The purpose of my blog is to comfort the fucked up. When one feels their life is beyond fucked up, turning to my ramblings should bring a sense of normalcy to your waste of life. Let's face it, I'm way more fucked up than you are. If by chance you find your life has become what you perceive to be more fucked up than mine, please turn to my emergency fucked up person suggestion – Mackenzie Phillips.
Help me out here, but would Mackenzie just over dose already? It's next to impossible to find someone more fucked up than her. She makes Charlie Manson seem like a Paw Ingalls. I still think Paw was slipping Half Pint his meat, Mary saw so he poked her eyes out, but that is a whole other story.
Last evening while making a taco pie, one of those Hollywood rag shows was on the television. Headlining was that Mackenzie is checking herself into the Celebrity Rehab cable series. First, that's not rehab nor is structured like a reputable rehab. Second, does anyone care if Mackenzie Phillips even lives? So her father got her hooked on drugs at an early age – get over it. Worse shit has happened to people out in the world and they have managed to move on. Elisabeth Fritzl's father locked her ass in a basement for 24 years and knocked her up seven times. We don't have to watch her ass on Oprah – she's moved on.
I'm not doubting Mackenzie's story about fucking her father. They were both fucked up and am sure it seemed cool to them at the time. What pisses me off is after Papa Phillips is six feet under, the whore then writes a book about her “rape”. It wasn't rape – she admits she consented yet still wants to call it rape. Shit doesn't work like that. Then her douche crap about aborting their “love child”. Just listening to the shit come out of her mouth makes me want to tie a buzz on. Bottom line is once he died her gravy train was cut off. Mackenzie really never did fuck with her life and lived off his coin. Obviously what money she got from her memoirs of sex with daddy didn't last long. Sadly Celebrity fake Rehab is willing to throw some coin her way now. What will this junkie come up with next?
Next time you're feeling like a major fuck up, take a moment and answer the following questions:
1. Did you do a lot of drugs and fuck Mick Jagger?
2. Did your dad listen as Mick Jagger fucked you?
3. Did you do a shit load of drugs, fuck your father, then tell Oprah?
4. Are you white? If so Oprah does not care about you.
5. Did you go on Oprah after you wrote a book about fucking your father while on drugs?
6. Is Oprah a fat racist pig? Oh, and did you fuck your father and then have an abortion?
7. Why the fuck is Oprah even on television?
After really giving those questions some deep thought, you'll see you're not so fucked up – but boy that Mackenzie Phillips sure is. Maybe it's not such a bad thing Mackenzie lives. It's comforting to know someone way more fucked up than I am is still alive to make me feel better about myself.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
That's Not The Michelin Man.... It's Chaz Boner...
Okay, what the fuck is up with Chazie Bono? I'm aware her getting a penis is old news. However during my insomnia hours early this morning, I stumbled across recent paparazzi photos of her/him – whatever the fuck she is now. I always browse trash reading on the net when I cannot sleep. Hollywood news involves no brain cells and won't piss me off like those damn Haitians. Anyway, Chazie is fucking bigger now! We are talking two airplane seats huge. One would think getting something new, like a penis, she would at least want to look down and marvel at it. She can't see her toes these days let alone her new pump up appendage. She just looks fucking wrong.
Before you all start jumping on my shit about making fun of the transgender, that's not my intention. I don't get the whole thing, but would never bash it. During my gay bar days, I met many folks pumped up on female hormones doing the trans thing. Women to man cross over was more rare and they didn't seem to be at the male bars. I did notice the transies here in Michigan were amateurs compared to those in real cities such as Chicago and Atlanta. Even the gay community stereotypes. I had met some lesbians while in Nashville years back who referred to Detroit lesbians as “the autoworker dykes”. Detroit will never catch a break.
If you have never experienced a drag show with authentic transies, I encourage you to do so. It's like seeing Big Ben – it's a must once during your life. The majority of transies don't go as far as the actual organ swap out. That costs a shit load of coin. Let's face it, finding work as a woman legally named Steve is a tough one. Many of these folks most can tell their real gender. Yet, there are those that are a total mind fuck. I had met this smoking hot transie years ago at a bar in Atlanta. Any of my straight buddies would have jumped this gal had she not had a penis. It added to the fucked up-ness because she was hitting on me. No, I did not go there. I like my cock minus breasts thank you very much. Still, no one would know this girl was really a man. Silly me had a million question. One of which, what did she do for employment? I should have known - cosmetic counter at Rich's Department Store.
Back to Chaz, what the fuck is up with her? My rambling about the trans folks I have met was to make a point of the pride they take in their new appearance. Even those who are obvious chicks with dicks still work the hair, make up, clothes, the whole package - it makes total sense. Woman who get new boobs take great pride in their investment. Cosmetic changes should boost the ego. Did Chaz's doctor fuck with her and give her a tiny pump up penis? Why doe she look like all fucking hell? I cannot imagine someone would go in for cosmetic corrections with a desire to look like a trailer park wife beater. Every time Chaz rolls that new 500 pound body into public she is sporting a gross dirty tee shirt and cuffed Levi's. Where the fuck is the Armani??? Cher's second husband Gregg Almann was a huge pig. Chaz fucking looks just like him now. I would venture to say Almann knocked up Cher with that bitch - not happy go dead Sonny.
This is just like the media coverage of gay pride shit. They don't put guys like me on footage. The public always sees a bunch of fairies running around in leather thongs. I feel badly the media is portraying Chaz as the stereotype for transgender folks. That chick with a dick just isn't right.
Before you all start jumping on my shit about making fun of the transgender, that's not my intention. I don't get the whole thing, but would never bash it. During my gay bar days, I met many folks pumped up on female hormones doing the trans thing. Women to man cross over was more rare and they didn't seem to be at the male bars. I did notice the transies here in Michigan were amateurs compared to those in real cities such as Chicago and Atlanta. Even the gay community stereotypes. I had met some lesbians while in Nashville years back who referred to Detroit lesbians as “the autoworker dykes”. Detroit will never catch a break.
If you have never experienced a drag show with authentic transies, I encourage you to do so. It's like seeing Big Ben – it's a must once during your life. The majority of transies don't go as far as the actual organ swap out. That costs a shit load of coin. Let's face it, finding work as a woman legally named Steve is a tough one. Many of these folks most can tell their real gender. Yet, there are those that are a total mind fuck. I had met this smoking hot transie years ago at a bar in Atlanta. Any of my straight buddies would have jumped this gal had she not had a penis. It added to the fucked up-ness because she was hitting on me. No, I did not go there. I like my cock minus breasts thank you very much. Still, no one would know this girl was really a man. Silly me had a million question. One of which, what did she do for employment? I should have known - cosmetic counter at Rich's Department Store.
Back to Chaz, what the fuck is up with her? My rambling about the trans folks I have met was to make a point of the pride they take in their new appearance. Even those who are obvious chicks with dicks still work the hair, make up, clothes, the whole package - it makes total sense. Woman who get new boobs take great pride in their investment. Cosmetic changes should boost the ego. Did Chaz's doctor fuck with her and give her a tiny pump up penis? Why doe she look like all fucking hell? I cannot imagine someone would go in for cosmetic corrections with a desire to look like a trailer park wife beater. Every time Chaz rolls that new 500 pound body into public she is sporting a gross dirty tee shirt and cuffed Levi's. Where the fuck is the Armani??? Cher's second husband Gregg Almann was a huge pig. Chaz fucking looks just like him now. I would venture to say Almann knocked up Cher with that bitch - not happy go dead Sonny.
This is just like the media coverage of gay pride shit. They don't put guys like me on footage. The public always sees a bunch of fairies running around in leather thongs. I feel badly the media is portraying Chaz as the stereotype for transgender folks. That chick with a dick just isn't right.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Why Your Sex Life Is In The Shitter....
People come to me with really fucked up situations. The one that bothers me the most is sexual problems in their relationship. I'm going to assume that the majority of straight folks have this misconception that fags have a regular and active sex life. Hate to break the news, it's not all that. Eleven years in my relationship and the bad ain't a rockin' because no ones got a cock in. I cannot offer a solution as to how to get that spark to fuck back in your life. Through my conversations with many sexually frustrated people, I have identified a single factor of when peoples sex lives seem to go down the shitter. Many want to live in denial. These are the same people who call their kids cute. People with cute kids don't refer to them as cute. Every time I hear someone call their kid cute, I wait in fear. They usually show up with some Downs kid or the brat has a million tubes shoved up its head. Sorry, nothing cute about that.
This is the key, the shitter. The first time your sexual partner takes a dump in front of you, or with the door open, kiss your sex life good bye. Go spend all the money you want on therapy. In the end, you will still think of what I am telling you and realize I pin pointed the moment it all began going down hill. It makes sense if you think about it. People don't take a dump in front of their bosses, parents, good friends, or anyone they have respect towards. Also, did you take a dump on your first date with your current sexual partner? Hell no! The whole concept of stinking up your pad or date's place when your a new sexual prospect was present goes beyond mortifying for most. Suddenly, a few good fucks mixed in with time, then the shitting begins. Some make it years before their sexual partner takes on the casual attitude of open poops. For the few and lucky, they are never forced to endure this lack of respect. Those are the ones who always seem to have the active sex lives.
Some years back I met a great guy. He was the mayor of an affluent Detroit suburb, good looking, funny, and seemed like quite the catch. Our second date he came to my home. Not five minutes in the door he asks to use my bathroom. My house has two and a half baths - the half bathroom being the least private. Naturally the dumb ass picks the half bathroom. Suddenly there was an ass explosion coming from behind the door. I'm talking the kind you know will leave shit splatters on the underside of the toilet seat. What the fuck was that all about? The guy passed God knows how many restaurants and gas stations during the half hour drive to my place. It does not take a rocket scientist to pick a McDonald's restroom to blow apart thus not destroying the chance of getting laid. I never went out with the guy again. Getting past that massive shit he took in my bathroom just was too much.
Another time I was in the mood for cheap bar sex. I hook up with this guy and we end up back at his place. Things are getting heavy when he excuses himself to the bathroom. This time I didn't hear the shit in progress, but when that door opened, I sure as hell smelled it. Boom, moment killed. Who the fuck would have causal sex with a stranger that just took a huge shit? I could maybe have continued had this guy showered, but no way was I going down the dump and fuck road.
Since we won't tolerate dumping while dating, why would it become attractive once we are in a committed relationship? Hence my point, it will kill your sex life in a relationship. The image of your sexual partner sitting on the toilet pinching out corn and God knows what else, is scaring. It ranks right up there with finding a used tampon in the trash.
If you are still in the early stages of a relationship, do yourself the favor and always shit in private. You will thank me for this.
This is the key, the shitter. The first time your sexual partner takes a dump in front of you, or with the door open, kiss your sex life good bye. Go spend all the money you want on therapy. In the end, you will still think of what I am telling you and realize I pin pointed the moment it all began going down hill. It makes sense if you think about it. People don't take a dump in front of their bosses, parents, good friends, or anyone they have respect towards. Also, did you take a dump on your first date with your current sexual partner? Hell no! The whole concept of stinking up your pad or date's place when your a new sexual prospect was present goes beyond mortifying for most. Suddenly, a few good fucks mixed in with time, then the shitting begins. Some make it years before their sexual partner takes on the casual attitude of open poops. For the few and lucky, they are never forced to endure this lack of respect. Those are the ones who always seem to have the active sex lives.
Some years back I met a great guy. He was the mayor of an affluent Detroit suburb, good looking, funny, and seemed like quite the catch. Our second date he came to my home. Not five minutes in the door he asks to use my bathroom. My house has two and a half baths - the half bathroom being the least private. Naturally the dumb ass picks the half bathroom. Suddenly there was an ass explosion coming from behind the door. I'm talking the kind you know will leave shit splatters on the underside of the toilet seat. What the fuck was that all about? The guy passed God knows how many restaurants and gas stations during the half hour drive to my place. It does not take a rocket scientist to pick a McDonald's restroom to blow apart thus not destroying the chance of getting laid. I never went out with the guy again. Getting past that massive shit he took in my bathroom just was too much.
Another time I was in the mood for cheap bar sex. I hook up with this guy and we end up back at his place. Things are getting heavy when he excuses himself to the bathroom. This time I didn't hear the shit in progress, but when that door opened, I sure as hell smelled it. Boom, moment killed. Who the fuck would have causal sex with a stranger that just took a huge shit? I could maybe have continued had this guy showered, but no way was I going down the dump and fuck road.
Since we won't tolerate dumping while dating, why would it become attractive once we are in a committed relationship? Hence my point, it will kill your sex life in a relationship. The image of your sexual partner sitting on the toilet pinching out corn and God knows what else, is scaring. It ranks right up there with finding a used tampon in the trash.
If you are still in the early stages of a relationship, do yourself the favor and always shit in private. You will thank me for this.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Text HAITI To 90999 If You're An Ass Fuck
How many times have you had a panhandler or homeless person hit you up for spare change yet ignored them? It's funny because if you are with another individual when a vagrant asks, I have noticed we tend to talk louder and faster until we are a comfortable distance past them. It's as if we do all we can to pretend the dirty, drug addict, waste of life does not exist. The most common excuse I hear from people for not giving street fucks money when approached is they will just buy drugs with it. In reality, does it matter what they do with your spare change? You're just going to put it in a jar or drawer at home only to forget about it. How do you really know they are buying drugs verses a 40 ouncer of Colt 45 with a pack of Kool Milds? Shit, maybe they are even saving up for a cheap whore who will then buy drugs with the money they got from the panhandler. What does it fucking matter? It's only change.
Easy way to call a vagrant out is to offer buying them a meal verses actually giving them the coin. I have found most times they will decline the food. If they take you up on the meal I suggest you do it. Years ago in DC some bum hit me up for money. Instead, I offered to buy him lunch - he took me up on it. His stories were classic and after lunch he took my lost tourist ass on a tour. He was honestly refreshing to spend a day with.
What's fucked up is we harshly judge American homeless vagrants. People deem them lazy and believe they could get a job if they wanted. Of course they do drugs, all panhandlers do drugs! The only reason they are like they are is because they choose to be. Maybe this is true or not. It does not justify begrudging them a bed and meal if we can afford it.
