Photo by Grenade

You know, a few years back, I used to write what I called The Hangover Update, a random posting sent to various friends that enlightened all about the current state of my brain and rectum after a night of spirits.  Consequently, when the film The Hangover came out, everyone felt the need to contact me first and tell me how hilarious it is so we could compare favorite parts.  Unfortunately, I’ve yet to see it.  Everyone repeatedly seems disappointed.  I’m not sure why.

It’s not that I doubt its inevitable hilariousness or the endless amounts of quotes I’m sure to expect, but rather, I just didn’t have the same initial level of excitement.  See, movies are supposed to have a certain level of escapism.  Which is why I like James Bond movies.  That is some over the top stuff I can’t even dream of living.  For most people, this is true.  With The Hangover, for me, not so much.  I’ll get around to seeing it, but man, I’ve lived it.  Ya’ll act like I’ve never woke up in a room at a place I don’t really know wondering who the guy passed out on the couch with the funions is. One time I even woke up naked on the floor hugging a box of Cheez-itz.  Hell, I’ve woken up next to people I don’t really even remember meeting, never mind the time I had to jump from a second floor bathroom window to avoid a nutcase with a machete sized kitchen knife.

Unfortunately, today is one of the worst hangovers of my life.  The sad part is that its 7:00PM on Monday.  I gotta be honest, the events of the last four days are somewhat hazy.  I do remember taking two days off to head down to Cape Cod for some last minute boozing.  Like any good hangover, it started innocently enough with me playing a game of home run derby while drinking.  Now, some people mean that they drink and do things by meaning they drink between plays, etc.  Not yours truly, who managed to not make a single catch in the outfield by refusing to put my beer down.

Flash forward many drunken hours later and halfway through my cigar I’m realizing that not only did I smoke my cigar backwards, but I have this massive burning pain in my right arm that travels down my right side.  Eventually, I realize that I did not in fact light myself on fire as I initially thought and decide that I must be having some sort of mild heart attack.  I use this diagnosis to convince some girl I barely know to let me lie down in her room.  When she informs me that I can, but she’ll be kicking me out of the bed when she returns due to its small size, I promptly decide to go to bed on her floor, by sticking my head half under the mattress and the rest of my body resembling Stephen Hawking’s natural body posture.  I can’t believe no one even took a picture.

Somehow at 7AM I decided it was best to wake up and get myself some coffee and the houseful of people who took me in some donuts.  I think I was the most popular random drunk guy to still be at a party the next day.  Rather than go home after, I decide the best idea is to start drinking, hit the beach, and enjoy the Atlantic Ocean.  I’ll sum up that day with a valuable lesson; buoys marking ocean travel lanes were not meant to be swam to, no matter how good of an idea it seemed at the time.

Realizing that all my clothes are now wet, I search my car for the only attire I have available, dirty jeans, a hideous Hawaiian shirt lying in my back seat, and a Whalers hoodie.  Realizing that a hoodie in 80 degrees is just too awkward looking while rocking a Hawaiian shirt, I decide to ditch that.  Somehow sticking with the party, we venture to the downtown bars.  As the night before slowly catches up to the rest of the party, they make an early exit.

Unfortunately for my liver, my addictive personality just won’t let me quit.  So me and the one friend willing to stay out, but not still drink, call in reinforcements.  At this moment, I’ll think this is a great idea.  Two hours later, I’m at a seafood restaurant/karaoke bar, being dragged across the dance floor collar first by two clenched fists containing the retard strength of ten men connected to a “Sabretooth” (think cougar, but older, uglier, snaggletoothed, and way more likely to bring you to an end).  Taking this as a bad omen, I quickly bail as soon as a female distracts her.

One would think this would be enough drunken shenanigans and bad omens for one weekend.  Most people would have called it a weekend.  But I wasn’t about to go out like that.  8AM rolled around and I promptly drive my useless ass back from Cape Cod, stopping only for breakfast and more booze.  At 2PM, I hit a cookout, figuring the best way to quench my thirst and wipe out the headache is to sit in the sun and start downing LandShark.  Somewhere along the line, I’m drinking tequila and some sort of sweet rum out a 24oz can of Monster.  At daylight, I’m still awake and in the garage with of my friends.  After we ran out of booze and decided we had too much tequila, we very wisely decide to head back to her place, both nervously swerving to the side of the road as the State Trooper passes us.

By the time I come to and start heading home, my head kills, my vision is blurry, and my breath is even bothering me.  Realizing this is gonna get rough, I stop at the ghetto mini-mall down the street, grab a sub, an energy drink, and more booze.  Despite the beautiful weather, I wind up watching Die Hard in a basement dreading the next day at work.

When I wake up today, I’m disgusted by the stench of vomit.  After realizing that I didn’t actually puke, my conclusion is that my room and clothes smell of such a strong mixture of liquors that I’ve started to associate it with vomit. I do my best to look somewhat sober and fall into my car late.  At this point, I realize that I left my clothes from the ocean in the trunk of my car and the smell of wet, saltwater soaked clothes in 80 degree plus sunlight has filled my car.  By the time I get to work, no matter how much cologne I spray on me, I can’t shake the feeling I stroll through the front door smelling like Courtney Love’s vagina.

As the day goes by, things don’t appear much better.  By 11AM I’m getting odd stares as I double-fist a large, black ice coffee and a red bull.  I figure it’s the best way to keep me from passing out and whacking my head off my desk.  Lunch doesn’t help.   The combination in my stomach of leftover booze, energy drinks, and coffee doesn’t help hold the chicken sandwich.  I feel like I have two midget sumo wrestlers in my stomach and I suddenly have no body heat as I break out into a cold sweat.  Running to the stairwell to head to the bathroom, I let out a fart so painful and with so much force it feels like a prison assault. It echoes up the stairwell.

