Archive for the ‘Life and such’ Category

I kicked a dog, and I liked it.

February 24, 2009

The other day, like many other days, Anna my dog brought me to the dog park. She pulled me on the skateboard, which is great because she knows the way, and I don’t have to kick, being that she has four feet that run really well. So we pull up to the dog park and immediately some  reincarnation of Cujo starts barking and snarling at me through the fence, as if I were to be torn apart and then left for dead. “No big deal” I thought. He’s behind the fence. I just won’t go in.

The dog’s owner, that crazy dog lady  who feels it her obligation to rescue every pound puppy on earth comes running up to the gate. Now, there’s a reason some dogs end up in dog jail. It’s because they fucking attack people. It’s because they’re mean as shit, because they were born into an abusive family, were beaten, or are just plain inbred. It’s sad to say, but it’s the damn truth. Not all dogs go to heaven, some are condemned to hell, and that’s just that. 

So this woman takes notice of the situation and says, “He’s a rescue, he doesn’t like skateboards.”

“Well” I ask, “Does he not like skateboards, or does he not like the people who ride skateboards?” “Or both?” “Because he seems pretty pissed off.”

“No, he’s fine. He loves people.” Famous last words.

At this point the woman is holding the dog back like a German police officer who’s about to release the hounds on one of those guys running away in fat suit. And then, that’s exactly what she does. She opens the gate and simply releases the dog which then races towards me and leaps through the air open jawed slashing at my throat. So I pull a Chuck Norris and perform a sort of ghetto looking roundhouse kick which lands squarely on the side of the dog. The dog screams, flying backwards to the ground. I then jump into a Kung Foo stance ready to go ape shit on it’s ass. This probably looked pretty stupid, but I was pretty damn scared, and it’s just what my body naturally did.

“HE’S A RESCUE!!!!!!!” “WHY DID YOU KICK MY DOG, HE’S A RESCUE!!!!”, She screamed and began sobbing.

“I don’t care if that mutt is related to Ghandi” He tried to attack me, and I’m not about to get bit by your stupid ass dog. At this point the dog was cowering, albeit  still growling at me in her arms. And my “Goldendoodle” Anna had long since run through the gate and into the dog park,  happily chasing a tennis ball. So, I began a walk of shame, through the gates, entering the park. I felt bad, sad, shaken, and still freaked out. There were several other dog owners in the park as well as one overly cute little girl in a sun dress. Mostly everyone tried to pretend they’d not seen what had just unfolded, but the tension was palpable. The woman quickly left the park with her dog, sobbing. No one said a word.

Just as I reached the furthest end of the park, the young girl approached me, the only person brave enough to address the situation. She stopped just a couple feet in front of me, and with her fists held down by her side she said, “YOU SHOULDN”T HAVE KICKED A DOG!” She then quickly turned and ran away.

Yep, I was that guy. The guy who kicked a dog. I tried to apologize, explaining that I acted out in fear, but the little girl was already half way across the park, her sun dress flapping in the wind. I threw the ball with Anna for a few minutes and then decided to leave. But of course I had to walk past everyone now once more. And just as I reached the gate to leave, the girl’s mother turned to me and said, “I’d have kicked that mother fucker too.”


Hi, Hitler.

August 25, 2008

I recently began growing a mustache. No reason really, other than to see what I would look like as a cop, or a seventies porn star.  So without further adue here’s me with a stash.

 Fuck yeah. Evidently God gave me the gift of a semi blond colored beard which contrasts with my hair in a really nice seventies porn star way. My new name is Thomas Woodbluff (Middle name/street where I grew up), purveyor of the Playa Vista porn ring.

I’m also getting a motorcycle and signing up to be a CHIPS officer. I’m gonna grow this thing to stardom.  This mustache could make me the ruler of the earth.

Oh snap, it just did. This is me, ruler of the fascist world giving a speech at a club med convention.