This whole earthquake in Haiti has really pissed me off. All these stars, and people I know, throwing donations at Haiti relieve. Most are the same assholes who would rather 75 cents get lost in the washing machine verses giving it to an American vagrant. I say fuck that shit. You're also on my major douche fuck list if you did donate to Haiti relief yet have ever snubbed a panhandler here in our own backyard. If you want to get on your milk crate and pontificate about how the Haitians are victims of poverty and years of corrupt governments, go tell it to someone who fucking cares – I don't.
The whole reason for giving to Haiti while passing judgment and begrudging our homeless is because you are a self righteous piece of shit a with major guilt complex. You feel safe throwing money at a bunch of lazy fucks who are divided safely, out of physical sight, by an ocean. Our government plans to bring a bunch of Haitian refugees to Florida while we rebuild new cement building to fall on them again back home. Why not take the burden off our tax dole and citizens of Florida and open your home to a Haitian family? If you cared as much as you claim, this should be of no issue. Granted you could care if the homeless American you wouldn't give 75 cents lives or dies, however saving some third world person has a mystique of nobleness to it. I'm sure you could score a shit load of feel good humanitarian points at your next social function flaunting your new Haitian family.
Before tossing money to a group of people who have wasted billions in aid for the past 25 years, maybe look on your own turf. If you can justify our tax dollars bringing people like this to our country, providing them shelter and food, while we don't do it for current Americans, you're fucked. Gasp! If we do it for our drug addicts on the streets, they will only ask for more. Lord knows I am not going to support their drug habit. The money we are giving to Haiti, well, who the hell knows what they will use it for. I'm certain it won't be drugs.
Just something to think about as you put the kids in the minivan today. Care to ask me how I really feel?
Easy way to call a vagrant out is to offer buying them a meal verses actually giving them the coin. I have found most times they will decline the food. If they take you up on the meal I suggest you do it. Years ago in DC some bum hit me up for money. Instead, I offered to buy him lunch - he took me up on it. His stories were classic and after lunch he took my lost tourist ass on a tour. He was honestly refreshing to spend a day with.
What's fucked up is we harshly judge American homeless vagrants. People deem them lazy and believe they could get a job if they wanted. Of course they do drugs, all panhandlers do drugs! The only reason they are like they are is because they choose to be. Maybe this is true or not. It does not justify begrudging them a bed and meal if we can afford it.
This whole earthquake in Haiti has really pissed me off. All these stars, and people I know, throwing donations at Haiti relieve. Most are the same assholes who would rather 75 cents get lost in the washing machine verses giving it to an American vagrant. I say fuck that shit. You're also on my major douche fuck list if you did donate to Haiti relief yet have ever snubbed a panhandler here in our own backyard. If you want to get on your milk crate and pontificate about how the Haitians are victims of poverty and years of corrupt governments, go tell it to someone who fucking cares – I don't.
The whole reason for giving to Haiti while passing judgment and begrudging our homeless is because you are a self righteous piece of shit a with major guilt complex. You feel safe throwing money at a bunch of lazy fucks who are divided safely, out of physical sight, by an ocean. Our government plans to bring a bunch of Haitian refugees to Florida while we rebuild new cement building to fall on them again back home. Why not take the burden off our tax dole and citizens of Florida and open your home to a Haitian family? If you cared as much as you claim, this should be of no issue. Granted you could care if the homeless American you wouldn't give 75 cents lives or dies, however saving some third world person has a mystique of nobleness to it. I'm sure you could score a shit load of feel good humanitarian points at your next social function flaunting your new Haitian family.
Before tossing money to a group of people who have wasted billions in aid for the past 25 years, maybe look on your own turf. If you can justify our tax dollars bringing people like this to our country, providing them shelter and food, while we don't do it for current Americans, you're fucked. Gasp! If we do it for our drug addicts on the streets, they will only ask for more. Lord knows I am not going to support their drug habit. The money we are giving to Haiti, well, who the hell knows what they will use it for. I'm certain it won't be drugs.
Just something to think about as you put the kids in the minivan today. Care to ask me how I really feel?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Pussy Addiction..... NO, This Isn't Crazy Grandma With Too Many Cats.....
Holy mother of rehab Jesus! Sexual anorexia – now this is a new one for even me. Yes, it is real, and no, I don't have it. The term was first used clinically in 1975 by some douche fuck named Nathan Hare. First thing that came to my mind when I saw the term was some freak ass who starves themselves and gets off on it. I'm not even going to Google to see if sexual bulimia is considered a mental behavior issue. The whole concept of someone tossing their cookies while taking it doggie style just sounds like bad porn to me. This all takes me back to the urban legend of the sorority girl who shit on the frat guys chest while he was passed out naked. It's all just fucked up no matter how it's defined.
Clinical definition for sexual anorexia is “loss of 'appetite' for romantic-sexual interaction”. This is as far as I go with sexual anorexia bullshit because it isn't the topic at hand. I ran across the term while checking out the rehab Tiger Woods admitted his horny ass into, Pine Grove Treatment Center in Mississippi. Tiger is in the 'Gentle Paths' program which treats sexual addiction and sexual anorexia. Personally that sounds like throwing the professionals in with the amateurs but who am I to judge.
My reason for looking at the program offered at Pine Grove was to see if it is based upon a traditional 12 step program. As with any recovery group, the 12 step program is used for the patients after care. The initial detox program is based on some wack jobs 30 step program. Most modern recovery programs are spun off Bill Wilson's original Alcoholics Anonymous 12 steps. Considering most cannot remember all 12 steps of their recovery programs, how the hell will Tiger remember the first 30 then add in the traditional 12?
Just as I suspected, this whole treatment for sexual addictions is fucked up. It is equally as fucked up as the 12 step programs for over eaters. The key single element for any successful 12 step program is abstinence. Whatever your addiction is, never do it again and you will succeed. This why a 12 step program cannot be utilized to treat over eaters. What the fuck, they never touch food again? Persons in a 12 step program for over eating will tell you they don't completely abstain from food, they just abstain from compulsive eating and bad foods. Oh really? Let's march my asses down to an AA meeting right now and tell all those folks they have it wrong and have had it wrong for over 75 years. Those over eaters have it all figured out – just don't drink compulsively and stick to red wine - research has proven red wine is good for you. In fact, I'll take a few boxes of red wine with me so all those who have managed to abstain from alcohol and celebrate, not compulsively, with the good alcohol, not that bad stuff. If you are court appointed not to touch alcohol just tell the judge the over eaters said it was okay to drink red wine. I'm sure the courts will agree. Why is it fat people get all the breaks in life?
I suppose in theory, a 12 step program could be more realistic for sexual addiction verses the one for the mislead lard asses. Yet, you really see someone like Tiger going the rest of his life never fucking or getting a simple blow job again? - I certainly don't. Further, what person would date a celibate freak? Dating or marrying a person who does not drink, do drugs, gamble, that's easy. However we all need to fuck at some point. Whether it be in the twat or in the ass, we all need to fuck. Can people who complete this program even masturbate? It's really not considered sex. The Catholics will even tell you that now. So Tiger can jack off 50 times a day but never bone his wife, friends wives, kids school friends, or cheap whores ever again for the rest of his life? That's a waste of a perfectly good big black penis. If he no longer can use it, donate it to me. I would l love a cock transplant to replace this tiny pink one God fucked me over with. The damn thing doesn't even work anymore.
If I had some cash laying around I would go check my ass into this Pine Grove place just to see what really is going on. Just imagine a whole group of perverts trying to recover while thinking of fucking fellow patients. Over in the alcoholic wing, they don't allow mouth wash or hair spray because the drunks will try to drink it for the alcohol content. The sex addicts still have their vagina's and cocks - it's not as if they can just chop those fuckers off and give them back after the program is completed. I really wonder how the staff monitors sexual organ abuse while one is an inpatient?
I'm just not buying into this shit. Granted, the stories from sex rehab would be classic, but sorry folks, this program just ain't gonna work.
Clinical definition for sexual anorexia is “loss of 'appetite' for romantic-sexual interaction”. This is as far as I go with sexual anorexia bullshit because it isn't the topic at hand. I ran across the term while checking out the rehab Tiger Woods admitted his horny ass into, Pine Grove Treatment Center in Mississippi. Tiger is in the 'Gentle Paths' program which treats sexual addiction and sexual anorexia. Personally that sounds like throwing the professionals in with the amateurs but who am I to judge.
My reason for looking at the program offered at Pine Grove was to see if it is based upon a traditional 12 step program. As with any recovery group, the 12 step program is used for the patients after care. The initial detox program is based on some wack jobs 30 step program. Most modern recovery programs are spun off Bill Wilson's original Alcoholics Anonymous 12 steps. Considering most cannot remember all 12 steps of their recovery programs, how the hell will Tiger remember the first 30 then add in the traditional 12?
Just as I suspected, this whole treatment for sexual addictions is fucked up. It is equally as fucked up as the 12 step programs for over eaters. The key single element for any successful 12 step program is abstinence. Whatever your addiction is, never do it again and you will succeed. This why a 12 step program cannot be utilized to treat over eaters. What the fuck, they never touch food again? Persons in a 12 step program for over eating will tell you they don't completely abstain from food, they just abstain from compulsive eating and bad foods. Oh really? Let's march my asses down to an AA meeting right now and tell all those folks they have it wrong and have had it wrong for over 75 years. Those over eaters have it all figured out – just don't drink compulsively and stick to red wine - research has proven red wine is good for you. In fact, I'll take a few boxes of red wine with me so all those who have managed to abstain from alcohol and celebrate, not compulsively, with the good alcohol, not that bad stuff. If you are court appointed not to touch alcohol just tell the judge the over eaters said it was okay to drink red wine. I'm sure the courts will agree. Why is it fat people get all the breaks in life?
I suppose in theory, a 12 step program could be more realistic for sexual addiction verses the one for the mislead lard asses. Yet, you really see someone like Tiger going the rest of his life never fucking or getting a simple blow job again? - I certainly don't. Further, what person would date a celibate freak? Dating or marrying a person who does not drink, do drugs, gamble, that's easy. However we all need to fuck at some point. Whether it be in the twat or in the ass, we all need to fuck. Can people who complete this program even masturbate? It's really not considered sex. The Catholics will even tell you that now. So Tiger can jack off 50 times a day but never bone his wife, friends wives, kids school friends, or cheap whores ever again for the rest of his life? That's a waste of a perfectly good big black penis. If he no longer can use it, donate it to me. I would l love a cock transplant to replace this tiny pink one God fucked me over with. The damn thing doesn't even work anymore.
If I had some cash laying around I would go check my ass into this Pine Grove place just to see what really is going on. Just imagine a whole group of perverts trying to recover while thinking of fucking fellow patients. Over in the alcoholic wing, they don't allow mouth wash or hair spray because the drunks will try to drink it for the alcohol content. The sex addicts still have their vagina's and cocks - it's not as if they can just chop those fuckers off and give them back after the program is completed. I really wonder how the staff monitors sexual organ abuse while one is an inpatient?
I'm just not buying into this shit. Granted, the stories from sex rehab would be classic, but sorry folks, this program just ain't gonna work.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
No, The Fucking Sun Does Not Shine From Our Behinds...... Morrissey Is Such A Fagot
Excuse the sabbatical from my blog. I have been in recovery once again – this time from a sore and chapped ass. Get your minds out of the gutter. I might be a big homo but didn't shove some freak of nature object up my ass which resulted in its current skinless condition. I've been with some form of virus for the past ten days that has resulted in a volcano erupting out of my asshole. Eat it, shit it – drink it, shit it – think it shit it. Need I continue?
Have you ever noticed when you become sick, everyone around you becomes a fucking doctor? Throw the fact that I suck dick into the equation and suddenly I am ready for the Cleveland Clinic. Yes, a friend even asked me if it was “the AIDS” which is making me so sick. A fagot gets sick for ten days and suddenly it's “the AIDS”? Maybe that H1N1 has complicated “the AIDS”? Add “the AIDS” to all the animals us homo's shove up our asses and holy mother of fuck, time to divide up the Franklin Mint collectables. It's a fucking virus everyone!!!!! Going to a doctor isn't going to cure a virus. Not to mention it is a new year so the insurance deductible has not gotten a dent in it yet.
What's even funnier is being a recovering addict and getting sick. Missing a week of work and staying in bed always equates to binge drinking or drug use. All that time my grandmother laid in that hospital dying of cancer, I really knew the truth – it was one major fucking hang over. Yes, the ambiguous questions fly with cautious verbiage. Give it some thought folks. When is the last time you held someones ass over a toilet from being too fucked up? Fucked up people vomit. I'm sure in some cases they might shit. My guess is they shit in their pants, not in a toilet. If it will put everyone's worry at ease, I will gladly go to work, or come to your home, to prove I am not washing down my favorite pills with a box of Merlot. Once you hear my ass explode in the bathroom, and make the air stink worse than the streets of Haiti, I'm sure all will rest peacefully knowing I am still on the wagon. Oh, and don't forget to pick up one of those home HIV test kits to make sure I am not dying of “the AIDS”.
Then comes the proverbial question to those who are on their death bed at home - “do you need anything?” Why do people ask this question when they really have no intention of actually following through with it? Those who know me will not ask this question – they know I have no pride. If I don't ask for money I will certainly ask for something beyond what your intentions were. Of course I need something. I need a fuck load of “anything” - I've been sick for ten days. First off, clean my damn house. Begin with that vial ass toilet I have been blowing apart for the past ten days. It's not rocket science here, maybe since I have been uncontrollably shitting for ten days, I might need toilet paper restocked. Thankfully I have not had to resort to the never ending white Calvin Kline tees as of yet. My favorite are those who offer to bring you soup and then arrive with the Campbell's Condensed. I must say Campbell's Tomato is good just make sure there is fucking milk in the house. When it's made with water all I can think about are the kids from my school days who were on the government lunch program. Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup day was always like Sardi's on a Saturday night to them. Unlike the maitre d' at Sardi's, the lunch lady still served the poor kids even though their parents didn't bathe them for the decidable feast. My point is, if you offer soup, don't fucking show up with a can.