As I sit on the bowl with my head in my hands, pure concentrated evil the likes of which have only been chronicled in Ghostbusters 2 comes out of my rectum.  It takes five minutes of reading hockey news printouts before I feel well enough to stand up.  I check to make sure that Vigo is not in fact in the toilet and stroll out of the bathroom leaving that place smelling like pre-sewage system London.  It takes two more hours of cold sweat and no body heat trying to hide the fact that I’m playing sporcle and not answering my phone before I finally come to the conclusion that I’m doing no one any good, shut my computer off, and leave my cubicle.

The fact that its 80 degrees out does nothing to warm my car.  The stench of the sea does nothing to help my stomach on the ride home.  Sitting outside in the sun all day did not exactly did not help.  I struggle to hold back the vomit reassured by the fact that there can’t possibly be anything left in my stomach after the nexus of evil I left in the toilet.

I head home, stop in a store, buy Stepbrothers on DVD without looking at the price, convinced it’s of the same quality as Godfather Part II. I grab a  pepperoni pizza, and spend the next four hours watching the movie twice and chugging Mountain Dew.

I sit here wondering: why it is, after I’ve completely lost my soul, dignity, and morality, that you guys think I’ll be impressed by a movie where they’ve lost the groom?

Awhile back I had one of the most surreal experiences of my  life. Being a life long Bruins fan, and the fact that they managed to make it past the first round of the playoffs, I decided I needed to see at least one playoff game before I die. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that little thing called a ticket hold me back.

After spending hours at work failing to convince my alleged “diehard friends” to accompany me, I decided to fly solo and figure it out. Roughly twenty minutes before the puck dropped, I found myself without a ticket amongst scalpers willing to split up pairs.

I did what any diehard fan would do. I went to the infamous Penalty Box across from “the gahden”. Probably one of the few cash only bars left in Boston and the last refuge of the real fans. The ones who can actually name players behind Orr, Neely, and Bourqe. Gottta love a place where the door to the bathroom stall ends approximately ten inches above where the toilet seat sits. Women’s room too, but that’s part of another story.

So there I sat, broken hearted, drowning sorrows in two hands with Guinness and Jack Daniels. Down, but not out. I decided to bond with some A-rabs. Yep, that’s right. A-rabs. In an old ass, beat to shit hockey bar, three A-rabs just chillen’. Well, the situation just seemed to be too odd to ignore, so I bonded with them.

After a shot or three, they inform me they have an extra ticket to the game, and offer it to me for a couple bucks over face value. Feeling like this is Allah’s personal moment shining down on me, I promptly shell out cash, and proceed on my own personal Mecca to my seat, six rows from center ice. I then proceed to get absolutely shattered and quite loudly at that.

Somewhere along the line, I wanted to fit in with my fellow fans and opted to tie the plaid work shirt around my waist and buy myself a Terry “Tasmanian Devil” O’Reilly shirt.Unfortunately the only jeans I had in my car were ripped to hell and three years old. My hat, aged twice over. Consequently, I ended up looking like something thrown up by Seattle, circa 1992. Lord only knows what the sight of me, a fire lieutenant, and three A-rabs looked like on TV.

The next morning, the experience got even more surreal. Suddenly, I heard the phone go off and as I blinked my eyes open wondering where the stench of Jack Daniels was coming from (clearly my own aroma). The hangover hit me like a stampede of fat women charging a new Popeyes. I slowly recalled that I had agreed to go with the most recent ex to see the Dalai Lama at Gillette Stadium. Seeing as I had broken things off to “have some time alone and work on my drinking”, I imagine she was somewhat less than thrilled at the drunk who answered the door in a cold sweat, with a whalers hoodie, and a stench of liquor so bad I could fail a breathalyzer without actually blowing.

Despite this, I figured strolling to see the Dalai Lama at a football stadium after Allah getting me into a hockey playoff game was a good idea. The gods were shining down on me, but I was unprepared for what I was about to see.

I walked in to my own personal Simpsons episode, and the most surreal moment of my life.As we pulled up to the stadium, I saw a large blinking construction road sign that indicated, “Dalai Lama on the left, retail parking on the right.” After being directed to parking, I began my entrance into the stadium. Not only were they selling various books, clothing, and jewelry, but nachos and hot dogs as well. I wanted a t-shirt that said “Property of Buddha” or perhaps a foam finger that said “Lama Rama” or something of the like. Not since the sight of ATMs at Woodstock 99 have I seen unyielding power of commercialism invade a sacred event.

I even saw a fat woman leave half way through the Dalia’s lecture on freeing yourself from desire and material things, only to come back with a smoothie and fried dough.

Nothing like having the sight of the Dalia Lama wearing a Patriots hat interrupted by two fat cheeks waging their own personal war of yin and yang down the aisle as the buffalo that owns it goes back to her trough. The gluttony was yet to stop there.

The Lama, I must admit, is hilarious. The guy’s got a general upbeat outlook on life. He cracks a few jokes here and there and his mentality seems to be one of teaching people to look at themselves and be more tolerant. Nothing like watching a few yuppies and hippies ask him, “what one thing can we do to change the world?” and “how can we deal with all the bad things in this crazy world?” only get responses of “no one thing, world is really screwed up, many things” or “world not so crazy, we crazy, try to be more realistic and less crazy”. Of course I wasn’t completely fulfilled, I would have gone with a “lay off the fried dough slim tons and a shower wouldn’t hurt a few of you”. But hey, that’s just me.

