VILE SMILES

So yesterday the Euro 2008 soccer final is on and I’m all shits and giggles because I want Spain to beat Germany.  I’m not Spanish.  I’m Irish and Polish—-two of the non-olive skinned, lesser attractive nationalities in Europe, but I still have a legitimate reason to be pretty stoked.  I spent a semester over there my Junior year, decided not to get a job after college (pretty smart), and was on a plane back to Barcelona literally the day after I graduated—so obviously I think Spain is pretty neat.  I eventually ran out of money and came back, but not without turning into a total piece of euro trash in the process…fake euro trash.  Unfortunately during the few years since I would be known to interject into way too many conversations with anecdotal references like, “Oh yeah this one time when I was in Spain..” or “Well this sucks because the bars in Madrid don’t close until..”  With being euro trash comes a false sense of superiority, so I would also assume that because it sounds exotic, you thought Spain was somewhere in South Jersey and that you have never been on a plane….and don’t know how to read.  So when I would talk about my many European jaunts, I would do it while making airplane noises, arms spread out, and run around the room to simulate going across the Atlantic just so you would understand.  Go Spain

So back to this game; it turns out where they are playing, Ernst Happel Stadium in Vienna, was used during WWII by the Nazis to hold Jews.  It wasn’t an extermination camp but it was used to study the thousands of prisoners that were held there just before they got sent up the river or down the river–whatever.  They would do “race measurements” like measure their noses, distance between their eyes, etc.  Now I’m not some bleeding heart from the ACLU and it’s not exactly like having an ultimate Frisbee tournament at Dachau, but there just seemed to be a smidge of sacrilege going on here.  I mean seriously dude, a fucking soccer game at a Nazi detainment camp?  I understand Austria is like two miles wide so it’s pretty hard to walk fifteen feet without tripping over some cute old grandfather-type that was in a Gestapo death squad but for shit’s sake, I’m sure they could have put heads together for this one. 

Who knows though? I mean Holocaust denial is illegal in many European countries so maybe they didn’t want to fuck around.  Maybe they were at the bar and some shit started like:

Italy: Hey you guys, I heard Austria saying something the other day that he was not too sure about the Holocaust being as bad as it was. (All European countries at the bar turn to look at Austria with disgust, with the exception of the Eastern European ones who seem oblivious because they are too busy being pale and looking like they have Downs Syndrome.)

Austria: What the fuck are you talking about? Hitler was born right next to my knee.  So I think I know it better than most. 

France: Whatever bro, if you said it, you said it.  Just admit it.

Austria: Are you guys eating paint chips?  I told you.  I never said it.

England:  Seriously, don’t be a bitch.  Stop your backtracking. 

Austria: That’s it, I’m outta here! (finishes beer and slams glass on the counter)  I’ll show you assholes!  I’ll scream Holocaust from the rooftops! 

Either everybody knows not to get a bunch of drinks into Austria and dare him to do crazy shit or there was some other bizarre set of events that made yesterday the Colonel Klink championship.  Whatever the case, it was creepy. But Spain won and the streets of South Jersey were filled with raucous fans.  Ole’

Before you call me up one night and say that you want to come hang out down my neck of the woods for a couple beers, there is some shit that we need to clear out of the way before you set foot in this part of South Philly.  Understand that we are outnumbered by an inordinate amount of hipsters and their glaring eyes will be judging us from head to toe.  So I am going to need you to blend, be cool, and keep a low profile.  I can’t have you fucking up my street cred.

Rule #1: you already shit the bed by calling me the night of.  I need at least a 2 day head start for a project like this as we will not be able to shower for at least those 48 hours prior to grabbing a beer.  Your body odor must be repulsive and your hair needs a nice aged grease.  And piggy backing on this; pick out your outfit for the big night and leave it outside under a rock for a day or so.

Rule #2: I need you to grab the New York Times and read the first sentence of each column on the first page.  Should you read more you will have too much of the real facts and unable to communicate in some of the most witless and uninformed political and current event conversations known to man.  The idea here professor is to just make it up as you go.  They can smell a suit like you from a mile away.

Rule #3: Have at least 5 bucks in change.  And I mean nickels and dimes-None of that bourgeois quarter nonsense.  This is for we buy or beers at last call.  You can be all like, “Yeah that asshole didn’t pay us for our last 2 shows” to the chick sitting next to you.

Rule #4: If you dare set foot near a jukebox your best bet is to pick a song that is in there handwritten on a coaster.  And know how to pronounce Ian MacKaye’s last name. 