On the soup note, I must say not everyone left me to die with my exploding ass. My mother stepped up and sent over a big jar of homemade chicken noodle soup. Of course she didn't actually bring me the soup. My father bought it and followed mothers instructions carefully - he handed it to me through a cracked door. I am certain he returned to his car wiping his hands with the sanitizer wet wipes my mother gave him. We all know how a simple virus can wipe out those old folks. By-pass surgery, hip replacements are no problem. A single virus and they run for cover. A big thanks to Mom!
Currently, I feel my intestines are possibly creating a solid bowl-movement. That should allow me to return to blogging relatively soon. That is of course if I don't get “the AIDS” in the meantime.
Have you ever noticed when you become sick, everyone around you becomes a fucking doctor? Throw the fact that I suck dick into the equation and suddenly I am ready for the Cleveland Clinic. Yes, a friend even asked me if it was “the AIDS” which is making me so sick. A fagot gets sick for ten days and suddenly it's “the AIDS”? Maybe that H1N1 has complicated “the AIDS”? Add “the AIDS” to all the animals us homo's shove up our asses and holy mother of fuck, time to divide up the Franklin Mint collectables. It's a fucking virus everyone!!!!! Going to a doctor isn't going to cure a virus. Not to mention it is a new year so the insurance deductible has not gotten a dent in it yet.
What's even funnier is being a recovering addict and getting sick. Missing a week of work and staying in bed always equates to binge drinking or drug use. All that time my grandmother laid in that hospital dying of cancer, I really knew the truth – it was one major fucking hang over. Yes, the ambiguous questions fly with cautious verbiage. Give it some thought folks. When is the last time you held someones ass over a toilet from being too fucked up? Fucked up people vomit. I'm sure in some cases they might shit. My guess is they shit in their pants, not in a toilet. If it will put everyone's worry at ease, I will gladly go to work, or come to your home, to prove I am not washing down my favorite pills with a box of Merlot. Once you hear my ass explode in the bathroom, and make the air stink worse than the streets of Haiti, I'm sure all will rest peacefully knowing I am still on the wagon. Oh, and don't forget to pick up one of those home HIV test kits to make sure I am not dying of “the AIDS”.
Then comes the proverbial question to those who are on their death bed at home - “do you need anything?” Why do people ask this question when they really have no intention of actually following through with it? Those who know me will not ask this question – they know I have no pride. If I don't ask for money I will certainly ask for something beyond what your intentions were. Of course I need something. I need a fuck load of “anything” - I've been sick for ten days. First off, clean my damn house. Begin with that vial ass toilet I have been blowing apart for the past ten days. It's not rocket science here, maybe since I have been uncontrollably shitting for ten days, I might need toilet paper restocked. Thankfully I have not had to resort to the never ending white Calvin Kline tees as of yet. My favorite are those who offer to bring you soup and then arrive with the Campbell's Condensed. I must say Campbell's Tomato is good just make sure there is fucking milk in the house. When it's made with water all I can think about are the kids from my school days who were on the government lunch program. Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup day was always like Sardi's on a Saturday night to them. Unlike the maitre d' at Sardi's, the lunch lady still served the poor kids even though their parents didn't bathe them for the decidable feast. My point is, if you offer soup, don't fucking show up with a can.
On the soup note, I must say not everyone left me to die with my exploding ass. My mother stepped up and sent over a big jar of homemade chicken noodle soup. Of course she didn't actually bring me the soup. My father bought it and followed mothers instructions carefully - he handed it to me through a cracked door. I am certain he returned to his car wiping his hands with the sanitizer wet wipes my mother gave him. We all know how a simple virus can wipe out those old folks. By-pass surgery, hip replacements are no problem. A single virus and they run for cover. A big thanks to Mom!
Currently, I feel my intestines are possibly creating a solid bowl-movement. That should allow me to return to blogging relatively soon. That is of course if I don't get “the AIDS” in the meantime.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Mom! Jesus Farted.....
Some things in life I'll never get. The whole church concept is a major one. People who hit rock bottom often find salvation in the church. Some people go way off the deep end and end up in a Jim Jones style cult thinking it's a church. I find the cult concept much more entertaining than church. Good cults always end up committing mass suicides and make for interesting reading.
I've met so many in recovery who claim Jesus saved them. They're not talking about Jesus the illegal Mexican who cuts their lawn. It's the son of God Jesus who no one has actually met in person. This is the same guy which cultures have waged war in his name killing countless numbers. Shit, the Muslims are still blowing themselves up claiming it to be in the name of God. My favorite is when high profile people get busted and suddenly put their fate in God's hands. If they don't want to answer a question as to what they really did, they turn the question and say it's up to God's will. What is God's will and how does that keep your guilty ass out of jail? Even mass murders seem to think finding God will suddenly erase the fact they butchered a shit load of people.
When forced, I've done the church thing. It always amazes me how nice everyone is there. Take the exact same group of people, put them in a movie theater verses a church, and they aren't going to be that fucking nice. The same guy who shakes your hand in church with the peace be with you line would steal your seat and tell you to fuck off at the movie theater. Another thing to observe if you go to a church is what happens when mass is over. Once people get out of the building, it's like hell on wheels to get in their car and get the fuck away. Seriously people drive like maniacs to get out of the church parking lot. I'm surprised there isn't a higher incident of deaths by cars in church parking lots.
What I have noticed most about being in a church is how bad farts smell. The same fart at home doesn't smell like if you farted in church. I often wonder if those wood seats make farts smell worse. It could also be possible so many people have farted on those seats that fart molecules remain in the wood. When someone farts, it's not only their stink, but the remnant molecules of every person who farted before them. This creates an unbalanced fart which smells worse than the standard fart. For some reason, everyone just deals with these nasty assed mixed farts when in a church. No dirty looks, no one gets up and leaves in disgust, they just act as if there is no gut wrenching smell. Maybe they believe that line of Satan crawling out of your ass and take the smell as an exorcism. All I know is church is the only place you can get away with farting and no one makes a comment or passes a dirty look. I try to fart in church just for this reason.
For those going to church today, or the next time you go, I dare you, fart. You'll see what I am talking about. Your fart will smell way worse than if you farted at home. God bless and peace be with you.
I've met so many in recovery who claim Jesus saved them. They're not talking about Jesus the illegal Mexican who cuts their lawn. It's the son of God Jesus who no one has actually met in person. This is the same guy which cultures have waged war in his name killing countless numbers. Shit, the Muslims are still blowing themselves up claiming it to be in the name of God. My favorite is when high profile people get busted and suddenly put their fate in God's hands. If they don't want to answer a question as to what they really did, they turn the question and say it's up to God's will. What is God's will and how does that keep your guilty ass out of jail? Even mass murders seem to think finding God will suddenly erase the fact they butchered a shit load of people.
When forced, I've done the church thing. It always amazes me how nice everyone is there. Take the exact same group of people, put them in a movie theater verses a church, and they aren't going to be that fucking nice. The same guy who shakes your hand in church with the peace be with you line would steal your seat and tell you to fuck off at the movie theater. Another thing to observe if you go to a church is what happens when mass is over. Once people get out of the building, it's like hell on wheels to get in their car and get the fuck away. Seriously people drive like maniacs to get out of the church parking lot. I'm surprised there isn't a higher incident of deaths by cars in church parking lots.
What I have noticed most about being in a church is how bad farts smell. The same fart at home doesn't smell like if you farted in church. I often wonder if those wood seats make farts smell worse. It could also be possible so many people have farted on those seats that fart molecules remain in the wood. When someone farts, it's not only their stink, but the remnant molecules of every person who farted before them. This creates an unbalanced fart which smells worse than the standard fart. For some reason, everyone just deals with these nasty assed mixed farts when in a church. No dirty looks, no one gets up and leaves in disgust, they just act as if there is no gut wrenching smell. Maybe they believe that line of Satan crawling out of your ass and take the smell as an exorcism. All I know is church is the only place you can get away with farting and no one makes a comment or passes a dirty look. I try to fart in church just for this reason.
For those going to church today, or the next time you go, I dare you, fart. You'll see what I am talking about. Your fart will smell way worse than if you farted at home. God bless and peace be with you.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Holy Shit... It's A Baby Turd !!!!
Defecaloesiophobia affects thousands of people. Tragically, this is a real fear people suffer from yet there is not a dedicated recovery group. Most cases will go untreated due to the individuals embarrassment to talk about suffering from it. Defecaloesiophobia is the fear of painful bowels movements. Hey, no fucking laughing, this is serious!
I think everyone can at one point in life relate to a painful poop. Let's face it, we all have had something so large excreted from our ass that if felt as if our pelvis was going to crack. One would think those who suffer with Defecaloesiophobia, would also have a fear of plugging the toilet. Something that large isn't going to get flushed down without the help of a fucking plunger.
What's more interesting is people never talk about their bowel movements. Even when a doctor asks during a physical most find the topic uncomfortable. I suppose I am a freak because I always look at my shit before I wipe. Seeing what comes out of my ass has some unknown importance to me. Thankfully, my shits are rarely large enough to clog a toilet. However, I do know people who regularly have excessively large bowel movements.
I'm surprised my older brother doesn't suffer from Defecaloesiophobia. It's very possible he may but is like the thousands of others who have no support so he keeps his illness hidden. As children, I recall him always plugging the toilet because his shits were so large. Out of frustration, my parents made him call them to the bathroom before he flushed the toilet. They would use a coat hanger to break up his turds prior to flushing. One would think this would cause great embarrassment for a developing child and result in their not wanting to poop. I don't think my brother ever found any thing odd or uncomfortable about his parents having to break up his shit with a wire hanger. He would always spend what I thought was a long and odd amount of time taking a crap. This could be one of the symptoms of Defecaloesiophobia. Much like child birth, maybe a shit that large requires contractions and hard pushing to finally expel. To this day I can still here him yelling, “Dad I'm done, I think you need the coat hanger”.
This might be a phobia we can find humor in because we don't suffer from it. However, think for a moment what living hell a person with a phobia may be experiencing on a daily basis. I know my personal phobias and anxieties restrict many facets in my daily life. What if an individual with Defecaloesiophobia is visiting a friends home and suddenly has to release? I've been to many homes where people do not keep plungers in their bathrooms. A bathroom without a plunger for the person suffering with Defecaloesiophobia could trigger a major panic attack. Panic attacks generally begin with irrational thoughts of the “what if's”. “What if I take a shit so large it plugs the toilet?” “What if I have to open the bathroom door and ask my host for a plunger?” “What if they see how large my shit is?” You can see the hell of this spiraling thought process.
Since there really is no formal support or recover group for Defecaloesiophobia, I call on you, my readers, to make an attempt to comfort those who suffer from it. You first have to be aware of key behaviors that may indicate a friend may suffer with Defecaloesiophobia. They can be any combination of the following: Someone never taking a shit at your home. A person regularly pressing upward on their lower intestine. Always having to leave a setting immediately after a large meal to go home. Irregular bloating and unbloating. These are just a few of the signs. If you notice these symptoms in a friend, sit them down one on one. Tell them you understand. Offer your support by telling them to call you when they are scared to shit and you will walk them through it while comforting them.
In the end, you might make a huge difference in this persons recovery. Oh, and for those who do not keep plungers in their guest baths, now that is fucked up.
I think everyone can at one point in life relate to a painful poop. Let's face it, we all have had something so large excreted from our ass that if felt as if our pelvis was going to crack. One would think those who suffer with Defecaloesiophobia, would also have a fear of plugging the toilet. Something that large isn't going to get flushed down without the help of a fucking plunger.
What's more interesting is people never talk about their bowel movements. Even when a doctor asks during a physical most find the topic uncomfortable. I suppose I am a freak because I always look at my shit before I wipe. Seeing what comes out of my ass has some unknown importance to me. Thankfully, my shits are rarely large enough to clog a toilet. However, I do know people who regularly have excessively large bowel movements.
I'm surprised my older brother doesn't suffer from Defecaloesiophobia. It's very possible he may but is like the thousands of others who have no support so he keeps his illness hidden. As children, I recall him always plugging the toilet because his shits were so large. Out of frustration, my parents made him call them to the bathroom before he flushed the toilet. They would use a coat hanger to break up his turds prior to flushing. One would think this would cause great embarrassment for a developing child and result in their not wanting to poop. I don't think my brother ever found any thing odd or uncomfortable about his parents having to break up his shit with a wire hanger. He would always spend what I thought was a long and odd amount of time taking a crap. This could be one of the symptoms of Defecaloesiophobia. Much like child birth, maybe a shit that large requires contractions and hard pushing to finally expel. To this day I can still here him yelling, “Dad I'm done, I think you need the coat hanger”.
This might be a phobia we can find humor in because we don't suffer from it. However, think for a moment what living hell a person with a phobia may be experiencing on a daily basis. I know my personal phobias and anxieties restrict many facets in my daily life. What if an individual with Defecaloesiophobia is visiting a friends home and suddenly has to release? I've been to many homes where people do not keep plungers in their bathrooms. A bathroom without a plunger for the person suffering with Defecaloesiophobia could trigger a major panic attack. Panic attacks generally begin with irrational thoughts of the “what if's”. “What if I take a shit so large it plugs the toilet?” “What if I have to open the bathroom door and ask my host for a plunger?” “What if they see how large my shit is?” You can see the hell of this spiraling thought process.
Since there really is no formal support or recover group for Defecaloesiophobia, I call on you, my readers, to make an attempt to comfort those who suffer from it. You first have to be aware of key behaviors that may indicate a friend may suffer with Defecaloesiophobia. They can be any combination of the following: Someone never taking a shit at your home. A person regularly pressing upward on their lower intestine. Always having to leave a setting immediately after a large meal to go home. Irregular bloating and unbloating. These are just a few of the signs. If you notice these symptoms in a friend, sit them down one on one. Tell them you understand. Offer your support by telling them to call you when they are scared to shit and you will walk them through it while comforting them.
In the end, you might make a huge difference in this persons recovery. Oh, and for those who do not keep plungers in their guest baths, now that is fucked up.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Fuck The Family Bed You Pedophiles... Bring Back The Family Bar...
I often wonder what the fuck happened to the good old days? Do families actually have fun together like we did back in the 70's? It seems as if everyone today is so busy trying to do everything right, most are instead fucking it up.
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories were spending time with my grandparents. My grandma Betty and grandpa George were coming off the swinger era around the time I began to walk. Being the future homo I was, I thought my grandma Betty's wigs were beyond cool. She would let me wear them around her house pretending I was Diana Ross. Even at age five I was drawn to addicts.
