VILE SMILES

I’m leaving the country for the next two weeks and will attempt to touch base sporadically (I learned “sporadic” from the movie Clueless and use it more than sporadically). However I have a tendency to shit the bed in these situations and there should be a nice healthy void in the blog. Whatever-all you did was get knocked up and spit out a little hydrocephalic mutant—I am trying to create something here. I understand that all I resort to are bodily fluid references and curse words to keep your attention which typecast me as a pretty shitty writer but give credit where credit is due—or don’t…..whatever, again your child is absolutely heinous looking.

I’m cougar meat. I know your friend Jerry is ten times better looking than me, has his tacky story involving the Parisian twins with the toy light saber, and tells people he is the heir to the Z Cavaricci empire, but he can’t hold a candle when it comes to attracting geriatric women. I would like to tell you that they look like the haggard but whorishly attractive older chick from Sex in the City (I know it’s Samantha but I just wanted for once not to sound like half a fag…blew it) if you were sand off a layer of semen and throw on some spackle.  But such is not the case. The older women attracted to me are the ones from your mom’s work that she bitches about, “Oh my God, you would never believe what Nancy did the other day. We were all having lunch; I just had an apple with a little Nutella, but anyway—Nancy comes out of the bathroom and I look really, really close, and I swear she wiped herself with her hand. This coupled with the whole Velcro sneaker thing is really having a lot of us start to wonder. And no Ryan, it is white Nancy, not black Nancy. Don’t be such an ass”

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Saturday night had me a bit surprised; I went to see a friend of mine who is cook at a bar around the art museum. I’m used to walking into the Bishop’s Collar, The Urban Saloon, and being surrounded by a bearable douchebag-to-norm ratio; I usually sit back with a Tanqueray on the rocks, stare at myself in the mirror, throw down on a couple of high-fives, try to stick my finger up my girlfriend’s butt, and that will for the most part distract me from snickering at your fake-millionaire shirt or the fact that you wore cuff links to a bar——I hope those cuff links were your grandfather’s…..and I hope he hates you. However, we walk into this place and it could have been any bar twenty miles outside the city; three beers on tap with about three dads sipping on 8 oz pilsners of Schlitz (do they make that anymore?) on ice. Actually it was a welcome change of pace considering I wasn’t particularly in the mood to deal with people ….mostly because I was on the rag (again this blog is written by a man…..of sorts)

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We shoot the shit with my friend and she makes us a pretty kick ass burrito when the sloppy old lady train rolls in. It was about midnight and this was obviously one of the last stops on the bar hop before they went home to gross their husbands out. “Put on Livin on a Prayer!!” is screamed by them in unison. I look at my girlfriend a go, “Ready, and three, two, one, cue in….

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Sloppy Old Lady: Hey you- your cute. You like Bon Jovi?

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Me: Hi, yeah uh thank you very much. Um, I’m here with somebody and uh yeah…but thank you. And not too crazy about Bon Jovi

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Sloppy old Lady: What do you mean? Who doesn’t like Bon Jovi? (leaning on me, face three inches from mine—I can see a tiny village of people living in her gin blossoms, and I think she just wiped herself with her hand)

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Me: Listen, I’m just not into him ….or them. See? I don’t even know what’s going on.

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SOL: (leans more…and yeah– there is poop or something poopish going on somewhere as my eyes water) I don’t understand how anybody…

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Me: (interrupting, totally fucking agitated and about to vomit) Okay, obviously we don’t have the same taste in music. If we were both civil, we could part ways with these differences of opinions amicably. Hell, if we were both civil, we could have moved on to an entirely different discussion and find common ground on some meaningless bullshit, and shared a half witted, “Oh yeah? Oh yeah? I love that shit too,” but for some reason you are insisting on being by far the most horrible person I have met in the past ten days. You want to know what I think? I think Bon Jovi are a bunch of fags. There is nothing bad ass about being from New Jersey. It’s like saying, “Hey we came from the mean streets of North Whogivesafucknobodycares and we are proud of it. Their music is for pussies and sorority chicks that suck dick for a free keg cup. Now please leave me alone.