I’m pretty sure Hitler ruined this type of mustache for the history of human kind. It boggles the mind to think that no other person on earth can ever rock this thing again. Except for me motherfuckers, the fascist king of porn.

Brenda!!!! Brenda!!!!! You sleep with me now!!!!

The Original Maverick

August 21, 2008

While watching the olympics tonight I was privy to seeing another one of John McCain’s triumphs in advertising. His tagline…The Original Maverick.

Being a writer I’m always intrigued by the meaning of words, and by the people who use words which most people don’t understand the meaning of. Words that sound really awesome. “Maverick” being one of them. We all know that Maverick was a Top Gun fighter pilot, that Maverick could disarm a nucleur weapon using a peice of gum and a paper clip, and that Maverick sounds like a good descriptor for James Dean. But what the hell does it really mean…

mav·er·ick (măvər-ĭk, măvrĭkpronunciation

  1. An unbranded range animal, especially a calf that has become separated from its mother, traditionally considered the property of the first person who brands it.
  2. One that refuses to abide by the dictates of or resists adherence to a group; a dissenter

The origins of this word can be tracked back to 1867, to a cattle rancher named Maverick, who was too lazy to brand his cows. Maverick thought that since most all the other cattle in Texas were branded, any cattle that weren’t branded, were automatically his. This included any and all cattle that roamed wild, or had been seperated from their mothers or herd. The other ranchers got pissed off and said, “Fuck you Maverick, this is not right.” And Maverick said, “Screw you, I’m an American, and a rancher and I can do whatever the hell I want. because I’m lazy, and because there’s a court system.”

This bullshit held up in court. Because of lawyers. Yes, there were lawyers back then. They carried guns, pissed in alleys, and shot people who didn’t agree with their hired opinions. So, now that I think about what this word means, it makes perfect sense. He was the “Original Maverick.”

John McCain is an unbranded range animal that was seperated from his mother, and could end up our next president. But most of the country will never know this. They’re just to lazy to look the word up. 

John McCain, “He is The Original Maverick.”

Oh, wait, maybe this is a statement regarding his liberal views on reincarnation.

“Oh John, you Maverick you.”

Sex Wax

August 18, 2008

When I was twelve, Sarah Morrows was my babysitter. She had long brown hair that flowed around a Charlie’s Angel face. She was also awesome at Pole Position, which increased her beauty ten fold. She was 18, I was twelve, and I was convinced that the two of us were destined to  I have sex under the stars.

The summer of 1988 my parents decided to bring me, my sisters and Sarah on a beach vacation in Destin Florida to a hotel called Jetties East. Sara was there to supervise my sisters and to make sure I didn’t find anyone to have sex under the stars with. “Ha”, I thought, “They’re playing into my plan perfectly.” On the six hour drive to Destin I day-dreamt about being independent, surfing a huge wave, living on the beach, and of Sara and I bedding down in a small grass hut on the sand, maybe raising some babies. Finally we arrived.

But, I didn’t have any money, Florida didn’t have any waves, I was going back to Louisiana in six days, and I barely knew how to masturbate.  So I did the best I could, and asked Sara to drive me over to a surf shop.  At the surf shop I looked at the boards with envy, $400 bucks. “No way I can swing that”, I thought. I searched the store looking for something more affordable but equally as awesome. Near the register I found a small wicker basket that contained numerous nice smelling bars of Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax. One dollar each. I had three bucks. Perfect.  Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax was really surf wax, but everyone on the inside knew that, and that made us “cool”.

Sarah said, “What are you gonna do with that?”

“I don’t know, it says that it’s good for my stick.”

Yeah, but you don’t even have a surf board.

“I know, but I only have three dollars and that’s the only cool thing I can buy for that amount.”

“How about this, if you swear to god not to tell your parents, I’ll buy you a Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax T-Shirt. Then, when you get a surfboard, you can get the wax.”

I thought, “You are for sure the coolest and hottest babysitter in the history of hot cool babysitters.”