My grandparents belonged to a club called The Moose Lodge. There might be a few of these places left however I am sure they are nothing as they were during the 70's. Saturday nights were the big night out for Moose Lodge members. My grandparents would get all sharply dressed much like people do these days to go to the Detroit Symphony. In the 70's, parents were not as self consumed as parents of this generation. Sitters were rarely used and families actually spent time together. My grandparents loved taking me and my brother to the Moose Lodge on a Saturday night. It was almost a runway show event for grandparents to show off their grandchildren to fellow members.
While the adults gathered at the bar drinking, there were games all over the lodge to entertain the kids. Best of all, you didn't have to keep running and asking for quarters because all the games were free. There was air hockey, pinball, and they even had bows and arrows for kid archery. We would end up eating so much junk food with soda pop most of the kids fell asleep on the couches throughout the lodge. I remember the bartender letting us take turns pouring beers behind the bar and the adults would give us tips. At the end of the night, grandma and grandpa would find us on a couch somewhere in the lodge and carry us out to the car. That was quality family time we really don't see in our society any longer.
A few years back I was at my usual afternoon hang out having a few beers. An older gentleman came in with a baby carrier on his arm. He took up near me at the bar placing the baby carrier on the bar. The guy was so proud to show off his granddaughter he even bought me a beer. Our conversation continued over several more beers. He even let me hold his granddaughter and feed her a bottle. At a point he had run out of smokes. He asked if I would watch the baby while he ran up to the party store to grab a pack. I love kids so of course I obliged.
As soon as the guy walked out the door, I had a stream of people coming up to me all freaked out. Most were woman acting all appalled that someone would bring a baby in a bar. Would they have rather the man left the baby in the car with the windows rolled up on a 90 degree day? What the fuck is wrong with people? The kid was in no danger. The man obviously had good judgment. He could tell I was a safe person to leave his granddaughter with while he ran to get smokes. One dumb ass bitch said she was calling the police. Naturally, in a kind manner, I told her to go fuck herself.
When we see kids shooting each other at school, I don't think we need to search far for the blame. Society has forced parents to leave their kids home with strangers. Why not bring back places like the Moose Lodge where families can spend time together as families? Just because a child is in an atmosphere where there is alcohol does not mean they become alcoholics and end up in recovery. Shit, they can even learn something. I could tap a keg by age eight.
Peoples values and morals are just fucked up these days.
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories were spending time with my grandparents. My grandma Betty and grandpa George were coming off the swinger era around the time I began to walk. Being the future homo I was, I thought my grandma Betty's wigs were beyond cool. She would let me wear them around her house pretending I was Diana Ross. Even at age five I was drawn to addicts.
My grandparents belonged to a club called The Moose Lodge. There might be a few of these places left however I am sure they are nothing as they were during the 70's. Saturday nights were the big night out for Moose Lodge members. My grandparents would get all sharply dressed much like people do these days to go to the Detroit Symphony. In the 70's, parents were not as self consumed as parents of this generation. Sitters were rarely used and families actually spent time together. My grandparents loved taking me and my brother to the Moose Lodge on a Saturday night. It was almost a runway show event for grandparents to show off their grandchildren to fellow members.
While the adults gathered at the bar drinking, there were games all over the lodge to entertain the kids. Best of all, you didn't have to keep running and asking for quarters because all the games were free. There was air hockey, pinball, and they even had bows and arrows for kid archery. We would end up eating so much junk food with soda pop most of the kids fell asleep on the couches throughout the lodge. I remember the bartender letting us take turns pouring beers behind the bar and the adults would give us tips. At the end of the night, grandma and grandpa would find us on a couch somewhere in the lodge and carry us out to the car. That was quality family time we really don't see in our society any longer.
A few years back I was at my usual afternoon hang out having a few beers. An older gentleman came in with a baby carrier on his arm. He took up near me at the bar placing the baby carrier on the bar. The guy was so proud to show off his granddaughter he even bought me a beer. Our conversation continued over several more beers. He even let me hold his granddaughter and feed her a bottle. At a point he had run out of smokes. He asked if I would watch the baby while he ran up to the party store to grab a pack. I love kids so of course I obliged.
As soon as the guy walked out the door, I had a stream of people coming up to me all freaked out. Most were woman acting all appalled that someone would bring a baby in a bar. Would they have rather the man left the baby in the car with the windows rolled up on a 90 degree day? What the fuck is wrong with people? The kid was in no danger. The man obviously had good judgment. He could tell I was a safe person to leave his granddaughter with while he ran to get smokes. One dumb ass bitch said she was calling the police. Naturally, in a kind manner, I told her to go fuck herself.
When we see kids shooting each other at school, I don't think we need to search far for the blame. Society has forced parents to leave their kids home with strangers. Why not bring back places like the Moose Lodge where families can spend time together as families? Just because a child is in an atmosphere where there is alcohol does not mean they become alcoholics and end up in recovery. Shit, they can even learn something. I could tap a keg by age eight.
Peoples values and morals are just fucked up these days.
I'm Not M.A.D.D..... I'm Pissed
One of the first steps to recovery is admitting to ones self you have an addiction. Prior to my vacation at rehab, my favorite tag line was “admitting you're an alcoholic is half the battle so at least I am half way there”. Half way to cirrhosis? Fantasy land it a good happy place. Had I tossed some illegal drugs in the fantasy land mix, maybe I could have seen Mickey, Donald, and Mr. Magoo drift into my happy place. There are only two ways into recovery. The individual decides they are too fucked up to survive, or someone deems you fucked up and forces you into recovery.
DISCLAIMER: I have never had a D.U.I., or any substance abuse related interaction with the law. Shit, I've only had one speeding ticket in whole life. Therefore this blog entry is not be written by a bitter drunk who feels fucked by the courts.
Court ordered recovery, for the most part, is way fucked up. Judge MacKenzie of the 52 district court here in Michigan will rattle on the success of his Sobriety Court. He'll show you the success rates for decreased re-offenders from his program verses those not in his program. The numbers work great for the state obtaining the state grants which fund his court. I can't completely toss Judge MacKenzie, or other Judges who run Sobriety Courts, totally down the shitter. These guys are making an attempt to help and work within our laws. I also agree that fuckheads who get behind a wheel while drunk or stoned need to be legally kept off the roads and need to face consequences for their actions. It's the methodology of how recovery through the courts that is fucked.
This past New Years Eve in my area, Lynch and Son's Funeral Homes were offering free rides home to those who drank too much and could not get a cab. I knew I would be riding a caffeine free aspartame high so told friends to call me if they had more than one drink an hour. My question is, and has been for years, where the fuck is M.A.D.D.? Why don't they establish ride programs? I'll tell you where they are, they are sitting waiting for someone to get behind the wheel fucked up and get arrested. They value funding over prevention. Lower drunk driving statistics could jeopardize their existence. This multi-million nonprofit corporation could lose grants and funding if the statistics aren't there. If these bitches really cared, long ago they would have established a safe ride program. They capitalize on individuals who lost a loved one to a drunk driver. M.A.D.D. tosses victims of drunk drivers before the media and courts to misdirect their anger and pain. It's all about the money.
If you end up getting sentenced for a drunk driving offense in the 52nd district court here in Michigan, there is a sentencing board which makes recommendations to the judge. On this board sits two members from M.A.D.D.. They pontificate how horrible the guilty party's offense is, then throw in graphic details of someone they knew killed by a drunk driver. After the boards recommendations, the judge then will issue sentencing. For the first or second offense, usually a term of probation and an agreement to enter a court ordered recovery program is ordered. If you are lucky enough to keep your license, you should be able to complete the program. Most end up with a restricted license or no license at all. You're then tossed out the door to fend for yourself.
Prior to going to recovery groups and actually meeting these court appointees, I had the attitude they got what they deserved. It's easy to pass arm chair judgment from the blind side. In reality, these people need help. No recovery program will be successful if the means are not available to actually work the program. This is where the courts fall short. M.A.D.D., well they are just a bunch of douche bags from the get go.
I met a young dude at an AA meeting who we shall refer to as Don. Dumb ass Don was on his second D.U.I.. He choose to enter Judge MacKenzie's Sobriety Court program. He also had a second choice which was 90 days in jail then probation. License suspended, three AA meetings a week, community service, random drug/alcohol screening, and monthly meetings with a probation officer was his sentence for the next 18 months. Now toss in the $2500.00 in court costs to be paid by the end of the 18 months. Dumb ass Don also racked up $4000.00 in lawyer fees autonomous to his restitution to the courts. Prior to his second offense, not learning jack shit from his first, Don was a college student in East Lansing, Michigan which the court forced him to drop out. I have no issue with the sentence. My issue lies in the means to execute the judgment.
First, why force a student in good standing to quit college? Why not communicate the probation to Ingham County where he attended college? It's a prove fact students who do not return to college after a extended period away never re-enroll. If Don's probation were transferred, all restitution and supervision of his sentence are off Judge MacKenzie's roster. This lowers the count in his Sobriety Court. If this became a standard practice, the lower numbers in his program might result in a decrease in grants and funding. Let's pull the guy out of college, so our courts can remain funded. Excellent logic and what an investment to our future tax payers! Shit, the courts transfer probation all the time for sex offenders. They want those fuckers as far away from their county as possible.
Readers, meet J.A.M.S., J.A.M.S. meet my readers. J.A.M.S. stands for Jail Alternative for Michigan Services. Basically, J.A.M.S. is a place where persons under regular court order randomly goes to piss in a cup. Consider it your own private urinal by invitation only. Sometimes they make you blow into a breathalyzer, but is mostly a piss joint. A few times a week the offender calls into a computer, enters their pin number, and if you are ever so lucky to be chosen by computer generated lottery, it gives you the day and time you have to go piss. Days and times always vary and the J.A.M.S. locations are not like a CVS pharmacies where there is one in every town. Miss a date with the piss cup, it's a violation of your probation agreement. Your ass can be out of the program and off to jail you go. This really fucks getting a regular job since you're on call seven days a week to piss in a cup. Now take into account the person has no license. How the fuck do they get there? Even the best of friends get burned out driving your ass around at odd hours over an 18 month period.
Every aspect of the sentences given to drunk drivers involves a large amount of time, obscure unstructured hours, and involves transportation. It takes a very understanding company and boss to employ a person in a Sobriety Court program. Needless to say, Dumb ass Don ended up working for me. In the end, I don't think Don was an addict, just a total dumb fuck.
As I said, I'm not bitching about the sentences given to drunk drivers. My issue is with the means available to the guilty parties to fulfill their sentences successfully. I would give Dumb ass Don rides to a small percentage of the various places he was required to go. Just that small percentage made me feel like a soccer mom with a kid on a travel league. Consider rides to community service, work, AA meetings, cup pissing, and probation evaluations. That will eat up the 12,000 miles a year on your lease vehicle in a heart beat.
If M.A.D.D. is so fucking concern about rehabilitating the offenders, why don't they have ride programs? For that matter, why don't they have peer groups of former offenders, who now have licenses reinstated, assisting in rides and advising the guilty for successful completion of their probation? It's because they don't fucking care. They don't care to establish a safe ride program on recognized bar nights such as New Years Eve. They don't give two shits if another persons family member is killed by a drunk driver which may have never gotten on the road if safe ride programs existed. Actions speak, and those bitches don't act. Judgment, grants, and their two second of fame to be heard is their only agenda.
If you know someone involved in M.A.D.D., ask them what have they personally done to keep a drunk driver off the road? After listening to their response, you have my full permission to call them a dumb ass bitch.
DISCLAIMER: I have never had a D.U.I., or any substance abuse related interaction with the law. Shit, I've only had one speeding ticket in whole life. Therefore this blog entry is not be written by a bitter drunk who feels fucked by the courts.
Court ordered recovery, for the most part, is way fucked up. Judge MacKenzie of the 52 district court here in Michigan will rattle on the success of his Sobriety Court. He'll show you the success rates for decreased re-offenders from his program verses those not in his program. The numbers work great for the state obtaining the state grants which fund his court. I can't completely toss Judge MacKenzie, or other Judges who run Sobriety Courts, totally down the shitter. These guys are making an attempt to help and work within our laws. I also agree that fuckheads who get behind a wheel while drunk or stoned need to be legally kept off the roads and need to face consequences for their actions. It's the methodology of how recovery through the courts that is fucked.
This past New Years Eve in my area, Lynch and Son's Funeral Homes were offering free rides home to those who drank too much and could not get a cab. I knew I would be riding a caffeine free aspartame high so told friends to call me if they had more than one drink an hour. My question is, and has been for years, where the fuck is M.A.D.D.? Why don't they establish ride programs? I'll tell you where they are, they are sitting waiting for someone to get behind the wheel fucked up and get arrested. They value funding over prevention. Lower drunk driving statistics could jeopardize their existence. This multi-million nonprofit corporation could lose grants and funding if the statistics aren't there. If these bitches really cared, long ago they would have established a safe ride program. They capitalize on individuals who lost a loved one to a drunk driver. M.A.D.D. tosses victims of drunk drivers before the media and courts to misdirect their anger and pain. It's all about the money.
If you end up getting sentenced for a drunk driving offense in the 52nd district court here in Michigan, there is a sentencing board which makes recommendations to the judge. On this board sits two members from M.A.D.D.. They pontificate how horrible the guilty party's offense is, then throw in graphic details of someone they knew killed by a drunk driver. After the boards recommendations, the judge then will issue sentencing. For the first or second offense, usually a term of probation and an agreement to enter a court ordered recovery program is ordered. If you are lucky enough to keep your license, you should be able to complete the program. Most end up with a restricted license or no license at all. You're then tossed out the door to fend for yourself.
Prior to going to recovery groups and actually meeting these court appointees, I had the attitude they got what they deserved. It's easy to pass arm chair judgment from the blind side. In reality, these people need help. No recovery program will be successful if the means are not available to actually work the program. This is where the courts fall short. M.A.D.D., well they are just a bunch of douche bags from the get go.
