What?

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Me: Forget it.

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Whatever.  Crappy hipsters making statements with their fancy little dogs.

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Ps- I want to apologize for the tiny font.  I’m trying to figure it out.  Thanks blog writing template thing.

Patty’s day fills my neighborhood with fat people (I know-gross) and tourists.

1) Irish people don’t like your Irish tattoo or multiple Irish tattoos especially when you can’t find their country on a map.

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2) Irish people don’t drink green beer. Green beer is for white trash. Or it’s for black people too who have confused it with a big glass of new flavored Hypnotic.

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3) Irish people don’t like you delivering the punch lines to Irish jokes in a crappy accent. They aren’t impressed. They rather you finish college and learn a second language.

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4) Irish people don’t want to be kissed all the time-they’re not pussies. Instead they want to soak that tee-shirt in Humback Whale pee and set your face on fire.

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5) Irish people don’t care that you are a certain percent Irish and that’s why you always get “blacked the fuck out” every Patty’s Day. They’d rather you be 75% “shut the fuck up” and 25% “dead.”

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6) Irish people don’t like that you’re getting all hip and calling soccer; “football” and pretending to like watching it on TV. I played soccer my whole life. Please believe me when I say I am way better than you. I will say that it is absolutely atrocious to watch. Even I think you’re gay for doing that. Multiply that by a bajillion and cover with a million shiny pink cocks and that is how gay the Irish think your posing is. It’s soccer dude.

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Move your car and go home fat ass.

How about that? The Phillies won the World Series. I’m not going to be afraid to tell you that I did tear up a bit watching it all go down last night. I mean, we haven’t won a championship in a bajillion years and I was so happy that wives, girlfriends, and illegitimate daughters throughout the Philadelphia area would not have to go back to work/school tomorrow with black eyes and missing teeth. A buddy of mine removed three fingernails from his fiancé’s fingers for each interception McNabb threw in the Superbowl……….no no no….I’m just being silly.—We only joke about domestic abuse because it is much more appropriate than actually doing it. Jeez-Lighten up.

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In the midst of my joy…..no fuck joy– I’m a big boy so I am going to use big boy words. I have a goddamn website so I need to man-up. Here we go…In the midst of my elation (OH SNAP) I realized something: I don’t like baseball. No seriously—I fucking loathe it, I find it excruciatingly boring. I hate the fact that you can be the poster child for “Fat, Old, Bald, and Shitty” (Guess I’ll call it FOBS. Neat) and be a very successful professional athlete. I hate that there are 87 teams,437 games in a season, and two teams make the playoffs. It blows.

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However I did make it to a couple of games this year. My company which will remain nameless up to the point they fire me (which is viable) has season tickets up in one of those hot-shit boxes (not a shit box) where you don’t have to commiserate with all the poor people. I like going to drink beer and do Philadelphia Soul chants. Other than that, I am passing the time by counting all the people in the stands who I think have actually killed a person, are cheating on their wives, or didn’t go to college. This is a long drawn out explanation I will get in to at another time but I can do all three with creepily astonishing success by measuring the distance between people’s eyes and how blue their jeans are…..sounds crazy but I’m like fucking Nostradamus over here…..a Nostradamus that will punch you in the throat if you try to look at his junk when he is taking a whiz.

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Anyway, I went to a game this year and they were giving out Opening Night shirts. I know jack shit about baseball but what I did know is that there was a game the day before. I’m all like, “Typical Philly. They have leftover shirts from yesterday and are still giving them out tonight. What a bunch of cheap bastards.” A girl no older than seventeen sitting in front of us says with a “does this guy sit down to pee?” look on her face, “That was Opening Day dude. Like during the daytime. This is nighttime, a la Opening Night. The shirts aren’t leftover.” Her dad turns around in disgust and sees that I am sitting with my girlfriend. His disgust turns to sympathy or empathy (I don’t know the difference) for her as you can see he clearly thinks I would have no idea of what to do with a naked woman. Not wavered by my faux pas and with an ere of cunty blasé-ness I was all like, “…………….” Actually I was all like nothing. I sat there and said, “Oh my bad” and chewed my fucking gum.