The perfect ending to this unbelievably surreal experience occurred when I began making my exit from the stadium. As I strolled to my car, I witnessed a hippie, with prerequisite soul patch and accompanying douchebag ponytail, beep and raise his hands after jamming on the brakes of his rather large SUV to avoid running over a slim granola gal. Her response, the bird. Yep, the international “piss off” or “the highway salute”. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what the ol’ Lama meant in his speech about tolerance and living in a more simple manner.

And right about then, I was reassured in my believe that there is no hope for humanity as a civilization or a primal, post apocalyptic species. I promptly went home, went back into my basement, threw out more of my possessions, loaded up on liquor, and passed out dreaming about Thunderdome.

I’m 27 and I spent the better part of my life in an upper middle class home surrounded by the rich and middle class alike. So it was with much chagrin that I embarked on this project known as adulthood, bill paying, and technology sales.

I had spent the first several years of my post-college freedom having a pretend college isn’t over pity party and I was left without the all important safety net.  I had traded a foundation for booze, bud, and adventure.

It was all worth it. For a month or so. Then the long haul set in. For four months I lived the dirt poor life. Here are the things I learned.

Cans Are Pretty Worthless
When my wallet was fat and the bills were nil, I threw back quality brews like Sierra Nevada and Arrogant Bastard. The idea of drinking the canned swill that made me wake up with a fuzzy head and a blanket full of swamp gas seemed as unacceptable as Larry the Cable Guy.

When my two week budget was reduced to two digit numbers, I quickly regained my affinity for the can, under the inane rationalization that somehow I’d be getting some value back for all the slop I was slugging.  All I got was a pair of man-tits, some saddlebags, and, after every wasted weekend, enough money to buy the Post and a cup of coffee on Monday. If the environmental lobby really cared about recycling and the poor, they’d put a 25 cent stamp on those cans.  You know that homeless schmuck on your block pushing the garbage can? He’s angling for two Double Quarter Pounder with cheese meals at McDonald’s, a coffe, and the New York Post. There are no Aluminum Astors.

Nutrition is for the Wealthy
Certainly this is a point that’s bound to be disputed by the Brooklyn art set, but after six years of working in restaurants and dining on expense accounts, it’s not so easy to transition to beans, sprouts, and cheap tea.  After scoffing at obese poor people for years I quickly began to understand the method to their morbid obesity. Fatty food fills you up like nothing else, and on the cheap side, it can trigger a catatonic couch ride where the only thing you’ll be doing is watching cable television(or the bastard ass channel guide if you’re unable to pay that bill, teasing you with some obscenely good movie schedule that only exists when you’re out of service!).  You can only eat tuna so often before you get sick of it, but those free donuts at your office can fill you up until at least 4 o’clock. The high quality cuisine of the poor man is peanut butter and jelly with bananas, and spaghetthi with store brand marinara. A Baconator washed down with a Slurpee is the dinner of kings.

Material Possessions Ship Well
When your paycheck isn’t cutting it and you don’t want to resort to the bank of mom, look to your possessions. My library lined the walls like asbestos in NYC elementary schools. When the bills came knocking, manila shipping envelopes stripped me of my books like Strip Tease stripped Elizabeth Berkley of her dignity. I shipped off 90% of my library. The only reason I didn’t ship it all was because people weren’t interested in copies of The Nazi Germany Source book or beat up copies of Tropic of Cancer. I was left with a collection more paltry than NYC’s public library. I don’t think I could have sold those books to the homeless as kindling; either way, I wouldn’t find out because my bills were paid for that month.

Your Parents Love You Again
When I moved out my parents saw right through the whole freedom and maturity thing. I wanted to drink without being asked if I planned on driving somewhere in the next century. I wanted to wake up in the morning and smoke pot while watching Sports Center. I wanted to fornicate loudly without being walked in on and utterly emasculated.

When I walked in to my parent’s house for a home cooked meal they knew exactly what was up. There was no money for booze and bong hits.  Women are not attracted to the gaunt fellow with his pockets turned out and the Natty he snuck into the bar.
All of a sudden I was mommy’s little boy again and my dad couldn’t wait for me to go to church with him or talk about how Hollywood is full of soft nancy boys. They knew I needed their bucks and so there I sat, watching Steven Segal movies and listening to the hot church gossip.

You Can Live on Twenty Dollars For Two Weeks…

Assuming you work in an office and have more than a half a tank of gas, it is entirely possible to get by on this paltry sum.  I had three days worth of one meal in my refrigerator, some canned beans, one can of soup, and a few boxes of spaghetti. Some dubious bread, some passable jelly, and a big jar of peanut butter.  That added up to two weeks worth of dinner.

I still had a job and a suit that separated me from the homeless methadone addicts outside of my office, and so I still had access to an endless supply of watercoolers.  My hunger lead to a quick discovery: a half dozen cups of water an hour is both an extremely cleansing and extremely filling experience.  For lunch, a banana downstairs cost 75 cents if it looked a little dubious, and that, coupled with the free flatbread that they hand out would get me on the train, in a malnourished slumber, at 6 o’clock.

My social life was equally as ghetto.  With my supply of cans and my bank account equally pathetic, I turned to old, reliable two for four dollar Budweiser 40 ouncers.  I would chug as much as I could and put the cap back on and re-fridge it for the next night. I couldn’t even afford the luxury of pouring a single drop in memory of my dead homies. Even worse, I’d follow up said blasphemy by being the skeevy guy who shows up at parties without bothering to ask “you want some money for this beer?” Nope. Just slugged ‘em back in the corner hoping my financial situation would improve before people started referring to me as Dirtbag Bob.

Ultimately I made my way out of the financial doldrums. A loan from a mom, a loan from my grandma, and a sugar mamma girlfriend who refused to accept Ritz crackers and Carlo Rossi on the couch as “a night out on the town” helped me get my sad little act together and now I can proudly say that I one day look forward to having a bank account more substantial than my nickle collection.

