I’m So Vain I Probably Think This Blog is About Me

Which is why I’ve been ignoring it. I’m like an emotionally abusive husband to myself. What does that have to do with vanity? Well maybe I’m just so into myself I don’t even have time to pay attention to myself and sometimes when I jerk off I don’t even finish myself off because it’s all about me and once I get mine why do I care if I get mine? Get off or get off am I right me? Shit wtf am I talking about?

Oh yeah, me.

So yeah since I write this for me I’m like “whatever dude I’m not writing a blog today bitch” and I’m all like “but you never blog like you used to blog, remember when you’d hold me and we’d just blog all night?” And I’m like, “bitch I’m fucking your sister.” Then I’m like, “you know my sister is your sister right?” and then I sort of gross myself out. But then I remember what I was talking about and I’m like, “listen we just started seeing each other me, let’s not get all serious” and I’m all like, “but I thought we really had something” and then I’m all like… “sometimes I just need my space.”

This is getting out of control. I’ll get to the point.

I’m quitting my job. The one I talk shit about all the time. I’m not exaggerating in those posts, seriously it’s shit. I mean my job is kind of cool but this place is a cesspool. I’m doing the same job but for a different company (don’t worry I’m not blogging for a living I’m not that crazy hahahahahahahhahahhhahhaaahahahahhaha riight? RIGHT! <slaps himself and asks himself why he makes himself hit himself>

No for reals though I quit which means I have a mess to clean up before I go because I’m the only one here who does what I do, plus I have this whole search history thing I need to deal with (aka figure out how to delete from remote servers) and I’m trying to stockpile enough content for their blogs and whatnot so their optimization and social media doesn’t start to sink. Despite this being a cesspool I worked too hard to let that happen, at least not for a few months yet.

What I’m saying is, I’m not going to quit blogging because I do it for me.

But also, unless by some mistake of the universe my blog gets semi-popular, it really doesn’t warrant any excuse for not posting for a week or two weeks (and if the universe makes a cosmic mistake they will regret and this gets popular I’ll let people know I didn’t drop off the face of the earth… but that won’t happen because my next post is going to be about…)


Still working on the title. See, this shit will never catch on.

Laterz yo. I’ll get more semi-daily about this shit once things settle down.

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Because I Feel Bad About the Last Entry of the Week Being a Poem… HERE’S HOW NUMBERS WORK YEAH!

This is going to be really short.

Freshman Algebra for some reason we get into Social Security numbers. My guess why? Teacher was trying to steal some identities in retrospect, but who knows.

Obnoxious Kid (Me): Hey, what happens when there are more people than numbers?

Professor Math Genius: They’ll add more. Open your…

Me: No I mean there are nine spaces, 3-2-4. So what they just add another number like no big deal? 3-3-4? 4-2-4? 3-2-5?

Professor Math Genius: Why do you keep saying numbers? You know what, never mind, please…

Me: Numbers. Spaces. Place holders. That space is limited and in high demand. You know they’ll run out right? So where will the place holders go?

Professor Math Genius: They’ll start using zeros in there.

Me: O.o…   Um…   o.O…    I…   >.<….   I

Professor Math Genius: Moving along, please…


Professor Math Genius: Language! <calms down> They’ll add zeros David it’s not important.

Me: <raises hand this time to make up for the cussing but forgets about the part where you need to be called on> Let’s test your little theory!

Professor Math Genius: <suddenly must have a headache because he takes off his glasses and starts rubbing his eyes>

Me: Put a zero anywhere you want in a Social Security number and I’ll bet I can name that number. And I’ll bet that number isn’t infiniti! WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THERE ARE MORE PEOPLE! 

Professor Math Genius: <I suspect he was hungover now that I think about it, I’d be hungover if I had to teach me math> They’ll move the numbers around can we get on with…


Professor Math Genius: David! Office now!

Me: SHIT! <jumps out of desk, grabs chalk, starts writing out a Social Security numbers to prove a point. Professor Math Genius tries to take chalk from David. David throws chalk across room and marches straight to the office where he gets 3 days detention>

And….. scene!

The moral is you shouldn’t cuss in class kids, and apparently 9 digits is < or = to infinity. Either way no worries because you can always just stick a zero somewhere.



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Every Business Person in Busyville Loved Being Busy a Lot… (Hey, don’t read this, I was bored. I see some people clicked here. I apologize. I’ll add something less lame in a bit.)

But David who writes advertising DOES NOT!