Rule#5: I need you to mix it up with a minor fast and or purging.  Hints of emaciation, malnutrition, and bags under the eyes are essential features.

Rule#6: No underwear.  Yes your jeans are outside under a rock and are pretty foul but we need a about a small amount of crack to nonchalantly pop out in the back every once in a while.  When people see a part of your butt it reminds them you are a piece of shit-this is what we are shooting for.

Rule#7: Should any type of sport be on the bar TV, hell if anybody is walking too fast, show no interest or knowledge whatsoever.  As far as you are concerned the Phillies are winning the match against the Springfield Atoms by a hat trick.  Or they are losing-whatevs dude

Rule#8: I have a girlfriend but I can be your wingman.  So if your coming out to try and get laid-go for it.  To aide I recommend having a bundle of coke on you.  And it would serve your character development best if you bought it with money you were going to use on rent, mortgage, child support, etc.

Rule#:9: Even if you don’t smoke, learn how to roll a cigarette.  This way while you’re rolling it you can talk about how you can make ninety cigarettes from the three dollar bag of tobacco you have.  Oh and how stupid everybody that buys regular cigarettes is.

Rule#10: Hey bro it’s the best one! Come on down and let’s have us some fun!

I know it’s a lot but you will thank me the next morning when you’re all spooned up against a girl whose name you don’t know.  You will be on a mattress on the floor and it will be hot because the electricity is turned off but you will laying on you’re back, playing with your balls, maybe strumming her guitar, staring at the ceiling knowing that you came down here and owned it. 

I just got back from the gym where amongst other things I managed to run 5 miles.  This is a huge deal considering 8 hours earlier I was on the ass end of being out all night with some buds from work, defiling my body with Miller Lite (yeah I know), Tanqueray, Jagermeister, Goldschlager, and about fifty cigarettes.  I promise not lull you to sleep with my drinking habits because like anybody’s they get rather redundant.  However I was in rare form when I threw up some blood.  We all have the friend that does this quite often or we know that asshole that passes out drunk and ruins everybody’s couches because he pisses himself.  But for me the whole blood in the bile is a once in a blue moon thing.  It’s actually a warped sense of accomplishment that some guys like myself have—-God we are fucking apes.  As my dad would say though, “It puts hair on your chest”

So speaking of my dad, I get a call today from him.  Please bear with me because this gets ridiculous.  His call is in regards to working on this supposed deal on going down to Nicaragua to pillage the rainforest and make millions in the process—–I shit you not.  Apparently he has teamed with some investor who is already down there.  So this maniac is renting out the top two floors of a Hilton and hiring himself a Blackwater-esque team of goons to make sure he and his crew don’t get abducted for their kidneys.  My dad has his own tree care company based in Northeast Philly and has been doing this shit for years, but this seems a smidge out of his league.  Anyway, this call like the ones prior to it have been him trying to court me into going down there with him, telling me I would be able to retire in three years.  Obviously I am skeptical because this sounds shady, insane, and retarded, but also too good to be true.  But it’s equally bizarre because the only thing I can ever remember getting from my dad was the lap dance he bought me the night we were supposed to be at the hospital when my grandfather got his heart transplant.

 Now my dad isn’t some big swinging dick with a bank roll to boot by any means.  He is a blue collar guy who runs his business to support his family…..with his fourth wife.  He is a super man’s man, tattooed down to his finger tips, smokes cigars, rides his Harley, and tells everybody he knows to go fuck themselves.  People often have trouble believing we are related.  I’ll give you a little rundown

Ryan                                                                            

Age: 27                                                                        

Measurements: 5’9 160lbs                                             

Alma Mater: Villanova                                                    

Sober: 8 hours                                                              

Tattoos: 1      (it’s lame)                                                 

Eats: chicken breasts, tuna, and beef jerkey     

Number of times someone asked he was bisexual: Multiple-daily 

Vices: Gin and wanting to makeout with himself               

Dad

Age: 48

Measurements: 6′1 250 lbs

Alma Mater: 11 various detoxes

Sober: 20 years                

Tattoos: Many (includes the names of 7 women)

Eats: mens’ souls and babies’ first words

Number of times someone asked he was bisexual: not unless you want some piece of your face bitten

Vices: women 20 years younger than him, cigars, and threatening to kill people

You get the picture.  Anyway, you can imagine my concern if this pipedream is to be taken seriously only in the slightest.  I mean Nicaragua right?  I have been a lot of places and have spent a decent time abroad but I have no other choice but to be the ugly American on this. Knowing nothing about the country, I am automatically going to assume a political assassination has taken place in the last 5 years and there is some dude down there comparable to Pablo Escobar causing some sort of shit storm—drugs, prostitution, guns-who the fuck knows.  I’m also going to guess that nobody wears shoes and they have had electricity since 1987.  Having a part in decimating the rainforest also has it’s moral dilemmas.