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SOL: Honey you need to relax because you are really cute. I can’t believe you don’t like Bon Jovi.

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Me: Whatever. Yeah thanks again. A real fucking mystery isn’t it?

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SOL: What was that? Which song do you like?

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Me: Fucking kill me

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The burrito was worth the trip but I would have much rather spent the night playing grab ass and high fiving. Eat my ass Jerry-I own you.

I recorded Big Brother for my girlfriend and watched it with her last night (insert fist in face here.) I managed through it out of my adoration of judging others and ability to relate to the house guests—-I used to tell girls I was one of the last cuts for Real World Hawaii but was told at the last moment they couldn’t take me because of by adeptness to dishing out orgasms at will. “Ryan, if we have you in the house, there will be no cast chemistry; the pheromone you give off is nauseating for men - they would be forced to live outside by the pool and eat whatever scraps you and the harem you will obviously acquire don’t consume yourselves. The men will then start to kill each other for food because the scraps won’t be enough, and our research show that the first one that they kill will probably be the black guy. Big Brother is about lying, cheating, tomfoolery, and exploiting all that is backwards about the human condition. But we have pretty strict guidelines when it comes to dead black guys. We are sorry but we are just going to have to pass.

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I could care less what is going on; shows like this have way too many moving parts for me. But I glance up and catch some of the houseguest introductions. There was this one attractive Asian woman who goes, “My name in blah. I am from blah blah blah. And I am the Asian Sensation.” The Asian Sensation eh? I then realized that every quirky Asian I have ever met called themselves the Asian Sensation or a variation thereof; Super Asian, Asian Invasion, Golden Asian, Asian Occupation etc. I think about all the times I have been prepped to meet an Asian friend, “Oh my God, you have to meet Jenny Kim, she is so out of control. She is our crazy Asian friend” You could give two shits, but the day comes when Jenny bursts through the door looking like something that would come from Rainbow Brite having sex with a Nintendo Wii; sparkly face, pink hair, and it appears her pants are made out of scotch tape and cheetoes ,“Hey I’m Jenny the Exceptional Asian!” You look her head to toe and determine that Jenny has sized herself up pretty well, and the moniker is warranted. Turns out that aside from getting her wardrobe from a toy store, Jenny also has found the time to be working on her own Quantum field theory, is a celebrated impressionist artist, and takes a group of homeless people out to a crepe breakfast every other Saturday. And after all of this, it doesn’t even make you blink because when in the presence of any new Asian, you have felt like a two year old in comparison. I mean, I expect St. Peter to jump off a cloud and give me a nice little, “way to go tiger” with a gentle pat on the ass every time I do my laundry or pay my rent on time. It’s a brutally unfair standard that Asians are held to.

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I worked with this guy Gary Shimono and we had the same job at a credit card company. I fancy myself an intelligent individual but the fact that he was doing the same thing I was, and not on the third floor splitting the atom, I looked at him like he was a less than adequate Asian person. Was this like a Caucasian outreach program to boost moral? Did it really take this guy the full four years to finish college? Why isn’t he typing with one hand and making origami with the other? Was he shot in the head? What gives Gary?

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Anyshit, that’s my two cents.

“No, no, no. You go grab the server and you tell her you are a paying customer and that she needs to seat you asap. You shouldn’t have to be standing around!”

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I was walking to the gym yesterday and some pot-bellied, flat assed, weird looking boobed, with crappy bangs, 30 something of a woman was yapping this into her cell phone. Not a particularly harsh example of cuntish banter by any stretch, but it strikes a chord with someone who spent the better part of two years after college trying to find themselves (working 25 hours a week, drinking gin, eating saltines, getting up at 4pm, wearing girls pants complete with their eyeliner, and not showering for days as to not mess up my hair) waiting tables and bar tending in this city. I know, I know-the service industry is a tough racket and you need to have thick skin for hot messes like this human urinal cake but in the same breathe, just because you are paying—which is customary I might add, doesn’t give you free range to slap me in the face with that low hanging peen which is your douchey self righteousness.