David hates business! The whole business season!

You can ask why, and he’ll probably tell you the reason.

Businesses are greedy and soulless, they can’t help it

But we’ve turned them into people with a vote and he don’t like it.

But most of all it’s because of you, busy business people who think it’s important

(And shit I can’t think of anything that rhymes with important!)


Whatever the reason, business people or their shoes

Writing business advice columns makes him snooze


So instead of doing his job like a good business cog

He jots down a poem about business in his blog.


Dear guy who does payroll across the open floor,

Everyone sees you swilling mouthwash after lunch and before.

Breath is important, especially for the talkative type like you,

But man up and put vodka in your water bottle like I do.


Dear training manager lady who is about to get fired

I’d feel bad if you weren’t constantly gossiping since I was hired.

No one cares about dress code but you

And everyone knows all day you have nothing to do.

So stop sending people home for wearing the wrong shoes, pants and hat

No amount of being a bitch is going to change that.


Dear overseas office who is supposed to be making my new site

Next time I ask you for a design do it right.

I know you’re throwing a fit because you think your ideas are better,

But your ideas suck… I guess that’s all I have, a strongly worded letter!(fuck that was lame. I’m screwing this up. Where was I?)


Dear guy who hired me and thinks I care about procedure, management and pipeline

I fucking don’t and you’re making me lose my mind.

I provide you copy, ads, marketing and more

I’m not going to be your corporate whore.


Co-workers, I don’t really like any of you and it’s not your bad,

It’s just that you’re dumb and boring and you all make me sad.

Maybe one day my heart will grow three sizes or more,

Or just let me do what I was hired for.




Cool. Just in time for lunch. Busy busy busy.

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Dear Judgmental Soccer Mom

Thanks for the comments! I was going to entertain myself for an hour or so until lunch got here with sarcasm and double entendre and time how long it took to catch on. I do enjoy those kinds of back and forth exchanges but I decided to make it a post instead.

First I want to start by saying you are probably correct. This may come as a surprise to you considering what low esteem you hold myself in and how highly (judging by posts) you esteem yourself–wait does that even work as a sentence–anyway, I was saying we have a lot in common, which may come as a surprise. I, like you, enjoy immensely judging others. After all how else are we to feel better about ourselves if we cannot put others below us? And who better to judge one’s entire being than one who spends their day in deep thought about purses and whose self-admitted most terrifying experience was a child locked in a car for a few minutes with an adult present? I don’t know but I’ve heard that large rocks and other blunt objects don’t really exist so thank goodness the fire department got there. It’s well documented most children do melt in 80 degree weather in 12 minutes so it was the nick of time. Not to belabor but truly natural disaster survivors, kidnap victims, rape victims, murder victims and Screech from Saved by the Bell have nothing on you when it comes to surviving tragedy.

I, as one who enjoys judging as well, too find that the most telling feature of another is their desire to participate in common human idiosyncrasies involving physical contact.

Why I once knew this woman, we’ll call her Candy, and Candy absolutely would not participate in kissing! I often thought to myself, what a horrible person this must be to not want to express this common human sign of intimacy even mid coitus! I feel a soccer mom would be the perfect individual to judge her. Would you like her number? You’ll need to speak to LeRoy first, and if he tries to get you to fly into Vegas in heels and a boa just ignore him. That goofy guy is always pulling those stunts. And actually once you’ve notified Candy of her poor kissing decisions in life you’ll likely get along wonderfully as you can both talk to each other endlessly about yourselves.

Did you happen to hear about this new “terrorist” fist bump many are participating in to avoid handshakes? Indeed. It seems germs are the worry but I see something more nefarious afoot. Particularly terribleness (as you put it). What kind of person would avoid such a long-honored tradition of human contact as a handshake you ask? The kind to be burned of course, preferably a stake I always say, not out of dislike of course but if the issue truly is germs, well nothing kills germs like a little fire.

My roommate adopted an abused cat and that bitch will not let you pet her! The nerve. Well she’ll let me now but it took years. And the trick is she has to see you first, palm out and give a sniff. No sneaky pets or she’ll freak out and claw. By comparison I’ve been caring for my mom’s cat as she recovers and Sophie is the ideal of outward affection truly. She’s all about pets which obviously makes Sophie a better person all around.

Did you know that abused kids have the habit of flinching prior to impending and certain human contact? Dirty little introverts. How terribly unsocial of them. Be sure to keep your kids away from that sort of refuse. I mean go get abused somewhere else you little anti-social termites! Am I right or am I right?