The T-Shirt was was white with brilliant flourescent colors of reds, oranges, blues and yellows. “The best for your stick.” was prominently displayed on the back. Such a statement was sure to land me some play. Probably could even get me to second base with a fourteen year old from Alabama. She’d say, “I Like thaaaat t-shirt, and I’d explain, “Yeah I use this stuff on my stick, my big surfing stick.” Then we’d laugh and make out. Hopefully, go down to one of the sailboats and make out until our faces turned red. Then I’d explain to my parents that the redness was simply a rash from all the surfing I was doing.

I left Destin without as much as a peck on the cheek, but before I left, I managed to ride my bike back to the surf shop to buy a bar of Mr. Zogg’s surf wax. I remember it being something akin to Charlie going into the Chocolate store.

Two weeks after we got home, my dad, who was a sex education teacher in the Catholic Church, found the t-shirt and the wax hidden in my closet.

“What the Hell is this!” he said. “This is a disgrace, Sex Wax, you’re promoting sex? You’re twelve years old.”

“Dad, It’s surfing wax, for surfboards, if you rubbed that on your penis it would hurt.”

“Oh, really.”

Just as he said this, my dad ripped open the surf wax packaging, unzipped his pants, pulled down his underwear, and proceeded to rub the bar of wax on his penis like the damn thing was a loofa. After a few seconds his face turned from exasperated disgust and anger to something more like, “What the fuck?”. Then, quizicle turned back to anger upon his internal conclusion that he’d just rubbed surf wax all over his balls.


Now, after his test, I thought my dad might be convinced that Mr. Zogg was in fact a scrupulous surfing enthusiast who just wanted to make sure people’s feet didn’t slip on surf boards, but my father was convinced that Zogg was the four letter word for Satan. So the t-shirt disappeared. Gone forever. Sarah’s gift of love, that remotely related to her and I sex having something to do with sex together, was gone. I never dared tell my parents that she had bought it for me. I had made a promise, and I kept that. I cried for at least thirty minutes. Then I played some Pole position.

Six months after our beach trip, I got called into the office at school.

“Brett, you’re mom is coming to get you from school. Something has happened, and you have to go home.”

My mom picked me up, and delivered the news that Sarah had had an asthma attack at school and died. She had taken some aspirin which caused a freak asthma attack, and she didn’t have her inhaler with her. She suffocated to death in the school’s hall before anyone could figure out how to help. On the way home my mom and I stopped for nachos at Mr. Cooks. I couldn’t eat them. The cheese felt cold, like death. At twelve, I had no real way of understanding what had just happened, but I knew my connection to Sarah would never be tangible again.

Fifteen years later I was set to be married, and at the rehearsal dinner my dad gave a speech. He spoke about how he loved me and how happy he was for me. Then he pulled somethng out of a brown bag. It was the Mr. Zogg’s Sex Wax tank top. He had kept the damn thing for 15 years. “Brett, now that you’re getting married you can have as much sex as you want.  Just don’t rub this stuff on your penis. It hurts.

I had Sarah back. Proof that she had existed in my life.

When Brenda and I moved to the beach I began surfing in earnest. In some way I think the tank top t-shirt pushed me back towards the waves. 

Now most days before work I drive down to the beach wearing that t-shirt. I walk down to the waters edge with my 7′ 4” stick and rub sex wax all over the thing.   Then I go out into the waves and think about what really matters.

Driving Miss Brenda

August 16, 2008

Today we enjoyed an amazing beach sunset, and taught Anna how to drive.

She’s got a pretty heavy foot, but seems to be adapting well to the lack of power steering in the 63′ Ford Falcon convertible.  Gabe, don’t worry, we added collision to the policy and she’s asked to be enrolled in drivers ed next week. We’ll also be cutting the hair around her eyes, as she kept saying, “I can’t see shit.”