On the other hand money talks.  So yeah the money—with this let’s look at what else would be bad ass about living in a third world country——-Like the side of me that always gets asked if it is gay would be excited about the prospect of being able to grow it’s hair out and look like Tarzan when it went to work.  Furthermore I’m sure Nicaragua is banking on a barter system where three seashells can buy you a six pack and full prescription of Penicillin gets you a villa on the beach.  And like I pointed out I’m 5’9—they say that’s average but I swear I always count more guys taller than me than shorter at the bar (yeah that’s me counting dudes at the bar.)  So judging from all the Mexicans I know, I again will jump to the conclusion that I will be one of the most aesthetically distinguished gentleman on the Nicaraguan nightlife scene, “Who’s that tall Tarzan-looking guy over there?”  “Oh that’s Senor Ryan.  They say he makes 20 trillion seashells a year.” 

We will see what the next few months bring but knowing my dad like I do, I will try not vesting too much mental energy in it.  I mean he bought my first step mom new boobs with money he said he would give me to help out with tuition.  But you still have to love the guy for trying.

I gotta go get handsome.

Just a forewarning—-my head is on a freaking swivel so I am going to be jumping around a bit in this post.  I walked out the front door this morning and lying across 8^th street is half of the oak tree I would pee on when I was too drunk or impatient to walk up three flights of steps to my apartment when I came home.  It mangled two cars and took out my cable and internet.  It has been a particularly strange set of events because literally the night before last a cop was shot like 15 feet from my mail slot.  Don’t worry though he was shot in the arm and actually ended up chasing the non Scandinavian looking perpetrator down and busting him—seriously what a fucking stud.  Not to mention, I saw a picture of the cop on the news and he looked like he was about eighty.  I came out that day and the police had the whole street blocked off looking for bullets and other un-Nordic paraphernalia—–maybe they will find out it was the same Rhoades scholar that busted into my car and snagged my GPS a few weeks ago.  So any warm blooded neurotic will tell you that these things happen in threes; whether next up it will be raining colostomy bags or I get sprayed in the face with Greek fire. Either way, this week seems hell bent on castrating itself.

This brings me to castrating or some sort of maiming and in what situations there should be no repercussions——-

There is a CVS a block from my apartment.  Despite being a stone’s throw from the Italian Market, Wholefoods, and Super fresh, I somehow managed to make CVS my place to do food shopping.  And by food shopping I mean sugar free Red Bull, Pemmican Beef Jerkey, and the occasional pack of Parliaments (because I only smoke when I drink) .  However completing this relatively easy transaction has become more and more frustrating.

It has recently come to my attention that CVS’s cash registers are probably the most sophisticated piece of retail machinery ever made.  No I’m just being silly—The truth of the matter is even if you fill out your employment application in crayon or sign your name in poop, they will stick your ambitious ass in the driver seat behind the counter.  I really don’t know what is so masochistic about my personality that I feel the need to subject myself to it day in and day out but these ding-dongs they have running around that joint make my fucking head spin.  Now today- the young lady is ringing me up and I realized she rung me up for something that wasn’t mine.  That something was the Mountain Dew she was drinking.  Seriously-a half empty bottle of her own soda that was literally taking a sip out of five seconds before.  So now to reverse this calamity she needs to call over the manager.  I’m in no mood and being the royal priss that I am I just say “fuck it” and walk out the door.  Yup-a 27 year old grown man throwing a hissy fit and storming out of the store- I really go the extra mile to emasculate myself as much as humanly possible.  I get home and realize that three out of the last five times I have been over there I have walked out, cursing to myself, and just looking like a crazy person.  

So again-why subject myself to it? I have come to the bizarre conclusion that I feel comfortable in chaos and in my best form when I have something to bitch about.  I’m sure there is some variation of psyche jargon that could peg this and I could have another sweet acronym to go along with the ADD and OCD….or I could just be a woman.   Regardless I’m back at home with no meth soda or bag of dried meat.