Another objectionable trait of course is stupidity, and as you’ve noted I have that in spades. This however is another trait of mine which I’ve learned to quite enjoy as low IQ is an excuse for all sorts of tomfoolery! Run on sentence? Not my fault low IQ. Need critical thinking skills for something? Sounds like work so good thing I’m too stupid. Is that sarcasm I detect? Of course not, detecting sarcasm requires a complex thought process. But, want to judge a complete stranger’s entire being based on a blog post in the “This really happened mostly” category by quickly skimming it and filling in the blanks with preconceived notions zero background and low reading comprehension? A low IQ is a free pass to do that and more. So when there is a sentence right at the end of the most questionable paragraph:

“I might be exaggerating all of that for comedic effect but there’s some truth to it I’m sure.”

That inconvenient caveat can be ignored utterly and let the judgy-ness begin!

Here’s the thing. Of all of the things I mentioned in that post a dislike of hugs is by far the very least objectionable. Especially considering that I, realizing that others do not have this quirk of mine, still give hugs when they can help others. A bit more comprehension on your part would have uncovered the parable however, and found that yes, in the end, the hug did help but in a different way. Which is often what makes a story I’m told.

But maybe I should just talk about purses and other dire first world problems careful never to write anything objectionable lest I be the victim of my own judgment, right?

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I Killed My Tortoise

I have Dissociative Feelings Disorder.

And before you ask, yes I just made that up. THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT’S NOT REAL!

Dissociative Identity Disorder is multiple personalities, which is awesome in theory but probably in real life not as cool as it always seems on television. I don’t have that. I have one personality and it’s pretty shitty all around. I know, I know. Negative Nelly. I’m not asking for a fucking hug. Part of my shitty personality is that I like having a shitty personality. Hugs make me angry, and getting angry at hugs makes me laugh and laughing angrily while hugging makes me look psychotic and people avoid people who look psychotic which works out great because it’s hard to give someone a hug if you’re trying to avoid them because you think they might be psychotic. Until I need a good laugh and then it all backfires. I might be exaggerating all of that for comedic effect but there’s some truth to it I’m sure. Where was I?

Oh yeah my real fake disease. I call it Dissociative Feelings Disorder.

I killed my tortoise last week. I couldn’t write about it until now. I had her for about a decade which sounds cool until you realize that this tortoise should have lived to be 50-80 years old. It should have been happily eating greens and carrots and apples years after I was dead and buried–and how cool would it have been if I put in my will and bequeathed a tortoise habitat on my grave? That would have been bad ass. Anyway it’s for nothing because the tortoise is dead and it’s my fault.

I came home on Sunday and checked up on the little guy. Donentella’s shell had collapsed, blood everywhere, and to my horror she was still breathing and seemed in pain. I rushed her to the animal hospital honking at slow traffic, swerving, very pissed off and contemplating the best way to crush a human’s shell, but I didn’t have time to track down whatever asshole crushed my tortoise’s shell right then obviously because I had to get Donny better first.

The vet saw me pretty quickly, putting me in front of the old ladies with 100% healthy yipping little rat-dogs thankfully because I would have bitch slapped an old woman and kicked one of those disgustingly healthy muts right in their neutered crotch. Seriously old ladies. Seriously. The dog’s fine. Go home.

She spent about 2 minutes looking at the little guy and announced her bones were too brittle, she hadn’t had enough calcium, and there was nothing she could do but make her comfortable and put her to sleep.

Me: “Cool doc, so what like you put some pins in the shell and we prop that baby up? Haha! I’ll bet she’ll need some bed rest though huh? I’ve got some spinach leaves she seems to love and once we get home she’s getting an extra serving of carrots.”

Vet: “You’re not understanding. The bones are too weak. And how many carrots do you feed her?”

Me: “Yeah she loves them. But how did this happen? Like you think it was a neighbor kid because I’m not against post-birth abortion in extreme circumstances.”

Vet: “David, this is a Desert Tortoise, you know that right? It needs extra calcium. Carrots and apples should just be a treat. Mostly healthy greens with calcium supplements. You don’t have any other Desert Tortoises do you?”

Me: “The cat? My roommate has a taser. Don’t worry I’ll set it on low.”

Vet: “It’s important that you listen to me now David, you have to sign this. We need to put her to sleep. There won’t be any pain but it takes a long time.”