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Surprisingly, Philadelphia is known for it’s restaurant regulars who are pretty savvy when it comes to etiquette and tipping—-I mean there are the obvious exceptions; like if you get a table that is showering their predominantly seafood meal with half a gallon of hot sauce, whilst downing Mudslides, Mai Thais, Apple Martinis, Heinekens, and Courvoisier’s with coke; it’s a safe bet that they won’t be helping you keep the water running. However, If you deal with enough pleasant patrons who know the drill and tip you well, and so long as you have the wherewithal to correctly judge the shrimp cocktail-crews from the beginning, as to not get disappointed when they stiff you in the end, you can still have a lucrative enough night to spend the three hours after you are done your shift marinating your liver in Tanqueray and smoking Parliaments. It actually shakes out to a nice little existence.

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But ever so often there is an abomination like the one I walked past yesterday; just full of spite for a million reasons (including aforementioned ass, belly, and hair) and in attack dog (a non attractive, overweight, looks older than it is-kind of dog) mode, waiting to complain about her salad that isn’t completely bathed in lard. They always catch you by surprise too because one would assume they would be more in awe about how you managed to squeeze into your girlfriend’s pants, or despite the fact you smell like garbage and cigarette butts; how your hair looked so tits, than to be oblivious and start bitching right off the bat.

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Waiter Me: Hello, how is everything going tonight, my name is Ryan- I will be your super server (swear I used to say it. The one girl I worked with had a tattoo of a cat on her vagina and if the table was cool enough, she would flash it a few times during her intro. They would be all like, “Oh my God, did that hurt?”  She would be all like, “Yeah it did, but not as much as this one”—Then she would get closer to them and show them the inside of her lower lip that read “cocksucker.” So what are you bitches having to drink?” You really can’t hold a candle to that so I just kept it simple) would you like to hear our specials? (arching my back and pushing out my ass)

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Somebody Stupid- (not checking out my butt) “No, I want what I had last time. It’s the thing with the sauce on the bottom.

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Waiter Me: Yeah I don’t quite follow….hey does it wear tee shirts sometimes too? Haha.

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Somebody Stupid: Excuse me?

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Waiter Me: Forget it. No seriously, what you are describing is a bit vague. Why don’t you take a look at the menu to see if something jogs your memory?

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Somebody Stupid: Actually, why don’t you grab the manager wise guy

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Waiter Me: Maam, is that really necessary? (inaudibly say “suck my ass”)

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Somebody Stupid: Suck your what? Are you out of your mind?

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Waiter Me: Uh…do you want to see my friend’s tattoo?

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It’s been awhile but dealing with the sporadic assholes has left me with a streak of vigilantism where I feel an obligation to stick up for waiters and other service people that have to bite their tongues.

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Waitress: Hi folks how are you? What would you like to drink?

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Dude: She will have Absolut Cosmo. And I will have a Miller Lite

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Waitress: Is Bud Lite okay?

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Dude: Actually do you have any other lite beer?

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Me: (two tables over watching shit go down) You bro. Don’t be such an asshole. This girl is trying to make a living.

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Waitress: Seriously, it’s no big deal.  I think you misunderstood

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Dude: Hey guy, relax.  I’m getting an Amstel instead

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Me: Shut up and chew your gum.  I’m the fucking hero.  Got it guy?

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Dude: Whatever my man.

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Me: You’re whatever guy. (smirking bc I was the man)

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There is a good chance that I could be overreacting and the person on the phone with that woman could have had a legitimate gripe with whoever they were dealing with at the restaurant. But if there is one thing I have learned in my years is that dopey, loud mouth, goofy tit’ed retards like this prize keep comparable company.

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Then I went and wailed on my abs

Supertramp’s “Logical Song” was playing in my head when I woke up today. I haven’t heard the song in two years. But such is my head.