I met a young dude at an AA meeting who we shall refer to as Don. Dumb ass Don was on his second D.U.I.. He choose to enter Judge MacKenzie's Sobriety Court program. He also had a second choice which was 90 days in jail then probation. License suspended, three AA meetings a week, community service, random drug/alcohol screening, and monthly meetings with a probation officer was his sentence for the next 18 months. Now toss in the $2500.00 in court costs to be paid by the end of the 18 months. Dumb ass Don also racked up $4000.00 in lawyer fees autonomous to his restitution to the courts. Prior to his second offense, not learning jack shit from his first, Don was a college student in East Lansing, Michigan which the court forced him to drop out. I have no issue with the sentence. My issue lies in the means to execute the judgment.
First, why force a student in good standing to quit college? Why not communicate the probation to Ingham County where he attended college? It's a prove fact students who do not return to college after a extended period away never re-enroll. If Don's probation were transferred, all restitution and supervision of his sentence are off Judge MacKenzie's roster. This lowers the count in his Sobriety Court. If this became a standard practice, the lower numbers in his program might result in a decrease in grants and funding. Let's pull the guy out of college, so our courts can remain funded. Excellent logic and what an investment to our future tax payers! Shit, the courts transfer probation all the time for sex offenders. They want those fuckers as far away from their county as possible.
Readers, meet J.A.M.S., J.A.M.S. meet my readers. J.A.M.S. stands for Jail Alternative for Michigan Services. Basically, J.A.M.S. is a place where persons under regular court order randomly goes to piss in a cup. Consider it your own private urinal by invitation only. Sometimes they make you blow into a breathalyzer, but is mostly a piss joint. A few times a week the offender calls into a computer, enters their pin number, and if you are ever so lucky to be chosen by computer generated lottery, it gives you the day and time you have to go piss. Days and times always vary and the J.A.M.S. locations are not like a CVS pharmacies where there is one in every town. Miss a date with the piss cup, it's a violation of your probation agreement. Your ass can be out of the program and off to jail you go. This really fucks getting a regular job since you're on call seven days a week to piss in a cup. Now take into account the person has no license. How the fuck do they get there? Even the best of friends get burned out driving your ass around at odd hours over an 18 month period.
Every aspect of the sentences given to drunk drivers involves a large amount of time, obscure unstructured hours, and involves transportation. It takes a very understanding company and boss to employ a person in a Sobriety Court program. Needless to say, Dumb ass Don ended up working for me. In the end, I don't think Don was an addict, just a total dumb fuck.
As I said, I'm not bitching about the sentences given to drunk drivers. My issue is with the means available to the guilty parties to fulfill their sentences successfully. I would give Dumb ass Don rides to a small percentage of the various places he was required to go. Just that small percentage made me feel like a soccer mom with a kid on a travel league. Consider rides to community service, work, AA meetings, cup pissing, and probation evaluations. That will eat up the 12,000 miles a year on your lease vehicle in a heart beat.
If M.A.D.D. is so fucking concern about rehabilitating the offenders, why don't they have ride programs? For that matter, why don't they have peer groups of former offenders, who now have licenses reinstated, assisting in rides and advising the guilty for successful completion of their probation? It's because they don't fucking care. They don't care to establish a safe ride program on recognized bar nights such as New Years Eve. They don't give two shits if another persons family member is killed by a drunk driver which may have never gotten on the road if safe ride programs existed. Actions speak, and those bitches don't act. Judgment, grants, and their two second of fame to be heard is their only agenda.
If you know someone involved in M.A.D.D., ask them what have they personally done to keep a drunk driver off the road? After listening to their response, you have my full permission to call them a dumb ass bitch.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Insert Foot.... Have No Shame... It Is Italian Leather After All....
It's always comical to me how people are apprehensive to inquire about ones rehab vacation. I use the word vacation because I think it was the first time I had really relaxed since I began my job 20 years ago. Well, relaxed with out zero sunscreen tanning oil and many cases of beer. As a novice to rehab, I had packed incorrectly. It took me a few days to get the necessities down. Thank rehab Jesus for Dave. For the first three days he was running things over I needed. Being a big homo, my necessities were a tad more extensive than the hetero rehab patient. Packing for rehab will be addressed in a future blog posting. Still, this was a wonderful, educational, 16 day vacation I would highly recommend.
Staying on topic, like many illnesses, people pussy foot around directly coming out and asking questions. This past Thanksgiving weekend, my little brother got married. After the wedding, I was hanging out with my new best found friend, his mother in law – love that lady! We're throwing a few back at the hotel bar after the reception chatting as if we had known each other since birth. I made a mention of my vacation to rehab the previous winter. In all serious and caring, she asks, “how was that”. Taking a drink of my beer I replied, “the food was do die for”. She burst our laughing repeating “the food was to die for?” Those who saw me after rehab, clearly noticed the 20 pounds in 16 days to the higher end of the scale. Shit, the place had a chef from the south who made down home cooking for every meal. There were three meals square, three scheduled snacks, then a movie and pizza before lights out. And it was all fucking good. Most try to sneak shit into rehab. Being the fucked up person I am, I sneaked food out. One night, I managed to scam a full rib dinner. I called Dave and told him to meet me in the lobby so I could run the dinner out to him. That's how good the shit was.
Drop the etiquette if you want to know, just blurt it out. People in recovery love to hear themselves talk - trust me, go to a meeting. Depending on the person, you may lose a few hours of your life to the conversation you'll never gain back. The key is to act as if you know the lingo. Asking “how was rehab” is okay, but you might get an idiot like myself that rambles on about the food. Most people are really wanting to know what the fuck you were abusing so badly that your ass ended up in a rehab. In many cases, it should be pretty damn obvious. The guy who is slurring his words no matter what time of day you see him and smells like a distillery, you can pretty much guess he went in for alcohol treatment. Then there are those who you get a little shocked because they were secretly addicted to prescription medications. Even as an addict I have difficulty picking those fuckers out. Heroin addicts are easy. They are the ones with no veins left in their arms who are trying to lift your fine china and flat screen out of your house.
If you want to be “hip” within recovery culture, the correct phrase for inquiring as to what ones addiction is, “what was your drug of choice”. In any rehab facility or recovery group, people will say, “my drug of choice was” followed by the drug name or mulitple drugs. This makes sense because there is a never ending soup and salad bar of drugs out there. Dressing on the side please. Remember, alcohol is considered a drug. Again, be prepared when asking one what their drug of choice was. You may get more than you bargained for.
One guy, I will call Kenny because he spent two weeks in rehab with his jacket hood up and you only saw his eyes. My first day in group with him it comes this turn and he begins listing his drugs of choice. Holy shit, this list wasn't ending. The fucking thing was longer than a grocery list for both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners combined. There were drug names coming out of his mouth I had never even heard of. With all the drama in rehab, it is possible people will do that for attention or to proclaim themselves king of drug abuse. Not this guy, you could tell by his motor skills he did all those drugs and was most likely dropped on his head as a baby. By the time it came around to me, I felt like the guy in the gym locker room with the small penis – I only had two drugs of choice. I'll never be homecoming queen.
So there you have your etiquette for your next social function where someone in recovery is in attendance. Remember, the phrase is “what was your drug of choice”. Don't be shy or hesitant! Shit, if you are both single you might even get a date out of it.
Staying on topic, like many illnesses, people pussy foot around directly coming out and asking questions. This past Thanksgiving weekend, my little brother got married. After the wedding, I was hanging out with my new best found friend, his mother in law – love that lady! We're throwing a few back at the hotel bar after the reception chatting as if we had known each other since birth. I made a mention of my vacation to rehab the previous winter. In all serious and caring, she asks, “how was that”. Taking a drink of my beer I replied, “the food was do die for”. She burst our laughing repeating “the food was to die for?” Those who saw me after rehab, clearly noticed the 20 pounds in 16 days to the higher end of the scale. Shit, the place had a chef from the south who made down home cooking for every meal. There were three meals square, three scheduled snacks, then a movie and pizza before lights out. And it was all fucking good. Most try to sneak shit into rehab. Being the fucked up person I am, I sneaked food out. One night, I managed to scam a full rib dinner. I called Dave and told him to meet me in the lobby so I could run the dinner out to him. That's how good the shit was.
Drop the etiquette if you want to know, just blurt it out. People in recovery love to hear themselves talk - trust me, go to a meeting. Depending on the person, you may lose a few hours of your life to the conversation you'll never gain back. The key is to act as if you know the lingo. Asking “how was rehab” is okay, but you might get an idiot like myself that rambles on about the food. Most people are really wanting to know what the fuck you were abusing so badly that your ass ended up in a rehab. In many cases, it should be pretty damn obvious. The guy who is slurring his words no matter what time of day you see him and smells like a distillery, you can pretty much guess he went in for alcohol treatment. Then there are those who you get a little shocked because they were secretly addicted to prescription medications. Even as an addict I have difficulty picking those fuckers out. Heroin addicts are easy. They are the ones with no veins left in their arms who are trying to lift your fine china and flat screen out of your house.
If you want to be “hip” within recovery culture, the correct phrase for inquiring as to what ones addiction is, “what was your drug of choice”. In any rehab facility or recovery group, people will say, “my drug of choice was” followed by the drug name or mulitple drugs. This makes sense because there is a never ending soup and salad bar of drugs out there. Dressing on the side please. Remember, alcohol is considered a drug. Again, be prepared when asking one what their drug of choice was. You may get more than you bargained for.
One guy, I will call Kenny because he spent two weeks in rehab with his jacket hood up and you only saw his eyes. My first day in group with him it comes this turn and he begins listing his drugs of choice. Holy shit, this list wasn't ending. The fucking thing was longer than a grocery list for both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners combined. There were drug names coming out of his mouth I had never even heard of. With all the drama in rehab, it is possible people will do that for attention or to proclaim themselves king of drug abuse. Not this guy, you could tell by his motor skills he did all those drugs and was most likely dropped on his head as a baby. By the time it came around to me, I felt like the guy in the gym locker room with the small penis – I only had two drugs of choice. I'll never be homecoming queen.
So there you have your etiquette for your next social function where someone in recovery is in attendance. Remember, the phrase is “what was your drug of choice”. Don't be shy or hesitant! Shit, if you are both single you might even get a date out of it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Do It For Citibank... Oh, And Dead Ted...
Through my years in recovery, I have found addicts tend to be extremely creative. Outside of their addictions, many of these folks could be world renowned negotiators. Whoever came up with the phrase, “time is money” was off to a good start. Yet, it is the addict who perfected phrase with the concept “time is alcohol or drugs”. The functioning addict works hard all day. They watch the clock in anticipation for the second work is done. Five o'clock rolls around and woot, self medicating time begins!
An excellent alcoholic negotiator is past Senator Ted Kennedy. Dead Ted worked it. In his early political days, I'll bet a fifth of Crown Royal he didn't remember half the legislation he signed. Both Republicans and Democrats are quoted that Dead Ted could unite both parties on issues during late night filibusters in his office. Like that's fucking rocket science? Take a little controversial legislation, add in a few hookers, plenty of 20 year old scotch, and suddenly seniors have free health care. Now that's a fucking negotiator. Shit, he even got out of work early once, got fucked up, forget his car went off a bridge with some chick named Mary Jo in it, swam across a river to sober up, then turned is ass in to police. Show me the non-addict that could pull off a fucked up night like that and still get off.
We all cannot be wealthy senators with boot leggers for parents, but we still can be negotiators. One of my favorite negotiators I met in a recovery program was this guy we'll call Pete. Like the rest of us in recovery, Pete was missing large portions of his life due to black outs. Most of us play down those dark moments in life. Not Pete, he was going to use them to his advantage and provide entertainment while doing it.
Plastic Pete ran up a stack of credit card debt during his using days. Once on the sober track, Pete had to start digging his finances out. There really was no way to do this for those of us who know the cost of going to rehab. I can't generalize by saying we all have been through the harassing collection calls. There are you good eggs out there who don't fuck yourself by over extension. I however can relate to Plastic Pete since I also have been on the end of the collection bitches. These fucktard collection asswhipes go as far as asking how you are buying food for your family. Once you tell them that you can still afford food, they tell you to cut that budget so you can pay on the 33% interest they've now jacked your rate up to. You know the fat bitch on the other end of the phone telling you this is stuffing a fucking Twinkie in her mouth while suggesting you starve your family.
Good old Plastic Pete went on the defensive with these douche fucks. In the true American way, he turned blame for his addiction and debt on the credit card companies. His stories were classic. During one call, he demanded to speak to his cards legal department because in Michigan, any contract entered under undue influence was not valid. Plastic Pete swore Jack Daniels forced him to sign the application.
On another occasion, he agreed he would pay only charges made at one local bar and a local party store. His defense, those were the only two place in the past five years he recalls using a credit card . Any purchases made more than a mile from his home could not possibly be his because the state took his drivers license away years ago.
My favorite was when Plastic Pete told Citibank he was going to sue them for enabling his addiction and the legal fees for his drunk drivings. He argued with the collection agent that had Citibank better monitored their clients purchases, they would have seen a clear pattern that all of his were alcohol related. Had Citibank noticed this pattern and declined all future charges based on the fact he was drunk all the time. He then would have had to seek treatment and would have never gotten busted for drunk driving.
Pete said the collection agents would get so pissed tripping all over their words. Responses to charging while intoxicated must be something missing from their training manual. Plastic Pete ended up filing bankruptcy in the end, but it sounded like he had a shit load of fun along the way.
Now that is a fucking creative dude, fucked up, but creative.
An excellent alcoholic negotiator is past Senator Ted Kennedy. Dead Ted worked it. In his early political days, I'll bet a fifth of Crown Royal he didn't remember half the legislation he signed. Both Republicans and Democrats are quoted that Dead Ted could unite both parties on issues during late night filibusters in his office. Like that's fucking rocket science? Take a little controversial legislation, add in a few hookers, plenty of 20 year old scotch, and suddenly seniors have free health care. Now that's a fucking negotiator. Shit, he even got out of work early once, got fucked up, forget his car went off a bridge with some chick named Mary Jo in it, swam across a river to sober up, then turned is ass in to police. Show me the non-addict that could pull off a fucked up night like that and still get off.
We all cannot be wealthy senators with boot leggers for parents, but we still can be negotiators. One of my favorite negotiators I met in a recovery program was this guy we'll call Pete. Like the rest of us in recovery, Pete was missing large portions of his life due to black outs. Most of us play down those dark moments in life. Not Pete, he was going to use them to his advantage and provide entertainment while doing it.