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The shirt stayed in my car for the better part of six months. I used it to wipe my hands when I checked the oil, take beer caps off when I was drinking and driving (kidding. Just trying to fit in), blow my nose, and even wipe my ass when it got all itchy. I remember it specifically because well…..I guess it’s hard to forget wiping your ass with a tee shirt while you are driving. Now I just remembered I haven’t written anything in over three weeks and the last time I did, I wrote about drinking pee in my car. “Way to knock ‘em dead Ryan. We really adore your command of syntax and structure while providing us with ever dynamic and exciting content. A true gem.” Whatever—back to ass wiping in the car because don’t act like you never done it you scumbag. Ugh you make me sick. But for real for real—I totally desecrated my Phillies tee shirt. The Phillies I watched win last night. The Phillies that made me cry.

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It really just goes to show you that I have all these strong opinions but at the end of the day I am just a big pussy that has no idea what he is talking about. Again however, a big pussy that has no idea what he is talking about who will punch you in the throat if you try to look at his junk when he is taking a whiz.

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Go Phils.

I’m going to get something up like tomorrow-ish. It will be Monday so I will be full of all types of piss and vinegar. Mmmm piss mmmmm vinegar. No I don’t drink pee. But I have. Ok fine, I’ll leave you with this snippet- I used to always have a case of water in my car because water is good for you. You would be in my car and be all like, “Yo Ry-dog-pass me some agua fria.” And I’d be like, “No fucking problem my main man. You got it!” I would give it to you and then I would ask you to shut the fuck up and drink the water so I could rock out to Disintegration…..gently rock out.

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So one who drinks a lot of water in their car has a lot empty bottles in their car. Occasionally I would pee in the bottles while I drove; especially when I would get stuck in traffic. Haha—You just got a mental image of my penis! Queer. Anyway so yeah—I’m a scumbag and would have bottles of piss in my car. You see where this is going?

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One Saturday morning I’m walking out to my car nursing a 5 alarm hangover. I was having dreams the whole night of swimming in Gatorade from being so dehydrated. Super thirsty obviously I get into the car and reach for one of my trusty water bottles, “Oh here is one! Wonderful.” Five seconds later, I realized that I just guzzled about 10 ounces of my own piss. Do I go inside and brush my teeth? Get totally grossed out and vomit? Nope-because I had some Trident in the car. The end—I’ll hit you up with something of substance (by my standards) like asap.

What’s shake-in’ momma? It’s been all like a month and such—-I needed a bit to incubate some more only-funny-for-me-and-people-that-know-me humor. I can’t hold a candle to the witty quips that fat-greasy guy that lives two floors above you is hammering out everyday…two, three times a day. As you know, self deprecation always makes for a great read; fat guy writes…..oh sorry—blogs (fags) about discovering he can fart the first few chords to Stairway, the bohemian slut….oops I mean “freespirit” names her latest bout of Chlamydia “Larry the bummer,” and then there is that hero who quit his hedge fund gig to mail cans of Goya beans to Darfur orphans——oh the faux-pas’s he chronicles in his new found holier than thou existence; “I mention Hang Seng nowadays and people ask me if it’s good with soy sauce. No but seriously, it’s all about the kids now. They just saw their mother hacked to pieces and I make it all better with some good ole frijoles negroes” (That means black beans—pick up a Spanish dictionary you fucking racist). Haha-I’m a massive self important mega-douche-oh me-I’m saving the world.” Not really self deprecation there…just me getting all cunty I guess……stupid do-gooders with all they’re do-goodness. So please take all of this into consideration when you size up the fact that I consider myself better looking than your boyfriend and really don’t have that much to complain about. As much I would love my debilitating neurosis to kick in on a daily basis and write about the spiders singing constantly in my head, I love even more the calm of an uneventful month.