August 15, 2008

I’m allergic to nuts, shellfish, bananas and honey. It’s been this way since I was two years old. These allergies are not the worst thing to be born with, better than having a short leg or a siamese twin, but it’s pretty shameful being that I’m Cajun, and that Cajuns are known for being champion shellfish eaters.

Nuts make me throw up. It usually takes about twenty minutes after eating any sized portion of any nut for my projectile vomiting to begin. Almonds, cashews and pistachios are the worst. But I can eat peanuts, due to the fact that the peanut is actually a bean. Not many people know this fact, being that it’s a legume with the word “nut” in it’s name. Honey makes my throat itch like crazy, as do bananas.  

Eating shellfish will kill me, so I try and avoid eating the Red Lobster buffet. I can physically handle crawfish and crabs, but shrimp make my hands itch. I’ve also found that I can eat corn and potatoes that have been boiled with crawfish. None of this makes any sense to me and no doctor has ever been able to explain any of it. 

Today I decided to test my allergic limits once again, by eating a Bit-O-Honey. Immediately after eating the Bit-O-Honey I went to Wikipedia and found the following.

Bit-O-Honey first appeared in 1924 and was made by the Schutter-Johnson Company of Chicago,IllinoisUnited States.  The candy consists of almond bits embedded in a honey-flavored taffy which makes for a long-chewing candy.

Fuck. Those Bastards. It should be called Bit-O-Almond and Honey.  So I cursed myself for being stupid enough to eat something called Bit-O-Honey, but my thinking was that it was just a bit of honey. No one said anything about almonds. So now that I know it contains almonds, I’m waiting to barf. Ten minutes, nothing. Fifteen, nothing. No metallic taste in my mouth that signals something bad is about to happen. An hour, nothing. So I ate another Bit-O-Honey. And nothing happened.

Which leads me to the conclusion that I can eat Bit O Honey because it probably doesn’t contain jack. Almonds are expensive, honey is expensive, sugar and artificail flavorings are cheap. 

Shit, my throat just started to itch.

There’s this website

July 31, 2008

Where you can upload one of your favorite personal pictures and have it come back interpreted in porn.  It’s pretty amazing what the human race is capable of when porn stars band together with computer geeks. I mean, it’s a perfect match. Porn stars need the internet, and computer geeks need a way to get their rocks off. I chose a family photo because the juxtaposition just seemed right. If you’d like to make your own just visit

Looks like somebody’s got a case of the Mondays.

July 6, 2008

With the 4th of July weekend coming to a close I thought it would be fun to increase the unproductivity of America by offering up a fun and simple prank that I pulled a lot at my old job.

Go to work tomorrow and find a co-worker who you’d like to fuck with. That shouldn’t be hard. Now wait until they go to lunch or are away from their computer and have a seat at their desk. Take a screen capture of their desktop (Command, Shift, and the number 4 at the same time for Apple computers, print screen button for PCs) Now, place that screen capture of the desktop into a folder some place deep in their hard drive or in their photos folder etc. Next, take all the files from their desktop and move them into a file on your office’s server, or you can simply move them into some new remote file that you’ve created someplace on their hard drive that only you know where to locate. Title the folder “Looks like somebody’s got a case of the Mondays” or something fucked up like that.

 Now set the screen capture of the desktop (that you took earlier) as their desktop background. This will make everything look exactly as it was, but now none of their desktop will actually be there. (It’s just a photo of what it was)

Wait for the person to return and then watch them have a complete meltdown when they try to click on their destop files with no avail. Watch them reboot their computer countless times. Enjoy them cursing God and the IT department. Hear them bitching out Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and all that is corporate fucking America.

To finish the prank simply walk up to their cube, raise a coffee mug and say, “Looks like somebody’s got a case of the Mondays.”

Good times guaranteed. 

Please let me know how it turns out.

Note Bene: This can all be done it about two minutes. Just think about the steps before you sit down.

Faith Up.