Plastic Pete ran up a stack of credit card debt during his using days. Once on the sober track, Pete had to start digging his finances out. There really was no way to do this for those of us who know the cost of going to rehab. I can't generalize by saying we all have been through the harassing collection calls. There are you good eggs out there who don't fuck yourself by over extension. I however can relate to Plastic Pete since I also have been on the end of the collection bitches. These fucktard collection asswhipes go as far as asking how you are buying food for your family. Once you tell them that you can still afford food, they tell you to cut that budget so you can pay on the 33% interest they've now jacked your rate up to. You know the fat bitch on the other end of the phone telling you this is stuffing a fucking Twinkie in her mouth while suggesting you starve your family.
Good old Plastic Pete went on the defensive with these douche fucks. In the true American way, he turned blame for his addiction and debt on the credit card companies. His stories were classic. During one call, he demanded to speak to his cards legal department because in Michigan, any contract entered under undue influence was not valid. Plastic Pete swore Jack Daniels forced him to sign the application.
On another occasion, he agreed he would pay only charges made at one local bar and a local party store. His defense, those were the only two place in the past five years he recalls using a credit card . Any purchases made more than a mile from his home could not possibly be his because the state took his drivers license away years ago.
My favorite was when Plastic Pete told Citibank he was going to sue them for enabling his addiction and the legal fees for his drunk drivings. He argued with the collection agent that had Citibank better monitored their clients purchases, they would have seen a clear pattern that all of his were alcohol related. Had Citibank noticed this pattern and declined all future charges based on the fact he was drunk all the time. He then would have had to seek treatment and would have never gotten busted for drunk driving.
Pete said the collection agents would get so pissed tripping all over their words. Responses to charging while intoxicated must be something missing from their training manual. Plastic Pete ended up filing bankruptcy in the end, but it sounded like he had a shit load of fun along the way.
Now that is a fucking creative dude, fucked up, but creative.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Morbidly Obese Woman in Brown Polyester Drinking a Peanut Butter Shake Phobia
Throughout my cruel and beyond unusual sentence in this life time, I have run the gamut of shrinks and other mental health workers. What I have found to be universal is they will all diagnose you with past underlying issues. No shit, you're kidding me? All this time I thought my koutaliaphobia (fear of wooden spoons) was due to splinters – not the fact that my mother broke over 100 on my ass as a kid.
It usually takes an average of six to eight sessions, depending on your insurance, before they come to the underlying issue revelation. For the uninsured, it might be the second session followed by the phrase “you're too fucked up I cannot help you”. Either way, if you go for therapy, you will be told you have unresolved issues. As if we don't fucking know this. It's always nice to be reaffirmed that you are fucked up. Especially by someone with a professional license whom you are paying. It makes your fucked up-ness credible.
Good shrinks will tell you that resolving these past underlying issues can take years. They instead work in the here and now then address the underlying issues causing your current fucked up-ness. The insurance milker shrink will want to tackle every past issue never really getting to what is fucking you up in the present. As one shrink told me, it took me 40 years to get this fucked up, it could take him another 40 to go back and help me resolve all that shit. See, I just saved you thousands. Make sure your shrink works in the here and now. Oh, and if the shrink starts on the mother bullshit, run like you just stole a television during the LA riots.
Most of our fears stem from childhood. If you are ever really bored, think back and make a list of your fears as a kid. Of course, mine are rather fucked up. Here are a few: the dark, the zoo, the circus, animal shit, the toilet, snakes, condoms, G.I. Joe, Mister Rogers, school, the basement, heights, playing sports, Santa, just to name a few. They should just roll off the top of your head pretty easily with no effort.
General past fears we eventually get over with age. A few stick around which we manage as need be. I still have a strong fear of heights but can rationalize myself through a situation when at a high elevation. G.I. Joe can still freak me out. My penis ended up growing and my crotch no longer looks like his unless I manscape. However, some of our childhood fears can manifest and turn in to phobias. Most of these are treatable through cognitive therapy. There are those which are too complex and beyond fucked up to treat. Treatment generally involves exposing yourself to the fear gradually over a period of time. Then the traumas which are so fucked up might occur only once in a life time. These are multifaceted fears linked to a specific event. The problem with these phobias is the complexity and number of fears involved. An one of the facets can trigger panic. Recreation of the initial situation is near impossible. This prohibits exposure therapy. Basically, you're fucked in the ass if you have a complex phobia.
I have a multifaceted phobia which has crippled me to this day. There is no given phobia name. It is too fucked up. The only way to diagnose it is to call it what it is: Fear of morbidly obese woman with body odor, wearing tight brown polyester, drinking a peanut butter shake. Just typing that resulted in a gag reflex. In multifaceted phobias, not all elements need to occur simultaneously to create panic. Exposure to a single element can trigger anticipated panic causing the brain to subconsciously associate the single element with the others from the initial trauma thus resulting in a full blown panic attack.
Some traumatic events are repressed; others are as clear in or minds as they day they happened. This particular event is omnipresent. My exact age is unclear, but will guess 8 years old. It was summer time and the family was at the lake house. Every weekend, Mom and Dad would pick a night to take us putt-putt golfing then treat us to soft serve ice cream after the game. Most times my Dad had to finish my putts for me since I sucked at sports. This always resulted in my crying before the 18th hole. Putt-Putt courses that had windmills on a hole always freaked me out. I was always afraid my ball would get stuck and while trying to retrieve it, I would be decapitated. Water feature holes also scared me for there might be a snake in the water. It seemed as if time moved in slow motion while playing putt-putt. My only focus was it finally ending and running over to get in line for soft serve ice cream.
Being summer early evenings were quite warm and the soft serve ice cream stand always had a line. My parents would get a picnic table, give my brother and I money, and let us wait in line to order. Most of the other kids had to wait with their parents so we were the shit. This particular evening, my brother and I get stuck behind this family that was fat as fuck. I'm talking even the kids were as wide as they were tall. Forget trying to see what was happening in front of us being stuck behind these human billboards. I began to panic that this family being so large, their order would consume all the soft serve ice cream. The other line wasn't any shorter and more people had already formed behind us. When in lines, human nature seems to tell us the closer we get to those in front of us, the line will move faster which my brother and I did. Due to my panic of fat family eating all the soft serve, I didn't realize my face had ended up staring directly into morbidly obese moms ass crack. Suddenly, there was a smell. Not just any smell, but a smell so foul my eyes watered. It was a ass body odor smell, kind of synthetic, yet sharp like sour foot odor. I couldn't take it and motioned to my brother as I tried to turn to the side for air. Being the asshole my brother was, he caught the smell though was not as close as I was. He began pushing me so my head would actually hit her ass. I was terrified her smell would permeating into my skin. After several pushes I began to crying. What if I caught the smell and could never get rid of it? Would I smell like her forever? I already had no friends. This could make me the stinky gay fag at school. Gay fag was bad enough. At some point the Moby Marcia turned around and yelled at us to knock it off. I began to cry hysterically because all I saw was a brown Grimace, actually three conjoined Grimace's in a brown polyester stretch outfit. Her fat rolls changed shape as she turned to yell. Some actually appeared to be rolling in violence. The words were slow as they came from an oily wet face that had no definition from the mouth to her huge saggy tits. I wanted to run to my parents though I saw the fat family was ordering meaning we were next. I really didn't want soft serve ice cream at this point. I was covered in fat woman ass stank which I was convinced I would have for the rest of my life. This is when I heard Moby Marcia speak again: “An extra large peanut butter shake”. That was her order. I love peanut butter and shakes but not together. Now all I could think about was fat polyester ass stank with peanut butter and a shake. I was going to vomit. We stepped up to the window as fat family waddled off. My brother placed his order and my parents, then the woman looked at me. Nothing could come out of my mouth. The idea of eating anything made me want to barf. I started crying again and ran to find my parents. My brother ended up getting in trouble for teasing me. Once my Mom calmed me down, my dad went up and got me a chocolate dipped in chocolate soft serve cone. Yet, the smell would not go away.
35 years later, this experience haunts me and can trigger a full blown panic attack. Fat women in brown, boom panic attack. Seeing ice cream and peanut butter next to each other, boom panic attack. Fat people at soft serve ice cream stores, boom panic attack. The smell of sweat from polyester, boom panic attack. Soft serve ice cream on some levels will even trigger an attack. Due to the complexity of factors involved, there is no real way for me to get past this. It's just too fucked up for treatment. Those of you who take your kids for ice cream in the summer, keep them safe from fat woman in polyester.
It usually takes an average of six to eight sessions, depending on your insurance, before they come to the underlying issue revelation. For the uninsured, it might be the second session followed by the phrase “you're too fucked up I cannot help you”. Either way, if you go for therapy, you will be told you have unresolved issues. As if we don't fucking know this. It's always nice to be reaffirmed that you are fucked up. Especially by someone with a professional license whom you are paying. It makes your fucked up-ness credible.
Good shrinks will tell you that resolving these past underlying issues can take years. They instead work in the here and now then address the underlying issues causing your current fucked up-ness. The insurance milker shrink will want to tackle every past issue never really getting to what is fucking you up in the present. As one shrink told me, it took me 40 years to get this fucked up, it could take him another 40 to go back and help me resolve all that shit. See, I just saved you thousands. Make sure your shrink works in the here and now. Oh, and if the shrink starts on the mother bullshit, run like you just stole a television during the LA riots.
Most of our fears stem from childhood. If you are ever really bored, think back and make a list of your fears as a kid. Of course, mine are rather fucked up. Here are a few: the dark, the zoo, the circus, animal shit, the toilet, snakes, condoms, G.I. Joe, Mister Rogers, school, the basement, heights, playing sports, Santa, just to name a few. They should just roll off the top of your head pretty easily with no effort.
General past fears we eventually get over with age. A few stick around which we manage as need be. I still have a strong fear of heights but can rationalize myself through a situation when at a high elevation. G.I. Joe can still freak me out. My penis ended up growing and my crotch no longer looks like his unless I manscape. However, some of our childhood fears can manifest and turn in to phobias. Most of these are treatable through cognitive therapy. There are those which are too complex and beyond fucked up to treat. Treatment generally involves exposing yourself to the fear gradually over a period of time. Then the traumas which are so fucked up might occur only once in a life time. These are multifaceted fears linked to a specific event. The problem with these phobias is the complexity and number of fears involved. An one of the facets can trigger panic. Recreation of the initial situation is near impossible. This prohibits exposure therapy. Basically, you're fucked in the ass if you have a complex phobia.
I have a multifaceted phobia which has crippled me to this day. There is no given phobia name. It is too fucked up. The only way to diagnose it is to call it what it is: Fear of morbidly obese woman with body odor, wearing tight brown polyester, drinking a peanut butter shake. Just typing that resulted in a gag reflex. In multifaceted phobias, not all elements need to occur simultaneously to create panic. Exposure to a single element can trigger anticipated panic causing the brain to subconsciously associate the single element with the others from the initial trauma thus resulting in a full blown panic attack.
Some traumatic events are repressed; others are as clear in or minds as they day they happened. This particular event is omnipresent. My exact age is unclear, but will guess 8 years old. It was summer time and the family was at the lake house. Every weekend, Mom and Dad would pick a night to take us putt-putt golfing then treat us to soft serve ice cream after the game. Most times my Dad had to finish my putts for me since I sucked at sports. This always resulted in my crying before the 18th hole. Putt-Putt courses that had windmills on a hole always freaked me out. I was always afraid my ball would get stuck and while trying to retrieve it, I would be decapitated. Water feature holes also scared me for there might be a snake in the water. It seemed as if time moved in slow motion while playing putt-putt. My only focus was it finally ending and running over to get in line for soft serve ice cream.
Being summer early evenings were quite warm and the soft serve ice cream stand always had a line. My parents would get a picnic table, give my brother and I money, and let us wait in line to order. Most of the other kids had to wait with their parents so we were the shit. This particular evening, my brother and I get stuck behind this family that was fat as fuck. I'm talking even the kids were as wide as they were tall. Forget trying to see what was happening in front of us being stuck behind these human billboards. I began to panic that this family being so large, their order would consume all the soft serve ice cream. The other line wasn't any shorter and more people had already formed behind us. When in lines, human nature seems to tell us the closer we get to those in front of us, the line will move faster which my brother and I did. Due to my panic of fat family eating all the soft serve, I didn't realize my face had ended up staring directly into morbidly obese moms ass crack. Suddenly, there was a smell. Not just any smell, but a smell so foul my eyes watered. It was a ass body odor smell, kind of synthetic, yet sharp like sour foot odor. I couldn't take it and motioned to my brother as I tried to turn to the side for air. Being the asshole my brother was, he caught the smell though was not as close as I was. He began pushing me so my head would actually hit her ass. I was terrified her smell would permeating into my skin. After several pushes I began to crying. What if I caught the smell and could never get rid of it? Would I smell like her forever? I already had no friends. This could make me the stinky gay fag at school. Gay fag was bad enough. At some point the Moby Marcia turned around and yelled at us to knock it off. I began to cry hysterically because all I saw was a brown Grimace, actually three conjoined Grimace's in a brown polyester stretch outfit. Her fat rolls changed shape as she turned to yell. Some actually appeared to be rolling in violence. The words were slow as they came from an oily wet face that had no definition from the mouth to her huge saggy tits. I wanted to run to my parents though I saw the fat family was ordering meaning we were next. I really didn't want soft serve ice cream at this point. I was covered in fat woman ass stank which I was convinced I would have for the rest of my life. This is when I heard Moby Marcia speak again: “An extra large peanut butter shake”. That was her order. I love peanut butter and shakes but not together. Now all I could think about was fat polyester ass stank with peanut butter and a shake. I was going to vomit. We stepped up to the window as fat family waddled off. My brother placed his order and my parents, then the woman looked at me. Nothing could come out of my mouth. The idea of eating anything made me want to barf. I started crying again and ran to find my parents. My brother ended up getting in trouble for teasing me. Once my Mom calmed me down, my dad went up and got me a chocolate dipped in chocolate soft serve cone. Yet, the smell would not go away.