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As much as I promised myself I would not get all political, I think I just might have to. This is because I can’t keep promises. I lie to everybody. Minds as well lie to myself too.

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So word on the street is we are getting a new president. Every self respecting hipster is getting up at the ass-crack of 11am, doing an entire gram in one line, and making their way to the nearest Whole Foods to sit out front all day to register people to vote. These 364 day-a-year-garbage-pales turn into civic superstars even if it is just for a blink of an eye. On any normal day when I want to go get the best yellow fin tuna salad on earth, I already get solicited to sign up a petition to stop global warming, get asked if I want to adopt a puppy, save a whale, plant a tree, name a tree, and hug a seal. I have my responses for all memorized to rebut each in rapid fire so that I can safely navigate to the front door of the store without getting caught up in some mindless banter in which I would quickly lose interest anyway because in mid-conversation a white boogey would fall onto your petition clipboard and you would nonchalantly rub it on your gums without missing a beat. So I try to hit them with “Sorry but my family-my family that is allergic to whales that is; well our baby seal jacket factory is powered by the demise of the planet. To toast our record breaking profits everyday, we sip puppy milkshakes and uh we uh um……fuck trees too. Thank you—gotta go get my tuna.”

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I have that all down to a science and it gets me through with no problem but now I am confronted with, “Hey bro. Are you registered to vote?” “No, sorry I don’t vote.” You know what happens when you tell people you don’t vote? Time stands still. You look around and everybody is staring at you like you are holding an Ebola sandwich. I could get into the whole spiel about how I feel my vote is irrelevant and the Electoral College is flawed but I would be mostly regurgitating something I pulled up on Wikipedia. I want you to know that I think you are smarter than that and would easily catch on…..your so Colombo. But in a nutshell that is pretty much how I feel. Be it the black guy, the white guy, or that guy in the painting in Ghostbusters II, I could honestly care less who is running this country because in all seriousness, at the end of the day it really does not affect how I go about my business. Yes I did go to college—and if you went, there is a really good chance mine is better than yours. So I’m no dummy but just have my own little take on things. I think it’s great that you vote because that is your thing. However, I can’t put up with being judged by people who justify their existence with their little political hobby that comes around once every four years. All those tee shirts you are making with Obama’s name rhyming with different words, the clever bumper stickers, the hours registering people, the colorful signs, the rallies you attend while screaming a candidate’s name over and over again is for me; the biggest fucking waste of time. You will have a bigger impact on the world painting a barn. I will be honest to admit that the majority of this cynicism is birthed from experiences in my neighborhood with a certain type of person. These are the borderline destitute hipster-ish folk that make my neighborhood so posh.

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Most of the year: Blah blah blah I can’t pay rent..blah blah my friend’s gallery blah blah shitty coke..blah blah blah I can’t believe I’m working the day shift…blah blah good coke..blah blah I fucked him too..blah blah I dunno, like 5 shots of Jack blah blah.

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Election time: You live in a democracy and have the privilege to have a say in who runs your country. God, it’s so easy to be blasé about it. In some countries, people are dying to cast a vote. What? Your too cool to vote?

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Yup- That’s it guy. I’m too cool to vote. I’m also too cool to sing Happy Birthday. You nailed it right on the head.

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I know there are the good eggs out there that genuinely mean well and want to make a difference. They won’t bother me when I want to get a bite to eat. They don’t wear their affiliation like a tangible accessory….like a patch….like in the same font as those Black Flag patches….wait a minute?….Is it still cool to like Black Flag and if so is it still cool to rock the patches?…..That’s punk dude—punk is so dead. Are you sure? Yeah I’m sure bc my friend’s gallery said so. That doesn’t make sense. Your face doesn’t make sense. What? Whatever bro-Vote or Die

“I got a twenty dollar advance on my credit card. Haha how about that?” No no no—not me you pee hole - rather the version of my dad if he didn’t stop using heroin and breaking his hands on the back of people’s heads 20 years ago sitting on the barstool next to me. He looked like he rolled around in dried up poop and bought his clothes from the Flintstones. These are hard times and the economy is blah blah blah, unemployment is at its highest rate since the Coolidge administration, affirmative action is being such a massive asshole, and your wife has a penchant for licking the milkman’s taint, so I know there is nothing better then putting back a few to make it all hazy and forgettable. But seriously dude? Twenty dollars? Cash advance? While we are at it let’s give Alex’s Lemonade Stand a little run for their money and have you set up shop out front of the bar hawking your blood, semen, and retinas.