June 28, 2008

On my last day of work I walked up to the elevator bank in the building and waited an eternity as always for the bell signaling the arrival of an upgoing elevator. Next to me stood a Puerto Rican man in his 40’s, dressed in khaki slacks, a braided black belt, and a button down floral silk shirt. His hair was black, slicked back with a sheen, and styled into the shape a perfectly crested wave that overhung his forehead. He looked at me and smiled as he  whistled in perfect harmony, the song “Patience” from Guns and Roses.

…little patience, mm yeah, ooh yeah,
Need a little patience, yeah
Just a little patience, yeah
Some more pati… (ence, yeah)
I’ve been walking these streets at night
Just trying to get it right (Need some patience, yeah)
It’s hard to see with so many around
You know I don’t like being stuck in a crowd (Could use some patience, yeah)
And the streets don’t change but maybe the name
I ain’t got time for the game
‘Cause I need you (Patience, yeah)
Yeah, yeah well I need you
Oh, I need you (Take some patience)
Whoa, I need you (Just a little patience is all we need)
Ooh, this ti- me….

As we boarded the elevator he continued, not skipping a beat and just as we reached the 7th floor, the doors opened and he finished the song. I smiled, and said, “Have a nice day.” He smiled back and said, with the conviction of a pope, “Have a nice life.”

New Haircut/Rough Trip

June 9, 2008

I got a haircut today, and when the stylist handed me the mirror to look at the back of my head I was reminded of this scar.

Since I don’t spend much time looking at the back of my head I often forget it’s there, but when I see it, I can’t forget how it got there.

It all went down in Juarez, Mexico, 1,159 kilometers due south of Denver. Ten and a half hours by car.

In 1997 I was attending college at the University of Denver. One morning myself and a group of friends decided to take an impromptu road trip. Juarez was the closest town we could find that was outside of the US, and it seemed like a great place to enjoy a little rest and relaxation from the “stresses” of white-collar college life. At the least we thought it would be a great town to find cheap beers and some easy prescription drugs. You know, those pills aren’t getting any cheaper, and we didn’t think taking a bus to Canada with a bunch of snow birds was going to be an awesome time.

We had a good crew. My roommate Fletch, my other roommate Ben, a cowgirl from Montana named Gia, Andrew from Tennessee, Boarts from Manhattan Beach, a girl who’d met Boarts at a party the night before (can’t remember her name), and Keith and his two buddies Ron and Mike who I didn’t know all that well. We packed up two cars and drove south with a map, some money and a bunch of weed that Ben had grown in our basement.  

After ten hours on the unremarkable I-25 we reached the border town of El Paso. El Paso smells like shit, literally. I think it’s because of the amount of cattle that’s transported through the town, and the amount of shit that cattle shit. It’s a town filled with truckers and truck stops and dirty bathrooms and a lot of dirt and crap. And shit. But we had booked the nicest hotel in the town. The Camino Real. Marble tables, jacuzzi tubs, a view of Juarez that was to die for, and air conditioning that seemed to filter out the cow smell. From our suite window we enjoyed a panoramic view of a million shanties strewn along a dirt hillside; as well the electrified barbed wire fence that seperated those shanties from our united states. When the sun went down, the thousands of twinkling light bulbs strewn from a single wire were reminiscent of a giant outdoor summer fistival. It was strangely alluring.

We walked across the border just after sundown. The border crossing was uneventful but as we entered the town of Juarez I felt a distinct sense of unease. A bunch of rich white kids walking into the one of the poorest, most murder-ridden, rape-infested towns in Mexico (remember to do good research before traveling). The locals looked at me with the eyes of townsfolk who were expecting wild bandits to ride into town at any moment. The good, the bad, and the ugly. We were all there.

Eventually we discovered a quaint town square with a bevy of innocuous white tables complimented with a pharmacy that was just around the corner. Easy drugs. Bottles of 100 count valium for $20, sheets of Rohipinal for $15.