35 years later, this experience haunts me and can trigger a full blown panic attack. Fat women in brown, boom panic attack. Seeing ice cream and peanut butter next to each other, boom panic attack. Fat people at soft serve ice cream stores, boom panic attack. The smell of sweat from polyester, boom panic attack. Soft serve ice cream on some levels will even trigger an attack. Due to the complexity of factors involved, there is no real way for me to get past this. It's just too fucked up for treatment. Those of you who take your kids for ice cream in the summer, keep them safe from fat woman in polyester.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Eurotophobia.... The Root of all Issues....
There are a whole lot of assholes out there who derive endless bullshit theories about how the human brain actually works. My personal favorite is the suggestion that when something happens which is so traumatic, our brain has the ability to block, then store it so deep in our subconscious we have no recollection. Roll with me here and let's examine this theory with critical thinking. Grab a drink if you're a boozer; druggies, you'll get into this – drop some acid or smoke a joint. Heroin users to the back of the bus... you are beyond fucked up and talk too much for this process.
Have you ever contemplated why not one human can recollect their conception or being born? Most people don't begin retaining memories until age five. Since I suck at math, let's round this shit off. If the average human lives 70 years, yet cannot remember the first five, they have forgotten 14% of their life. For us addicts, this percentage can grow exponentially depending on how many black outs we've experienced from using. I know I met some folks during my rehab days who couldn't remember half the shit they've done. It's pretty fucking scary that by the time they die, which will be way before age 70, they'll be lucky to have remembered 10% of their life.
For this blog entry I'm just going to focus on why we don't recall the first five years of life. In my well thought, fucked up opinion, conception and the birth process are the most mortifying, psychologically damaging, and abusive experiences a human will ever endure. Once the government sticks their nose up our asses again and makes a final determination if while in the womb it's a fetus or human, shits gonna fly. Jesus score me damn good drugs if they pick human. When they call that thing human, all you who procreate are going to get slapped with double felony charges of child abuse.
You're really smoking something good if you don't believe this whole process is child abuse. The real picture is for approximately nine months, the baby is shoved in a restrictive bag. The medical profession likes pussy paint it and call this “bag” a womb. We have blocked out how restrictive this so called womb bag really is, however, we've all seen pictures. Spirit Airline seats have more fucking elbow room than this womb bag. Even if you have the misfortune of having to sit next to some 400 pound heffer there is still more space on Spirit than this damn womb bag. Next, while in this tiny womb bag, the baby is forced to live in its own shit and piss. Oh, and don't forget it's dark in there. In a nut shell, those who procreate choose to shove an innocent baby in some small dark assed bag to live in its own excrement for nine months. If that's not psychologically damaging and clear abuse, then let's elect Chuckie Manson Surgeon General.
Moving on to our next felony charge, the so called “miracle of birth”. Wake up asswipe, it's not a fucking miracle. The kid finally got up the strength to get the hell out of that smelly ass bag it was forced to live in. Now the real kicker. In order to escape, the kid spends hours trying to squeeze through this narrow chamber which is coated in slime and has a stench from fucking hell. By the time it finally escapes, its head looks like a football, every vein in its body is a blistering penis purple color, and all body parts start shaking like a junkie needing a fix because the kid knows the placenta is right behind preparing for another attack. Tim Robbins escape through the jail sewer pipe filled with prisoner shit in Shawshank Redemption was a walk in the park when compared to this “the miracle of birth.” bullshit.
Once we manage to escape from the torture endured while being in the womb bag, now is the point we begin our very first recovery in life. The longevity of the recovery clearly shows how scaring the conception/birth trauma is. For the first half of year after escape, we can only consume liquids. The ability to walk will take nearly three years. We piss and shit ourselves for four years. Even the simplest of things such as sitting up right can take 18 months due to the trauma endured. It's no wonder our brains regress almost all memories from the experience deep into our subconscious. It could also explain why so many kids are so fucked up.
Not all of us completely have been able to lock the birth trauma way and have never fully recovered from the experience. I am living proof. Society has labeled persons such as myself “homosexual.” Thousands of studies have been conducted trying to locate a gene to prove homosexuals are born predisposition to like penis. Not just their own penis, but any penis the homosexual can find. Whether it be at a night club, rest area, or bath house, we don't care who it is attached to – we fucking want it. Science needs to pull their head from their asses, if there is anything fun up there they are welcome to share, and realize the homosexuality is a phobia, not a gene. Unlike the heterosexual, the homosexual has not fully repressed the conception/birth trauma. The homo partially recalls struggling down that dark, vial smelling, canal in order to escape the womb bag. The result is the cock sucker develops Eurotophobia at an early age. Eurotophobia is the fear of vagina's. So many have suffered and allowed society to classify us as homosexual. In reality, we suffer from Eurotophobia. Unfortunately, there is currently no treatment known for Eurotophobia. Hundreds of thousands live with it on a daily basis. Because of the number of years I have had to deal with this phobia, I actually have become quite comfortable with sucking dick and taking it in the ass. In fact, it's actually quite pleasurable.
What is important to understand, is in some form, conscious or subconscious, we are all brothers and sisters in recovery. Judge not those in recovery - embrace and support them. I had a buddies wife who was always passing judgment on the dozens of recovery programs I had burned through. Little did she know her husband was still in recovery with Eurotophobia......
Have you ever contemplated why not one human can recollect their conception or being born? Most people don't begin retaining memories until age five. Since I suck at math, let's round this shit off. If the average human lives 70 years, yet cannot remember the first five, they have forgotten 14% of their life. For us addicts, this percentage can grow exponentially depending on how many black outs we've experienced from using. I know I met some folks during my rehab days who couldn't remember half the shit they've done. It's pretty fucking scary that by the time they die, which will be way before age 70, they'll be lucky to have remembered 10% of their life.
For this blog entry I'm just going to focus on why we don't recall the first five years of life. In my well thought, fucked up opinion, conception and the birth process are the most mortifying, psychologically damaging, and abusive experiences a human will ever endure. Once the government sticks their nose up our asses again and makes a final determination if while in the womb it's a fetus or human, shits gonna fly. Jesus score me damn good drugs if they pick human. When they call that thing human, all you who procreate are going to get slapped with double felony charges of child abuse.
You're really smoking something good if you don't believe this whole process is child abuse. The real picture is for approximately nine months, the baby is shoved in a restrictive bag. The medical profession likes pussy paint it and call this “bag” a womb. We have blocked out how restrictive this so called womb bag really is, however, we've all seen pictures. Spirit Airline seats have more fucking elbow room than this womb bag. Even if you have the misfortune of having to sit next to some 400 pound heffer there is still more space on Spirit than this damn womb bag. Next, while in this tiny womb bag, the baby is forced to live in its own shit and piss. Oh, and don't forget it's dark in there. In a nut shell, those who procreate choose to shove an innocent baby in some small dark assed bag to live in its own excrement for nine months. If that's not psychologically damaging and clear abuse, then let's elect Chuckie Manson Surgeon General.
Moving on to our next felony charge, the so called “miracle of birth”. Wake up asswipe, it's not a fucking miracle. The kid finally got up the strength to get the hell out of that smelly ass bag it was forced to live in. Now the real kicker. In order to escape, the kid spends hours trying to squeeze through this narrow chamber which is coated in slime and has a stench from fucking hell. By the time it finally escapes, its head looks like a football, every vein in its body is a blistering penis purple color, and all body parts start shaking like a junkie needing a fix because the kid knows the placenta is right behind preparing for another attack. Tim Robbins escape through the jail sewer pipe filled with prisoner shit in Shawshank Redemption was a walk in the park when compared to this “the miracle of birth.” bullshit.
Once we manage to escape from the torture endured while being in the womb bag, now is the point we begin our very first recovery in life. The longevity of the recovery clearly shows how scaring the conception/birth trauma is. For the first half of year after escape, we can only consume liquids. The ability to walk will take nearly three years. We piss and shit ourselves for four years. Even the simplest of things such as sitting up right can take 18 months due to the trauma endured. It's no wonder our brains regress almost all memories from the experience deep into our subconscious. It could also explain why so many kids are so fucked up.
Not all of us completely have been able to lock the birth trauma way and have never fully recovered from the experience. I am living proof. Society has labeled persons such as myself “homosexual.” Thousands of studies have been conducted trying to locate a gene to prove homosexuals are born predisposition to like penis. Not just their own penis, but any penis the homosexual can find. Whether it be at a night club, rest area, or bath house, we don't care who it is attached to – we fucking want it. Science needs to pull their head from their asses, if there is anything fun up there they are welcome to share, and realize the homosexuality is a phobia, not a gene. Unlike the heterosexual, the homosexual has not fully repressed the conception/birth trauma. The homo partially recalls struggling down that dark, vial smelling, canal in order to escape the womb bag. The result is the cock sucker develops Eurotophobia at an early age. Eurotophobia is the fear of vagina's. So many have suffered and allowed society to classify us as homosexual. In reality, we suffer from Eurotophobia. Unfortunately, there is currently no treatment known for Eurotophobia. Hundreds of thousands live with it on a daily basis. Because of the number of years I have had to deal with this phobia, I actually have become quite comfortable with sucking dick and taking it in the ass. In fact, it's actually quite pleasurable.
What is important to understand, is in some form, conscious or subconscious, we are all brothers and sisters in recovery. Judge not those in recovery - embrace and support them. I had a buddies wife who was always passing judgment on the dozens of recovery programs I had burned through. Little did she know her husband was still in recovery with Eurotophobia......
Howard Jones Was Wrong.... You're Fucking To Blame
As a society we have evolved over the past three decades into blame seekers. Let's face it, no one takes responsibility these days. We have been psychologically trained by every information outlet that NOTHING could be our inherent fault; there must be someone else to blame. It goes back to when we were kids and instinct told us, if you don't feel good about yourself, pick on the fat kid. Even the biggest loser could gain self esteem by picking on the fat kid. Or, if you were lucky enough to have a gay kid in school, there's an even better target. The fat kid could pick on the gay kid and gain self esteem. I was that gay kid. Sometimes I did have a few friends who were girls, but they just stole my Barbies and made me cry – bitches.
As a self proclaimed whack-job, I believe I have traced the single man solely responsible for transitioning our society into a bunch of spineless pussies whom now feel they are responsible for nothing. This fucker is Dr. Thomas Harris. He is the douche bag who wrote the 1969 best seller I'm OK, You're OK. Harris has a medical degree but can't spell “okay”? Um yeah....
The reason I am writing about Harris and his book specifically is because it was the first self help publication which gained worldwide notoriety. It spent two years on the New York Times Best Sellers List and has sold over 15 million copies to date. This fucker opened the door for hundreds of thousand other freaks to spew and publish other books proclaiming self help and inner improvement to readers. Shit, I would go as far as to blame Harris for the fact we have to look at Oprah's fat ass on television. No matter what the content of any self help book, the basic theory is always the same – You're not to blame, some other asshole is.
Let's examine first, why Harris's book was such a success. This is fucking easy. It's 1969, you had a bunch of lost souls getting out of college who didn't study and blew their parents cash. They were too busy running around protesting, burning bras, doing any form of synthetic drug that could be made in a garbage can, and trying at any expense not to be like their parents. Now add in all the guys coming back from Vietnam who got blown apart and had access to even better drugs abroad. All these drug heads were raised under the Judeo–Christian principles of guilt. They all knew how they totally fucked up and the guilt was killing them. Enter in Dr. Thomas Harris with this toilet paper book. It clearly stated that nothing these young adults did was their fault, and presto, it's all okay! Shit, it's Harris who in essence got Slick Willie off the hook for shoving a cigar up Monica Lewinsky's twat.
Harris made a good fiction writer. He took the theories of Freud, threw them in a Cuisinart, added a few studies of Eric Berne, then pushed the puree button. Garnished with a shit load of adjectives and personal pronouns, and presto! I'm OK, You're OK was ready to serve. Consumed by the college fuck up crowd of that decade, Harris told them it was all their parents fault. If you were digesting Harris's book upon return from Vietnam, Uncle Sam is to blame for your fucked up-ness. If someone was really fucked up, then blame both the parents and Uncle Sam! No matter what, just know you are not responsible and by placing blame elsewhere, no one will care what the fuck you did!
Obviously, this little snowball Harris threw back in 1969 has created more avalanches in theories and blame. Alcoholics blame a parent. Pedophiles blame other Pedophiles. Wife beaters blame alcohol. People who default on loans blame the banks. Prolife advocates blame Maude. I could ramble on however I think you get the picture. I keep trying to figure out who to blame for my small penis. That's a tough one because I really cannot demand male family members to drop trou', get wood, and start measuring during a holiday party.
As a fresh start to the New Year, I encourage you starting today! Even when the smallest thing goes wrong in your life, stop, place blame elsewhere, and feel good about yourself. If you are a loner, get a dog! Dogs are easy to place blame on. They cannot talk back. If you cannot get a dog to take blame... then you're really fucked up and should just end it now.
As a self proclaimed whack-job, I believe I have traced the single man solely responsible for transitioning our society into a bunch of spineless pussies whom now feel they are responsible for nothing. This fucker is Dr. Thomas Harris. He is the douche bag who wrote the 1969 best seller I'm OK, You're OK. Harris has a medical degree but can't spell “okay”? Um yeah....
The reason I am writing about Harris and his book specifically is because it was the first self help publication which gained worldwide notoriety. It spent two years on the New York Times Best Sellers List and has sold over 15 million copies to date. This fucker opened the door for hundreds of thousand other freaks to spew and publish other books proclaiming self help and inner improvement to readers. Shit, I would go as far as to blame Harris for the fact we have to look at Oprah's fat ass on television. No matter what the content of any self help book, the basic theory is always the same – You're not to blame, some other asshole is.
Let's examine first, why Harris's book was such a success. This is fucking easy. It's 1969, you had a bunch of lost souls getting out of college who didn't study and blew their parents cash. They were too busy running around protesting, burning bras, doing any form of synthetic drug that could be made in a garbage can, and trying at any expense not to be like their parents. Now add in all the guys coming back from Vietnam who got blown apart and had access to even better drugs abroad. All these drug heads were raised under the Judeo–Christian principles of guilt. They all knew how they totally fucked up and the guilt was killing them. Enter in Dr. Thomas Harris with this toilet paper book. It clearly stated that nothing these young adults did was their fault, and presto, it's all okay! Shit, it's Harris who in essence got Slick Willie off the hook for shoving a cigar up Monica Lewinsky's twat.