Anyone got a quarter to git me started?

After graduation the last thing you think about is health insurance. That is, until you get sick. I’ve been working without health insurance for over two years and it has taught me a few tricks. Fortunately, the only pharmacist I see these days has his office on the corner of a shady block while hanging out with girls whose first names end in “iqua.”

We all had insurance in college because it came with tuition. Once I graduated, I had a false sense of security like when white guys think they could never get AIDS because their method of prevention before raw dogging a girl is asking if she ever slept with a black guy.

Recently, I was invited to a party at a friend’s place in Brooklyn. Wet behind the ears, I ventured to the land of hipsters. After the usual conversational bullshit, I was lured to the beer pong table the same way cokeheads have an instant attraction to tables with mirrors. The cups were already setup due to a pongflare. We loaded up and I brought more heat than a broken thermostat. Three games later, I was usurped by someone with state schooling but it couldn’t have come at a better time because women were starting to show up.

Unfortunately, hipster women are like a mixed bag of Hershey’s fun size bag minis. The Krackle and Good Bars are few and generally spoke for while the Plain Chocolates show up in mass amounts. The Dark Chocolates are left for the end of the night when you’re too drunk to tell the difference between nuts or rice but want some chocolate anyway.

Speaking of dark chocolate, I met a girl who wanted me to guess her name and instantly I thought about picking one of the hood rats my street pharmacist bangs. I shouldn’t have entertained this behavior because guessing names is for children but people were surrounding us as if I was in for a real treat. I guessed Michelle. She said her name was Obama. That was the extent of our conversation. My only thought was if Obama didn’t get reelected, she might as well off herself. I can only imagine twenty years from now, this trick’s husband would be introducing his wife and someone will reply, “Your wife was named after that black President?” I fixed myself something stronger and went to the balcony for a smoke. Little did I know I was being followed.

If you are ever given a choice between going downstairs or out to the fire escape for a smoke, get walking because anything short of a fire means you don’t have an escape route on a fire escape. As soon I lit up, a loose hygiene hipster approached me for a drag. He said he had been trying to quit. I knew he couldn’t afford cigarettes, let alone soap. I let him have a drag and he bored me about his dream to become a musician. I would have passed on the small talk but people who ask something from you have the self absorbed delusion to think minor conversation is an equal quid pro quo when in reality it is a waste of time. The rest of the night cycled through the same. Beer pong, boring people, and cigarettes on the fire escape fueled with beer until I woke up the next morning.

As you get older you get familiar with your body. You know when it works and when it does not. I woke up hung over as shit but something else wasn’t right. I was sick. I started to cycle through my night as to how this could possibly happen. I know I didn’t hookup because there was no one blowing me for breakfast. Nobody looked sick at the party. Sure some of them dressed funny, but it was hardly an excuse for being sick.

Then it sunk in – the beer pong and the shared cigarettes. If you don’t have insurance, you shouldn’t play beer pong. A mediocre night resulted in something I knew could be a throat infection. I ran to the medicine cabinet the same way women do to hide the crab cream. I took the typical drug cocktail – naproxen and vitamin C. I put on the teapot because I knew I would need to burn down this crap coating my throat. Doctors always recommend the salt water gargle but I had learned a thing or two from this kind of risky behavior. In addition, I grabbed a tea bag. If you add tea to the salt water mix it assists in opening and cleaning your throat. This was the climax of my fight back to healthy living. I needed water to flush out my system so I bought a one liter bottle and filled it with menthol cough drops. After sipping on it and keeping regular on my over the counter drugs, I was better by Monday morning. And that is how you get better when you’re sick without insurance. Seems quick? It’s because it works faster and harder than third world country kids who are eager to take your job for half the cost and one day weekends.

If you have any of your own home brewed remedies – feel free to share them in the comments section.

Photo by pusgums

Well, apparently Part 1, despite its overwhelmingly successful response, was unsuccessful in landing me a pad. You’d think people would be a little more caring to a guy whose current neighbors consist of an eighteen year old girl that runs her boyfriend(s?) over about once every other week and an old drunk that pretty much routinely bangs every party gal in a one mile radius in the back of his Caddy. I’m guessing his wife knows, just doesn’t give a shit. When I jog past her and she waves, somehow I feel an urge to get the fuck outta there and run Forrest run.
So on to Part 2.

Roommates. Now, it’s not so much that I’m extraordinarily uptight or picky, but rather I think some of the people I’ve run into are just not a good match, and some, what one would call “a douchebag”.

Like the guy who canceled on me and tried to reschedule because his date was so “hawt” that he dumped his girlfriend. If you’re wondering why I didn’t call you back, it’s one, because you’re a dickbag, and two, because I would inevitably come back shitrocked only to listen about how you miss the girl you dumped because she liked reverse cowgirl and gave blowjobs. My response would have probably have been something along the lines of, “you’re fucking depressing me, you’re killing my buzz, and you’re making me wish for a time before booze, sixth grade and the days of Nintendo”. And you probably would have punched me in the face.

And then the responses from alleged “drinkers” who have bragged about puking, and puking often. Look, drink fucking gasoline if you want, I don’t give a shit, but don’t brag about frequent puking you goddamn amateurs. Drinking and puking is like throwing an interception. Ya, we all know it happens, but realistically, you’re letting the team down and now everyone else has to deal with your mistake. Know what happens to a QB who throws too many interceptions? The bench. Puking should be reserved for those long, drunken nights after someone you realize you actually liked dumps your ass. That’s it.