Any place where you can buy enough date rape drugs for a year probably should tip you off to what’s about to happen. And I think that includes guys raping guys.

The night began with a traditional Mexican dinner and a table that grew increasingly crowded with Corona bottles that looked as if they’d been reused a thousand times. The Valiums we’d bought were also consumed at what Dr. Drew would consider an alarming pace. We thought it was pretty much par for the course. We were numb and content.  Juarez looked beautiful. As dinner was wrapping up, Fletch Mike and Ron, at the table next to us decided to split up a bottle of 100 Valium. Just as they were scooping up their shares two Federales took notice and came over. An argument began. None of us spoke very good Spanish and within seconds, the Federales were carting Fletcher, Ron and Mike off and threatening to do the same with the rest of us if we didn’t back off. So we did. I watched Fletch, Mike, and Ron walk away handcuffed, into the Mexican night.

From what we’ve gathered, this is what happened next.

First they were broght to a Mexican jail for interrogation. After this interrogation they were transferred to Juarez’s Cesaro “pound you in the ass” Prison where they were beaten, their clothing robbed, and I’m assuming made someone’s bitch. This all transpired in the first night. Three college kids who had everything, now had nothing. Not even the clothes on their back. In one year, eighteen inmates had been murdered in this hellhole. A prison built for 300 that now housed over 1,200 of the nastiest rapists, murderers, drug dealers and filth on earth. Fletch, Ron and Mike spent the next three months trying to stay alive.

Later that night I stumbled back towards the border in shock of what had just happened. Everything was cloudy. I stopped for a drink with Dycus at a bar called The Submarine. From there I somehow made it across the border and into our hotel room. Just as I walked though the door to our suite, I passed out and slammed my head on the corner of one of the marble coffee tables. The Valium helped shield the pain but when when Gia’s hand touched to the back of my head she felt a running river of blood.

 “Oh my God, you’ve gotta go to the hospital.”

We arrived at the hospital in a cab (the driver stole Gia’s wallet) and the doctors were not happy to see me. They took one look at the back of my head and decided that 6 huge cattle staples would be the right remedy for my night of stupidity. The staples were so thick that upon my return to Denver they had to be ripped out and replaced with stiches. I’m sure that’s why the scar is still there today. Just as the doctors were stapling my head shut, Ben walked into the room with a his hand wrapped in a towel, blood dripping from it.

Evidently, after I had left The Submarine, some marines from the El Paso US army base had decided to pick a fight with Ben in the bathroom. A bad choice. Ben is like a pitt bull. He looks like a pit bull. 6’2″, 230 pounds, with a nose that’s slightly upturned and a chin that looks like a concrete street curb. He’d taken the three highly testosteroned army newbies and used their heads to remodel the entire bathroom. Toilets smashed to rubble. Ben hid is bloodied paws in his coat pockets as he crossed back into El Paso and had ended up on a stretcher next to me.

The drive back was a mix between the joy of survival and the sadness of a loss of friends. I never saw Fletch, Mike or Ron again. My roommate and my two other friends had become a statistic that mothers fear most. After three months in Cesero prision the guys were brought to trial for distribution of narcotics. In Mexico they had two choices. 1. They could serve the time sentenced for the crime. In their case 3 years. Or 2. They could pay the equivalent of said sentence. In their case $150,000 a piece. Each of the boy’s parents took their college fund. The money that grandparents, parents and other loved ones had saved up to provide an education to get them out of Mexico and used it to grant their freedom. They never came back to the University of Denver. Their families couldn’t afford it. The money for education used on one lesson that will last me and those guys a lifetime.

Brenda says this story makes us seem like assholes. We were assholes. We were young and stupid and doing all the things that make me look back on this and think, “What the fuck were we thinking.”

We weren’t.

If I can pass on any good advice from this experiece it would be this.

1. Don’t vacation in Juarez.

2. Carry plenty of cash to pay off the Federales.

4. Canada is nice this time of year.