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I have a general contempt for the majority of people I come across so one would assume that I was adept for keeping my disgust somewhat subtle just out of politeness as to not offend……which now that I think about it is kind of ironic. Not today. Apparently I had a “Oh my God—if somehow there was a way for a bucket a vomit to be a person and if that person came strolling into the bar right now, I would rather talk about Bud Dwyer and the apocalypse with him than have you sitting next to me, blabbering about your awfulness” look on my face. Because this went down:

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20 dollar advance guy: You got a problem?

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Me: Actually it’s “Do you have a problem.” And no, I do not have a problem. I think I just swallowed a bug and got Tabasco in my eye at the same time.

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20 dollar advance guy: Don’t get bad with me motherfucker. If it comes to fisticuffs, it will be the last thing that you do.

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Me: Fisticuffs? Is that a new shot? Maybe you can take that twenty bucks you scored and buy like four of them. Go home to the wife and kids and tell them instead of the staple Dominos Meatlover’s that you usually get on Wednesdays, daddy took the money to go be a shithead.

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20 dollar advance guy: Listen you little shit; you are very close to getting your ass handed to you. I could buy this whole bar. I could buy you.

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Me: I don’t think “years of my life I spent being a bulbous cancer on society while blowing guys for meth” are an accepted currency in these parts. Furthermore, stating you can buy me is helping the validity of your threats. Do you want to beat my ass or eat it? Make up your fucking mind guy. Lastly, please forgive me but that potato sack-ish wardrobe doesn’t really scream the aesthetics of a fiscal juggernaut.

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20 dollar advance guy: (starts to advance—haha-get it?.ah whatever—-towards me): Listen if you want to do this we can….

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Me: Do what? Check it out—If you were going to do something, it would have been done before the first inarticulate syllable left your lips. You probably never saw anything through that you set out to accomplish and I really doubt that you are going to start today. Listen Tom. Can I call you Tom? You look like a Tom. So Tom, when you tell the story to all your friends at the tattoo party about the asshole at the bar who’s ass you almost kicked, make sure you correlate it with the day when you went borderline-homeless-person and took out 20 bucks from your credit card. So right when you start to feel all bad ass and such, you start to remember that your are as relevant as the neon gravel in a fish tank.

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20 dollar advance guy: Fuck you. You’re not even worth it. (walks to the door)

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Me: Good talk Tom.

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Hey is this a variation of some sort of snobbery? Sure as shit it is. But you know what? I was thinking the other day when I was driving down the street—you see some goofball walk in front of you and you go, “Check out this strap on” I know the same thing is going on when I am strutting my fairy ass around some times; people in the car are all like, “Is that dude wearing a fucking bandana?” “How old do you think he is Marty?, 24, 25?” “No way that guy is easily 27. Holy shit, check out those jeans-I think I just saw his shit move” then in unison they go—“Hahahaha get over yourself bro. You’re about as cool as our friend Jenny’s little brother Sam who got shot down for the prom by the chick with those gnarly titanium crutches.” So the point being that we all put ourselves out there, so we should all expect it.

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So what am I doing now? Watching the Thomas Crowne Affair whilst ironing my week’s worth of bandanas. I’m not into curvy chicks or poor people. I like gin and gently caressing my ego. Many will attest to my toolness. But I will always be able to find twenty dollars. Hold on—one two three—okay-just wanted to get it over 900 words.