Vegans- Well, you’re vegan, that’s great. Noble even. Still not sure what the fuck that really means or how much different it is from being a vegetarian. I could probably just wikipedia it, but to be honest, I simply don’t give a shit. You could just simplify it say “I’m vegetarian” because regardless of the differences, people will still react the same, in their minds; “Oh, odd hippie, got it”.

And to be honest, I like meat. Mostly chicken and cows. Yep. That’s right, eat that shit right down. Love fried chicken. Buffalo sauce too. Hell, maybe I am a vegetarian since I’m not too sure that the meat that makes it to the store was originally a chicken anyway, but fry that shit up and it’s tasty enough. Could be Soylent Green, who cares. And cows, let’s be honest, if we didn’t eat them, what else what they do? Imagine if they could talk? “Hey cow, whatcha doing today?” Cow: “Oh, I don’t know, probably stand around an shit”. Let’s be honest, if God didn’t mean for these things to be eaten, he wouldn’t have made them loaded with meat and lazy.

Musicians- it’s not so much that I’ve got anything against them, but if you’re going to rock out, at least be able to really rock out. Don’t suck. And replacing the typical living room with a drum set just scares the shit out of what a possible Sunday afternoon hangover could be like. If you like to play a little bit of guitar on a random afternoon and are good at it, great, but please, don’t have a soul patch. It pretty much says, “I don’t want to get laid”. Or possibly even, “I’ll lick your heels and you can use a strap-on”.

Druggies- To the druggies who contacted me: Look, I don’t care what you do behind your closed doors, I’m not really that judgmental, but just because I don’t really care if you sniff paint, eat glue, or make muffins mixed with chemicals under the sink doesn’t mean I fantasize about dangling dimebags of blow in front of chicks to get laid. Booze is enough of a vice for me. Christ, I once drank the majority of two thirty packs on a camping trip. My head barely recalls the pain, but my ass sure does. I dropped a deuce in a New Hampshire Dunkin’ Donuts so bad I’m pretty sure there’s a wanted poster there with a security cam mug shot of me. I don’t even want to imagine what me on drugs would be like.

Oh, and I know you probably missed the new “the more you know” commercial, but it generally cautions about randomly emailing people on craigslist to discuss drugs. Not the brightest.

Sustainability people- Great spirit, but you really need to watch Terminator 2. Arnie’s speech on the self-destructive nature of humans is pretty on point. The only way to sustainability for the earth is to wipe out the human race. But don’t worry, ol’ Kim Jong Il is already way ahead of you guys on that.

Yuppies- Yuppie people that have contacted me or repeatedly post, well, the short answer is, “we’re not a match”. Or go to a “benefit” which usually involves girls with annoying voices and shoes reminiscent of elf shoes babbling on about nonsense while guys that talk on the real world make me wonder why suicide is a crime.

Oh, and the one really cool chick who did contact me but the room was slightly more than I was looking to pay for considering my desire to leave my corporate job for something that pays less and is inherently more badass, you were damn cool. If you’re single, keep that attitude and have some standards. You’re a rarity.

So what I would like in apartment:

Washer/dryer, water, electricity, some level of parking (I don’t expect a convenient spot reserved but Christ an ability to park in a neighborhood that doesn’t require greasing a smart car like trying to get a fat woman through a door in order to parallel park). Relatively close to the T.

Why I’d make a good roommate: I’m relatively clean, mostly because I’ve been getting rid of all my material possessions. I’m the best weekend functioning drunk you’ve ever seen. My random benders are bound to consistently lead me on a variety of adventures that will give you the place all to yourself (Yes, I have woken up in other states at some points). No pets. Steady job, making probably more than I should. Excellent credit. No girlfriend, no crazy exes, and hell, don’t even get laid often (after reading this, shit, would you sleep with me?). So you won’t even have to deal with loud bouts of random sex after the bar. Bathe daily (twice if I ran that day). You’d think this should be a given, but you never know. My amazing asshole abilities will quickly drive away any annoying potential romance prospects that you quickly realize you do not want around. Oh, and last, but not least, no kids (that I’m aware of). Just kidding.

PS

At the rate my personality is going, ya’ll should be prepared to tune in about 2-3 weeks from now for Part 3.

Photo by fergusonphotography

It was a mere two years ago that I was enrolled in a state university. Although I could punt a medium sized animal farther than the distance between my parents’ house and the campus, I was legitimately making attempts to grow the fuck up.

I survived one year. Consider that claim lightly stated. No more than five days stood between each panic attack and I spent the equivalent amount of time at home as I had when, well.. when I lived there my whole life previous.

Upon erratically informing my parents I was moving to New York City they smirked and bid me farewell. Considering I was the girl who was too afraid to drive on the highway and who couldn’t order her own food at a restaurant, I knew that they expected me back home, shit in my terrified little panties within the week. Fuckers!

As a tribute to my doubtful parentals, I present the following. I ain’t got no college degree but dang I’m a city girl- a classy one I might add.

What I’ve learned in New York City: the most important lessons thus far.

If you show your vagina you will get paid.

The Homeless are people too. Lack of a private habitat does not and will not interfere with masturbation. On public transportation.

Anything can be turned into a bong.

Never mention ‘queefing’ on a date.

“I think you’re amazing and I can’t wait to see you again,” translates literally to: “Glad we fucked. I will now ignore you forever.”

In a recession it is not uncommon to see many pretty girls making out with old rich men at bars.

Managers will pass out coke on dead nights in the restaurant. (Mom, I’ve never tried it, don’t worry.)

You will be cast as the lead in a movie if you’re willing to orally manipulate the penile apparatus.

If you fall asleep on the train late night, you are susceptible to getting a smelly homeless backpack to the face.

“HUGE SPACIOUS ROOM FOR RENT” means ‘if-you-fart-in-this-apartment-building-everyone-will-know-because-we-are-so-cramped room for rent!’