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I have obsessive thoughts. Not so much like OCD, because people with OCD have compulsions; they drive around the block a couple times to make sure they didn’t run someone over or pick their turds out of the toilet to make sure they didn’t swallow their watch while sleeping. No you see, I’m a much lesser crazy—-In times of anxiety, I get songs stuck in my head. Yeah that’s right, laugh asshole but it’s true. The first time it happened was in 6^th grade and Kevin Wilson started to sing “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow”; for some reason I couldn’t stop playing it over and over again. And it had nothing to do for my longing for Orphan Annie as I, like many, believe red heads shouldn’t be allowed to vote…

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My friend Kim to me:

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Kim: Alright now, would you rather A) Go down on your dad or B) Have sex with your mom?

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Me: As much as I want to rally against my alleged Oedipus complex, I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole.

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Me: Okay my turn, here we go: Would you rather be A) Red headed or B) Have a lisp

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Kim: You suck at this. Lisp. No brainer. Ugh there should be a Marshall Law curfew for those freaks.

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So the songs would play over so much to the point of debilitation—I wouldn’t be able to eat, sleep, concentrate etc. It was a total nightmare. I can’t exactly put my finger on the exact point it became easier to deal but it got more subtle and became easier. I get it though—people have schizophrenia, are cutting themselves to drain out the spiders from their veins, and are making best friends with ceiling fans, which are much more real problems. But trust in that no matter how much you like your favorite band; having their top ten song play over and over again throughout the day is not as cool as you think—-

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Pixies “Where is my Mind?”—cool having in your head when walking down the street on a sunny day, holding some pretty girl’s hand and being complimented on the aesthetics of your penis. “oh this old thing?”

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Pixies “Where is my Mind?”—-not cool having in your head when you are picking through your turd to find the watch you ate.

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There was a time when I was taking antidepressants to combat the anxiety. So listen, I’m all about you trying to get your head on straight and maybe Paxil is keeping you from crying hours on end for no apparent reason. But for me, and the crap I was on; it was horrible. You get void of emotion and you get fat (not like real fat people though..ew…..just slightly less attractive–and for me it sucks more because I have a complex about my head—I think it’s too big for my body….with this big head comes a big face which retains water….now I have a big fat face because of these fucking crazy pills….little jerkoffs). Furthermore, you have to be really careful about what you ingest when you are on this stuff. Not mixing with alcohol is the big one, but nobody pays attention to that one——However don’t take my advice but I can attest to slightly more bearable hangovers. No, what I am talking about are things more random. For instance, I had a gnarly cold a few years back and I had a bottle of Robitussin from which I was taking swigs. Now I’m no square or nancy-boy, and I know you shouldn’t take too much cough syrup because it can get you kind of loopy. What I didn’t know is that just a wee bit of cough syrup mixed with the medicine I was on can induce a full blown trip—-yeah-like the “Dude, dude…I like saw  God and like I don’t know how to say it ,but he is a Monopoly board” type of trip. One minute I’m on the phone with my mom telling her that my cold was getting a little better. The next minute I was on the phone with my mom and was afraid that her voice was going to jump into my head and steal my Contra codes. I put my shoes on to run out the door as I now felt my apartment was going to swallow me. However, I forgot how to tie the laces so I got even more upset because I thought they were mad at me (the shoes) and curled up into a ball on the floor for four hours.

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Yeah it’s really neat to have a hallucinogenic anxiety attack while on the phone with your mom. Thanks Elli Lilly.

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That was one of the last straws for me as I threw caution to the wind and decided to wing it on a more holistic approach. I subbed the meds with exercise and Saint John’s Wort. It’s pretty bad though as I now believe even if you are impaled on a wooden post or shot in the face, it’s nothing a little Chamomile tea can’t cure. It also helps to talk about it when it pops up like it did today or just write it down for everybody else to see and try to poke a little fun in the process.

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I know it sounds absurd. But please tell me who I am.

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Yeah that’s how I roll.  Pussy