Me: “Swear to fucking god if I find out my roommate had some drunk asshole friend over who thought it would be fun to play with my tortoise. I TOLD that motherfucker the tortoise is off limits.”

Vet: “I know this is hard but we really need to…”

Me to Donny: Cheer up Donny, the fucker will get an ax to the spine and I’ll turn their skull into a nice water bowl for you. Don’t worry about the cops we’ll make it look like low calcium.

Vet: “Da…”


She wasn’t fine. It took about 2 hours for her to die but the vet promised about 50 times there was no pain. That didn’t help me. I feel so much fucking guilt it still gets caught in my throat when I think about it.

In my defense I actually didn’t know she was a Desert Tortoise. The pet shop that sold her to me said it was this type of African Tortoise and gave me care directions for this kind of African Tortoise. You see it’s illegal to sell Desert Tortoises and either they didn’t know what they had when they sold her, or they made the calculation that a couple hundred bucks was worth the eventual life of this animal, or maybe they figured most people don’t keep tortoises that long, or that I’d figure it out later.

Anyway she was eventually dead and she’d be alive and healthy if I had figured out what kind of tortoise she was. It’s not that difficult a mystery to unravel really. It seems hard at first but there are clear ways to tell and it’s my fault for not doing more research. She had been getting progressively slower over the last year, she had been sleeping more. But she always ate a lot. I honestly thought she was getting fat. Do tortoises get fat? Fuck if I know, but that’s what I thought. What was really happening was she was not getting the nutrients she needed no matter how much she ate and she was getting progressively weaker. It had basically been happening from the day I bought her, maybe it had been happening even at the pet shop, it was not until a year ago she started to show signs and I should have fucking known that but holy shit you can’t tell what the fuck a tortoise is feeling because they are reptiles and when you see one eating a buttload of food every day and getting slower why wouldn’t you blame obesity? Really David? An obese tortoise from eating fucking carrots and greens and apples?

I’m an idiot.

And I felt like an absolute worthless piece of shit. Still do. What I did not feel is sad at all. I just felt self-hate really. Still do. Being sad means eventually you’ll feel better and I don’t deserve that and yeah, I get it it’s just a tortoise and if I’m on a desert island starving to death and there is some tortoise I don’t fucking know and there is no other food on the island I’m probably slitting that tortoise’s throat, drinking its blood and making soup.

But she wasn’t some random tortoise on an imaginary desert island.

She was my tortoise. And my responsibility. And I failed. So I don’t deserve to feel better and I won’t feel sad because that is fucking selfish bullshit.

Well as luck would have it two days later my mom had a heart attack and had to have a couple of stints put in. My mom has no problem feeling sad. In fact, she can feel sad even when she doesn’t have a heart attack so imagine how sad she feels when she does have a heart attack. It was pretty sad. Not quite as dramatic as, “This is so unfair I just started trying to get healthy.” No mom, unfair is small kids who die of cancer. Or tortoises murdered by people who are supposed to take care of them. I don’t say those kinds of things naturally I just say she’s exaggerating, she’ll be fine (which she will) and I give her a hug because for some reason hugs don’t make her angry. They do the opposite. They make her feel better. I thought that was pretty funny and started laughing. She did too but for a different reason.

But I felt better anyway. And so did she. I hope Donny does.

Happy late Mother’s Day.

And bah humbug.

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Okay You’re a Mother, You’re Not My Fucking Mother

This is a short one and doesn’t really count as a post, but in my ever-spiraling descent into utter and complete anti-social hermitdom I find I need to step back, take a breath, and discern whether this newest thought I cannot shake is a legitimate point of view or another sign that the only thing keeping me out of permanent residence in a cave in a forest in the middle of nowhere so I never have to see or talk to another human again is the fact that the cave doesn’t get internet and I can’t hook up my PS4.

But seriously just because you’re a mother I happen to know I need to say Happy Mothers Day? Fuck you, you didn’t squeeze me out of your twat.

Is that crazy?

I have it on good authority that many have even taken to buying gifts for other people’s mothers ie grandmothers, wives (and okay that one might make the cut, maybe), step sisters, sisters, etc just because of some relation (often questionable relation… am I really related to my sister-in-law? REALLY?). Listen assholes, that’s my mom not yours don’t buy her shit. In fact shut your stupid mouth and give me that candy I’ll give it to her myself.

And I know, it’s just a nice thing, we should appreciate all mothers right!?!?