Being a friendly waitress inherently means you’re interested in a threesome with your ugly, old guests.

Unsure if you should lose some weight? Go to a casting, they will let you know.

“Your baby is so adorable! I am going to steal her!” could be considered a legitimate threat and it is not uncommon to see a mother quickly gather her child and run.

Be careful what you read on the train- old Asian women will call you out and publicly deem you perverted. (I swear it was a play on words and legitimately had nothing to do with ‘blow jobs’.)

Do not say the word ‘uterus’ in a text message to a guy you like.

Keep your room clean! Perhaps during a one-night-stand someone might put your undies from the floor on his face. A dirty thong doesn’t consequent a happy face.

I will never find a normal man in the city.

Tits= talent.

I do not have tits.

I have 7 dollars currently in my bank account.

I’ve come a long way from the silly, nervous little New Hampshire girl I once was. Although you had little or no faith in my ability to live on my own, Mom and Dad- I can feel how proud you are when I call home to indirectly ask for more money. Your baby is growing up!

Hello, my name’s Sax, and I have a Facebook addiction.

Like oh so many of my Internet brethren, I spend far too much time on the ‘book. I don’t even know why, but dozens of times a day, I feel compelled to peruse the site. Sure I’m creepin’ pics a good deal of the time, but sometimes I’ll just go into a daze, staring blankly at status updates of people I don’t even remember. Five minutes later, I’ll do it again. I often find myself clicking on the Notifications button, just to make sure Mark Zuckerberg didn’t forget to let me know that somebody I’ve never met also commented on a photo that I commented on. Then I’ll check my profile a few times, as if I don’t already know that my favorite movie is Dirty Dancing.

At first Facebook was just a little treat, something I could indulge in after finishing a long paper or while taking a real good poop. But before long, I would wake up in a cold sweat, desperately yearning to check out all my friends’ bumper stickers for a hearty dose of nostalgia, kittens, and pedophile jokes. Now Facebook has become a part of every waking minute, which led to some family tensions when I “poked” grandma. If I’m away from my computer, sometimes I’ll start making the Facebook Chat message noise with my tongue just to calm myself down.

Friends and family have intervened, telling me to just delete my account. I know people who’ve done this and are better because of it, but alas, I lack their fortitude. I went a day and a half without checking Facebook once, but now I owe my roommate another cat and I’m legally required to use safety scissors.

Since I failed at going cold turkey, I tried to come up with a way to wean my Facebook addiction over time. I’ve realized that the thing that keeps me coming back is the knowledge that there are countless pictures, videos, wall posts and profile updates to be read. The solution? Get rid of my Facebook friends! I’ve tried to delete some of them myself, but I struggle with removing even the bowlegged girl from middle-school as a friend… I get a case of the Facebook shakes and just can’t follow through with canning them. It seems that her Gilmore Girls quotes just mean too much to me. Because of this, I can only hope that my myriad friends start removing me, eventually leaving me with such an empty shell of a Facebook experience that my addiction will fade away. Lucky for me, Facebook provides countless ways to alienate your friends in hopes of getting them to never want to e-contact you again. Here’s just a small cross-section of tricks I’ve used to help me cope.

1) Thankfully, the Zuck recently upped the potential for passive aggression on Facebook big time with the “Like” tool, which allows you to give a cute lil’ thumbs up to pictures, status updates and so forth, displaying something like, “Sax Jazzarello likes this” for all to see. Seems pretty innocuous, doesn’t it? Well sure it’s innocuous… until you put it in the hands of a guy whose only Facebook interest is “Schadenfreude”.

The beauty of the Like tool lies in the fact that most people on the internet incessantly bitch and moan about how sad they are, writing things like, “Denny desperately wants these emotions to end”. When I see stuff like this, I give ‘em the thumbs up, leaving Denny shocked, puzzled, and sadder than ever.

“Gunther feels like crap”. Well yeah, probably because you’re named Gunther. You know what’s gonna make you feel even crappier, G-spot? I like this!

“Gibbons is sitting in the emergency room waiting to get his hand stitched up since he sliced it open on a can of beans”. Bloody thumbs up, Gibbons (And props to you for getting blood all over your new iPhone, sucka)!

“Amanda left the group ‘Never Forget 9/11’”. Amanda’s a terrorist now, and I Like that.

“Keely wants to know if anybody has a swine flu vaccine” I’m afraid I don’t, Keely, but if laughter is the best medicine, I could probably cure swine flu (and AIDS, for that matter) just by reading your status. Here’s a well-earned thumbs up.

Hopefully the twisted, ironic Like will teach these assholes not to fuel my addiction.

2) It’s likely that many of your friends have similar updates about the same thing. I like to take this opportunity to make my own updates that completely fly in the face of everybody else’s. Take, for instance, the fact that Anoop Desai, an alumnus of my college, made it to one of the final rounds of American Idol. I don’t care about American Idol in the least, but that won’t stop me from trying to alienate some people. Here are some status updates from several people at my school, with mine mixed in. See if you can guess which one it is!

“I’m so prouddddd of you Anooppppp!”
“Anoop is the bestttttt ”
“EVERYBODY VOTE FOR ANOOP NEXT WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK”
“ooOoooohhh baby, anoops makes it to the top 9!”
“HEY ANOOP, FUCK YOU”

3) Now here’s something for the lovebirds in us all. As you may know, if you set your relationship status as “In a relationship with Monique Foody”, then Ms. Foody will first get a message asking her to verify that the two of you are in fact in a relationship. Now think about how great it would be if Monique Foody were one of those “wait, how the hell do I know this person?” friends. She’ll think you’re a creepy creepster and de-friend you immediately – mission accomplished.