Harris made a good fiction writer. He took the theories of Freud, threw them in a Cuisinart, added a few studies of Eric Berne, then pushed the puree button. Garnished with a shit load of adjectives and personal pronouns, and presto! I'm OK, You're OK was ready to serve. Consumed by the college fuck up crowd of that decade, Harris told them it was all their parents fault. If you were digesting Harris's book upon return from Vietnam, Uncle Sam is to blame for your fucked up-ness. If someone was really fucked up, then blame both the parents and Uncle Sam! No matter what, just know you are not responsible and by placing blame elsewhere, no one will care what the fuck you did!
Obviously, this little snowball Harris threw back in 1969 has created more avalanches in theories and blame. Alcoholics blame a parent. Pedophiles blame other Pedophiles. Wife beaters blame alcohol. People who default on loans blame the banks. Prolife advocates blame Maude. I could ramble on however I think you get the picture. I keep trying to figure out who to blame for my small penis. That's a tough one because I really cannot demand male family members to drop trou', get wood, and start measuring during a holiday party.
As a fresh start to the New Year, I encourage you starting today! Even when the smallest thing goes wrong in your life, stop, place blame elsewhere, and feel good about yourself. If you are a loner, get a dog! Dogs are easy to place blame on. They cannot talk back. If you cannot get a dog to take blame... then you're really fucked up and should just end it now.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid.......
When you are in a 12 step program or self help group, there brings on a colorful cast of characters one will meet. Again, you will always manage to find someone more fucked up than yourself. Parenting conversations always tends to top the list. As in any new group, the more you open the door, the more bizarre the shit gets.
An interesting difference between those one meets in recovery programs verses persons met outside recovery programs is the blatancy of personal issues quickly disclosed. The tolerance threshold for such issues is also completely different. Imagine you are having coffee with a person you socialize with at a recovery group or from another social setting such as the gym. During the conversation, this relative stranger blurts out they like to utilize kitchen utensils for sexual anal stimulation. For the non-recovery situation, the normal individual finds an immediate excuse to get the hell away from the person. They likely will even change their work out schedule to avoid this person in the future. Taking it a step further, they will give this person a nickname, share it with others at the gym, who all will now call him Kitchen Aid Kevin behind his back. In the contrasting dynamics of recovery social disclosure, such a statement is not a big deal. It may even be blurted out while asking to pass the Equal. Generally, the response back would be something such as “wow, you must have been really fucked up to do that”. There might even be those who would proudly disclose something even more bizarre in an attempt to top the others story.
Even though I am on the recovery side of many social interactions, I still believe the old cliche “somethings are better left unsaid”. This takes me back to the topic of fucked up parenting. A woman I will call Pat, since I wouldn't use her real name and for the life of me cannot remember it, was someone who missed the cliche along the road. I met Pat in a recovery program about five years ago. She was always well accessorized, educated, and smoked which made us an instant chatty Cathy match. I only knew Pat for no longer than two weeks. People in recovery groups come and go quickly.
A topic during one of our conversations was ways we hid alcohol so we always had access to it. This is a normal, basic topic for us alcoholics. However, I still deem Pat the reigning master of this skill. When those of us in recovery get on such topics, they are generally not discussed with gleaming pride, nor are they in great remorse. The tone is generally as if you are chatting about something you read in the Wall Street Journal. During Pat's major boozing days, she told me of how she mixed her drinks in baby bottles, packed them in the diaper bag, or hid them under the baby in its carrier. She never did say if she was also packing formula in case the kid was thirsty, but did tell me she always had enough bottles packed to keep her sauced no matter where she went. Already being well socialized into recovery conversation, my first response was to ask her what she was drinking. The whole idea of her endangering her kids lives really wasn't a concern.
You have to admit, Pat was pretty genius while at the same time being fucked up than me Here you have the average well put together soccer Mom driving down the road in her mini van, reaching in the diaper bag for the kids bottle, then swigging down straight vodka as if she is testing the baby's formula. Or, take if she was at your home for a play date. She takes the baby and diaper bag in another room so she can change the kid, in the process she downs some gin from another formula bottle. No one is the wiser. Suddenly when she is slurring her words, or falls face down on the floor, folks will claim they never saw her drinking and don't understand how she got trashed. Even had Pat never told me this story and I were present, I would have gone straight to the diaper bag and bottles. I still do wonder how she never fucked up and gave the kid the wrong bottle.
An interesting difference between those one meets in recovery programs verses persons met outside recovery programs is the blatancy of personal issues quickly disclosed. The tolerance threshold for such issues is also completely different. Imagine you are having coffee with a person you socialize with at a recovery group or from another social setting such as the gym. During the conversation, this relative stranger blurts out they like to utilize kitchen utensils for sexual anal stimulation. For the non-recovery situation, the normal individual finds an immediate excuse to get the hell away from the person. They likely will even change their work out schedule to avoid this person in the future. Taking it a step further, they will give this person a nickname, share it with others at the gym, who all will now call him Kitchen Aid Kevin behind his back. In the contrasting dynamics of recovery social disclosure, such a statement is not a big deal. It may even be blurted out while asking to pass the Equal. Generally, the response back would be something such as “wow, you must have been really fucked up to do that”. There might even be those who would proudly disclose something even more bizarre in an attempt to top the others story.
Even though I am on the recovery side of many social interactions, I still believe the old cliche “somethings are better left unsaid”. This takes me back to the topic of fucked up parenting. A woman I will call Pat, since I wouldn't use her real name and for the life of me cannot remember it, was someone who missed the cliche along the road. I met Pat in a recovery program about five years ago. She was always well accessorized, educated, and smoked which made us an instant chatty Cathy match. I only knew Pat for no longer than two weeks. People in recovery groups come and go quickly.
A topic during one of our conversations was ways we hid alcohol so we always had access to it. This is a normal, basic topic for us alcoholics. However, I still deem Pat the reigning master of this skill. When those of us in recovery get on such topics, they are generally not discussed with gleaming pride, nor are they in great remorse. The tone is generally as if you are chatting about something you read in the Wall Street Journal. During Pat's major boozing days, she told me of how she mixed her drinks in baby bottles, packed them in the diaper bag, or hid them under the baby in its carrier. She never did say if she was also packing formula in case the kid was thirsty, but did tell me she always had enough bottles packed to keep her sauced no matter where she went. Already being well socialized into recovery conversation, my first response was to ask her what she was drinking. The whole idea of her endangering her kids lives really wasn't a concern.
You have to admit, Pat was pretty genius while at the same time being fucked up than me Here you have the average well put together soccer Mom driving down the road in her mini van, reaching in the diaper bag for the kids bottle, then swigging down straight vodka as if she is testing the baby's formula. Or, take if she was at your home for a play date. She takes the baby and diaper bag in another room so she can change the kid, in the process she downs some gin from another formula bottle. No one is the wiser. Suddenly when she is slurring her words, or falls face down on the floor, folks will claim they never saw her drinking and don't understand how she got trashed. Even had Pat never told me this story and I were present, I would have gone straight to the diaper bag and bottles. I still do wonder how she never fucked up and gave the kid the wrong bottle.
New Years.... The Recovery Industry Wet Dream
The New Year is the true catalyst of the self help and recovery industry. Today, inpatient rehab facilities are braced for an influx of patients. I dare you, call around to facilities and try to get a bed today. You'll find a waiting list. My little vacation to a rehab hospital was shortly after the first of the year. This alone could take me off in a thousand fucked up directions about rehab and will through the course of my blog. For now, I'll stick to the basic administration process for today's purposes.
A January morning, I wake up in the midst of a break down that a pharmacy of Klonpin couldn't calm. Suddenly, I decided today is a good day to go to rehab. Fortunately, there is a good facility close to my house. I do a quick Google to get their number, call, and by the luck of the rehab Jesus, they have a bed. Again, there are more fucked up dynamics to this process but I only have your attention for a short period here.
I'm given a time to be there for check in, and the basics of what to pack. Looking in the mirror, I am death on a cracker. No matter what gutter I have fallen into or crawled out of during my lifetime, I have always been clean, groomed, and well dressed. Not sure if it has to do with my being a fag or my mothers Joan Crawford up bringing about appearances, but either way, cannot leave the house looking that horrid. A few more Klonopin and I am shaving, showering, and pop into a nice pair of pressed trousers complimented with a Ralph Lauren oxford shirt. Shoes and belt are matching leather of course. What to pack for a two week stay at a rehab facility will be an entirely different blog entry.
Arriving at the hospital, my father drops me, my partner, and my pile of luggage off at the admissions entrance. The place is just like any other small scale hospital. A check in desk, a few chairs for you to wait in if the reception folks are tied up, and closed doors which lead back to the main waiting area. Since I did make a reservation, they had my endless pile of forms prepared. We were then escorted through the closed doors to the larger waiting room. There are five other people in this room awaiting admission, two of which are obvious soon to be patients, the others are either friends or family members getting them checked in. A young lady, I'm guessing in her 20's, whose face is hidden under a rats nest of hair, is sleeping or passed out on the floor covered in a blanket. She's laying at the feet of a woman I suspect is her mother. The other is a young man who is in pretty bad shape. He's sporting the uncleanly rapper look as he is curled up in a chair next to his parents. Suddenly, seeing these two individuals who are soon to be my peers, a feeling of calm comes over me. It's that calm which is the basis of my blog. I'm fucked up, at a total low moment, however I am put in a room with two persons who are way more fucked up than I am. This is how fucked up folks operate and find self worth. We're not happy the others are more fucked up than us, we are just happy we are as fucked up as them. I'm also a little taken back on why these parents or friends allowed these two individuals to go out in public looking as they did. Anyone who let me go out looking like that would be on my death list.
Now the most interesting part of basic criteria for being admitted to a rehab facility – you have to be fucked up at the time of admission. This is not saying fucked up in the head, but instead, strung out, drunk, stoned, or whatever term you care to use. They have to find substances in your blood considered addictive in nature. On the opposite end of the this coin, if you are too fucked up they cannot admit you. The latter makes sense to me since they truly are not a emergency medical facility. However, the fact you need to be currently jacked up on something for admission totally lost me. Last thing to enter my thought process when I am sitting around getting totally wasted is “Wow, I'm fucked up. I need to kill my buzz and check into a rehab”. Most people I know cry for help when they are coming down and crash. By the time I got there my alcohol level was normal. I was admitted because of the high levels of Benzo's they found in my blood. Still, if I simply drank and went to check in sober, would I have had to go down to the bar, get wasted, then come back so my blood alcohol met the criteria for treatment? I had a bottle of cologne in my luggage I suppose I could have grabbed and chugged it down to get my blood alcohol level up. My understanding is hair spray is a better choice but we will leave that to Kitty Dukakis. See again, someone more fucked up than me! No matter what, you can always find someone more fucked up than yourself. It's like being fat, there's always someone fatter than you.
A January morning, I wake up in the midst of a break down that a pharmacy of Klonpin couldn't calm. Suddenly, I decided today is a good day to go to rehab. Fortunately, there is a good facility close to my house. I do a quick Google to get their number, call, and by the luck of the rehab Jesus, they have a bed. Again, there are more fucked up dynamics to this process but I only have your attention for a short period here.
I'm given a time to be there for check in, and the basics of what to pack. Looking in the mirror, I am death on a cracker. No matter what gutter I have fallen into or crawled out of during my lifetime, I have always been clean, groomed, and well dressed. Not sure if it has to do with my being a fag or my mothers Joan Crawford up bringing about appearances, but either way, cannot leave the house looking that horrid. A few more Klonopin and I am shaving, showering, and pop into a nice pair of pressed trousers complimented with a Ralph Lauren oxford shirt. Shoes and belt are matching leather of course. What to pack for a two week stay at a rehab facility will be an entirely different blog entry.
Arriving at the hospital, my father drops me, my partner, and my pile of luggage off at the admissions entrance. The place is just like any other small scale hospital. A check in desk, a few chairs for you to wait in if the reception folks are tied up, and closed doors which lead back to the main waiting area. Since I did make a reservation, they had my endless pile of forms prepared. We were then escorted through the closed doors to the larger waiting room. There are five other people in this room awaiting admission, two of which are obvious soon to be patients, the others are either friends or family members getting them checked in. A young lady, I'm guessing in her 20's, whose face is hidden under a rats nest of hair, is sleeping or passed out on the floor covered in a blanket. She's laying at the feet of a woman I suspect is her mother. The other is a young man who is in pretty bad shape. He's sporting the uncleanly rapper look as he is curled up in a chair next to his parents. Suddenly, seeing these two individuals who are soon to be my peers, a feeling of calm comes over me. It's that calm which is the basis of my blog. I'm fucked up, at a total low moment, however I am put in a room with two persons who are way more fucked up than I am. This is how fucked up folks operate and find self worth. We're not happy the others are more fucked up than us, we are just happy we are as fucked up as them. I'm also a little taken back on why these parents or friends allowed these two individuals to go out in public looking as they did. Anyone who let me go out looking like that would be on my death list.
Now the most interesting part of basic criteria for being admitted to a rehab facility – you have to be fucked up at the time of admission. This is not saying fucked up in the head, but instead, strung out, drunk, stoned, or whatever term you care to use. They have to find substances in your blood considered addictive in nature. On the opposite end of the this coin, if you are too fucked up they cannot admit you. The latter makes sense to me since they truly are not a emergency medical facility. However, the fact you need to be currently jacked up on something for admission totally lost me. Last thing to enter my thought process when I am sitting around getting totally wasted is “Wow, I'm fucked up. I need to kill my buzz and check into a rehab”. Most people I know cry for help when they are coming down and crash. By the time I got there my alcohol level was normal. I was admitted because of the high levels of Benzo's they found in my blood. Still, if I simply drank and went to check in sober, would I have had to go down to the bar, get wasted, then come back so my blood alcohol met the criteria for treatment? I had a bottle of cologne in my luggage I suppose I could have grabbed and chugged it down to get my blood alcohol level up. My understanding is hair spray is a better choice but we will leave that to Kitty Dukakis. See again, someone more fucked up than me! No matter what, you can always find someone more fucked up than yourself. It's like being fat, there's always someone fatter than you.
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