Think about all the possibilities! You can say you’re married to the guy who attended some conference with you back in high school and haven’t seen or heard from since; it can be complicated with the girl you’ve never met but friend-ed anyway because her last name is “Plunger”; you can say you’re engaged to the sexy Asian girl from high school (and pray that she accepts); or you can start an open relationship with your mom’s best friend, though she probably doesn’t know how to un-friend people since she’s old, so that could be a waste of time.

BONUS! If you’re in a real relationship on Facebook, you’ll have to end that before you start a new one. Ideally, your significant other will get extremely pissed and unfriend you! It’s okay, because they suck anyway.

4) You know that feeling when you check your email and see that somebody’s tagged a photo of you when you weren’t expecting one? It feels pretty good as you excitedly follow the link to see what the mystery picture is, doesn’t it? Well imagine how quickly you’d turn sour if you saw that the picture was none other than this:

Tagging people in this photo is like stabbing them in the heart, and using Comic Sans MS font is like squeezing lemon juice all over the cut.

I employed these techniques for a while,  and I’m afraid to say that I didn’t lose a single Facebook friend. It seems that I’m not the only one who can’t commit to ditching my e-friends. That’s not to say that I’m suffering from the same addiction. In fact, I no longer get much pleasure out of just mindlessly zoning out on Facebook for days. Instead, I can’t log on without being overcome with the urge to ruin as many peoples’ days as possible.

It seems I’ve gone from caffeine to heroin.

Nothing is more enraging than environmentalists today. As some have fought the war on terror abroad, these “green soldiers” (hippies, vegans, general lame asses) have taken it upon themselves to fight the war on global warming. They have been pushing their crappy agenda and lifestyle on others for years now. Along with recycling and saving the environment, they want us all to get along and be nice to one another. That’s where I draw the line. Being green shouldn’t have anything to do with being nice. You can save the earth and still be a jerk!

Recycling
The forefront of this war on global warming is all about recycling. These bastards yammer on the importance of recycling like abusive dads hammer on their infant kids. They claim it’s to help preserve this earth. It doesn’t make sense since recycling machines also consume power but let’s pretend it’s practical. Grab your beer cans and make your way down to the recycling center. If one of these hippies should compliment you on your “part,” tell him you’re going to use your refund money to fuel the Hummer you drove in and spray the air with vintage cans of hairspray you bought off E Bay. Let’s see if they can put that in their bowl and smoke it.

Plastic Bags
We’ve all been grocery shopping. When you come home, you have the stuff you want and a whole crap load of bags that you would never use on a daily basis. Plastic bags are book bags for kids getting their G.E.D. Unless you’re that much of a failure that you couldn’t pass high school, you don’t need the extra junk in your life. Carrying your quart of milk and store brand frosted flakes doesn’t require a bag. If you decided to pop for the mac and cheese, it is a lot easier to use your book bag than to deal with useless plastic. Of course you don’t need to be told about being sensible. However, should someone comment you on your green effort, be sure to tell them you are fully stocked on plastic bags that you plan on dropping off individually in the infant ward at the local hospital. That should crap in their twiggy cereal.

Bio Degradable Waste
Greenies are all about compost piles and other ways to get rid of disposable waste. You would never catch them shitting in their compost pile – apparently that is still taboo. You will catch them suffering diarrhea of the mouth with pride about how they are making an effort. If you want to seal their red eyed mouths shut, tell them you dispose of your bio degradable waste because you’d rather not deal with the low rent assholes that work at major home repair shops. One of them claims that “you can do it, we can help” but they forgot to mention that they will only help you if the boss is around or you can catch them while they purposely ignore you. Another claims “let’s build something together,” but forgets to mention that something is a giant warehouse of apathy towards life. Either way, you’re not serving some crappy chain with your patience and wallet. To hell with you both! I’ll find those damn quarter inch screws on my own.

All these tree hugging fools deserve to be fed acorns sprinkled with cyanide. The way they preach about helping Mother Nature is complete nonsense. If anything, people should be at odds with Mother Nature. After all Mother Nature is a terrorist! When Katrina happened, people blamed the weathermen for not warning them in time. If anything, it was Mother Nature’s fault for being such a bitch. You don’t have to be green to do that tramp a favor. And you don’t have to serve people’s hippie bullshit either. Recycle, reuse and abuse -also be sure to punch a baby and scream racial epithets as well!

Another monday, another kick in the fricken nuts.

Trying to make my peace with the fact that this, like all mondays, royally sucked. I drove home through an extra half hour of stop and go traffic, only to take five minutes to park when I got to my place. This is primarily because the fucking Yeti that lives across from me needed a whole five minutes to waddle her giant ass across the street. There I sat, my car idling, burning off more gas as her two cheeks ebb and flow against each other with the biggest series of retreats and advances since D-day. At $2.79+ a gallon, that bitch owes me at least an ice coffee. And I know she likes Dunks.

My current area sucks so much I couldn’t even sleep off the hangover I got this weekend from boozing everywhere in Boston but my place. Ever try and sleep off a hangover only to fail because one neighbor is busy loudly fucking anyone but his wife and your other neighbor, the 18 year old jailbait, is in the process of running her boyfriend over again? Christ I wish I made that shit up.

Man I knew I needed a change, but I didn’t think it was this bad until I convinced some kind gal to let me crash at her place for the weekend not for the purpose of getting laid, but rather something more along the lines of, “look, I’m a drunk, I hate my place and my area, and I just don’t want to go home”.

And it’s not like I’m going to fall into a relationship and take that all important trial step of moving in. Let’s be honest, drunken underachievers just don’t rate as high as they did in 1940. Hell, to be married by now I’d have to go back to the days of pre-arranged Indian marriages. Even then my parents would probably have had to pay a hefty fee to convince someone to shack their daughter up with Ol’ “Smells Like Firewater”.

But apparently I guess I’m just too much of a dickbag to find a roommate. I mean, I get the fear of living with a moderate drunk and the general assumption I wouldn’t pay the bills because of said alcoholism. Trust me, I’ve been at this since like age 17 and I’ve got a credit rating in the 700s. Why the hell is it hard to find like minded people? Hell, all I meet are yuppies and vegans. What the fuck is a vegan anyway? Is that like a less energetic or strict vegetarian? Fucked if I know, nor do I care. Not sure I’d make it a communal household anyway. I don’t think strolling in on a sunday with, “hey guys, got beer and wings!” would go over too well.

I don’t know, all things considered, can’t say I’m the worst potential roommate. Christ, there’s some gal out there who specifically requests no snoring although if you’re nose is dry or you have a cold, that’s ok. Gee, that’s real fricken kind of you sweetheart, don’t let your heart fall out of your chest. And then there’s the guy looking to fill a place for June 1st. Yep, and I’m still hoping the Bruins win the next series.

I need a fucking change. Or Jesus in my life.

The bar scene changes nightly, but you can always expect to run into one of these five people. They can either enhance or ruin your night.  So whetheryou’re a guy or a girl, we’re here to  provide you with a short summary of what each one of these people will mean to you should you decide to partake in the pleasure of your their company.

Striped Shirt Guy

We’ve all read about the striped shirt but with today’s crazy fashions, the striped shirt guy might be the type to rely on when things get ugly or the night gets late.

To Guys:
If you aren’t wearing one yourself, you can always rely on these guys to act civil. Some of them might be cock blockers, but on the whole they are always down for random commentary/cheers. You can expect striped shirt guy to get cozy with you by the end of the night. This signifies he has struck out and it looking for any company. If you feel you’ve gotten too friendly, you can always throw in a “no homo” for your safe measure.

To Girls:
These guys are as reliable as their wardrobe. Everything about them is average; whether personality, looks, or financial status. You can easily take any one of these guys home without judgment (even Jesus approves!) Striped shirt guy takes what he can get while paying for it. They will buy you a drink and not slip anything in them.

The Short Big-Tittied Girl

This is the shortest girl out of any crew of girls. She lets it all hang outside, whether it’s her commentary on people or her breasts. She may class it up and put the ladies away from time to time but you know they are there, like dark colored folk in the night.

To Girls:
If you’re her friend, you’re in the clear. If not, she will not hesitate to call you a bitch to your face. The short big-titty girl never roams alone and some of her friends are hood enough to come after you. If you’re her height, try the other end of the bar. If you’re taller, try not to rest your drink on her head or you might find yourself at her eye level.

To Guys:
This girl is a firecracker. Her fuse matches her height and she won’t take shit from nobody. If you can’t hang with her attitude, you won’t be able to hang with her. This girl will expect you to keep the conversation flowing like the drink you will have to buy her. Pay to play and you might find yourselves with some titties in ya face!

The Meathead

This is the guy who spent too much time in the gym during high school to try to eliminate the pain of elementary school. You can tell he spent his later years working out by how small his ears are. If they are disproportionate to the body, molestation/broken family is the case.

To Guys:
This guy is nothing but trouble. If you’re not rolling with him, he will not hesitate to roll up to you and try to fight. You can find the Meathead hanging with other meatheads in what is called a bro-curve. They will wear brands like Affliction and Ed Hardy. They don’t take compliments at all. Unless you have coke or more steroids, these tards don’t want you standing in the way of them pounding shots of Jack and sipping on Bud Lights. They go out with the purpose of making others feel like crap so they can brag to their boys in between sets at the gym during the day and again at night between bouts of raging gay sex.

To Girls:
Erectile dysfunction. Steroids are a bitch, aren’t they?

The Semi-Chunk/Pretty Girl

This is the girl who almost always wears a black top with blue jeans. That is how she hides it till you lose your fingers in her rolls like a baker does with fresh dough.

To Girls:
You are probably bringing one of these girls to the bar with your other lady friends. She will probably do a decent job of bringing guys around and drinking like one of the dudes. She is not afraid to get low and you look much prettier next to her. You’ll be talking about the next morning with sentences starting like “I just liked how (Insert girl’s name) was so crazy last night… blah blah”

To Guys:
This girl will buy her own drink. She is not afraid to buy you a drink either. She has the tolerance of a fish and expects the same from you. The goal is to NOT hook up with her. She is easy to hook up with at the end of the night because she turns into a prom queen that will blow you. The temptation is easy to let her snack on your meat while you watch like a voyeur to your own penis. Stay focused! Swim upstream like the salmon you are because if you can hang with her, you shall enter the promise land of her much hotter friends who will be clawing at you bear style.

Me

Your lovable lanky bastard scented with the slight smell of cigarettes, curry, and deodorant. If can’t smell me, you will hear my nonsensical screams consisting of either “what?” or “my dick hurts!”

To Guys:
I rock the jeans with the converse so don’t worry if you step on my shoes. I’m looking to pirate cheer with anyone willing to get as mangled as me. If you can hang and keep my interest (no homo), then I’ll even buy you a drink so we can both get trashed on our way to Mangladesh (being drunk)

To Girls:
The best conversation you’ll ever have with a stranger. Setting myself up for disappointment? Perhaps, but it won’t compare to what is coming your way should you take me home for a night of boom boom in yo’ room. Two minutes of mind blowing pleasure with added tears for lubrication.

Be sure to keep this article in your back pocket. You and your friends could spot the trends and avoid (or approach) as necessary. If there are any people I missed, feel free to tell us about them in the comment section. We respond faster than pregnancy tests.