And most people would see that and see some deep meaningful truth or some shit but all I see is, “How do I know your mom isn’t a serial killer. Fuck your mom.”

Really I just feel manipulated I think. Like the flower and candy industry have teamed up to make Mother’s Day into All-Women-Who’ve-Popped-Out-A-Kid-Day to increase their bottom line.

Well this year I took a stand. I said fuckit all Sunday. Avoided all sisters/aunts/friends/in-laws-of-every-sort/extended family who are all mothers like plague and stuck to just my own mother. I did it! And I felt I made some meaningful point even if I was the only one who noticed until I had to go to dinner with the girl I’m seeing and to my surprise her mother was there (in retrospect of fucking course she was there it’s mother’s day you idiot) and I to my own eternal disappointment in myself blurted out because I absolutely had nothing else in my head except “hehehe I’m totally banging your daughter,”  “Happy Mother’s Day by the way” as I got the tab for Mother’s Day.

Fuck me. And this is why I need to live in a cave.

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It’s Called Healing People

Warning: Don’t read this if you internalize insults made to strangers out of anger, or if you externalize those insults and apply them to entire groups of people, or just don’t read this because I get pretty offensive. But for a good reason. At least I think so. It’s called healing people. But don’t read it.

You ever have one of those days where you worked a really crappy job full time for about two years without a complaint and nearly perfect attendance while going to school full time majoring in an area where there happens to be an opening in the Hotel Casino you work for in marketing, and you have A’s and are about to graduate in a month or so with a degree in Advertising and so you apply for this opening which is an entry level position that you qualify the fuck out of and you’re sure you’ll at least get an interview and you’re ready because you know your shit and have worked your ass off but a month passes and you hear nothing so you go to the head of the housekeeping department because your shitty job is as a houseman and you bring it up and she informs you that she took it upon herself, she knowing you well since there are only like 200 people in this department and she’d been there like three months and never said two words to you, that you never went to Gonzaga and that you did not transfer to UNLV at all and that your application is a lie and that she told the marketing department that you should not even be considered for the position and it’s too late anyway because one of her son’s friends with worse grades, who didn’t have to work his way through college, and who isn’t already employed for years at the casino already got the job?

Yeah me too.

When this happens to you, it happens to all of us I’m sure, there is only one way to handle it. The first step is to stop working so hard. Fuck them and fuck what’s her name… she might still be there, something Italian, used to be head of the housekeeping department, you know her. Anyway fuck her and fuck the Mirage mystery hotel casino in Las Vegas I worked at. Time to vacuum those fucking 5,000 square feet of hallway carpeting? Screw that let’s hang out in the storage closet and take a nap. Awe, so sad guest forgot toothbrush, I’ll put it on my list of shit to do somewhere in between try to flirt with cute foreign housekeeper and take another nap. More openings in different departments at the kiosk by the cafeteria? Cool let’s show them what a fake application really looks like, “Hire me. I like Giraffes and play with my willy into the towels.”

Stuff like that. It’s called healing people, get with it. The point is, if you get fucked over by a large company, don’t quit, fuck them back.

And I realize it was not the entire Mirage’s casino’s fault that the head of a department is a fucking cunt hole between the legs who lies about an application that is none of her business either because she’s a vapid bitch who can’t be bothered to ask you or check the facts, or because she’s a conniving bitch who wants someone else to get the job, but the Mirage did hire this fat pile of rolls, caked-on makeup and gallons of perfume to cover the sewage scent I can only guess was emanating from her cavernous lady hole buried somewhere in between those hairy Goodyear blimp-sized thighs so wide she probably couldn’t even piss between them but instead had to wait till the pressure of stored urine reached critical mass and burst through flooding all of the moss and bacteria that had evolved to develop intelligent life and thus the circle of life begins anew.

They did hire her and I couldn’t very well take a piss in her office while she was having her 10th lunch of the day… could I? Could I? COULD I!!!!

This is about healing people, not peeing in offices or degrading women or being insensitive about weight issues or lady smells usually easily cured with over the counter medication and a shower. That’s not the point. Healing. And okay a couple of those paragraphs are harsh, but did you ever hear about primal yell therapy? Look it up. Healing can get pretty weird.

And I’m all better now. No really I am that was like what? Over a decade ago? I totally don’t live for vengeance have an overdeveloped sense of justice and am utterly void of any inner self-editing mechanism when it comes to things like this. For fucks sake I’m a 100% legitimate adult not even a young adult anymore. I wouldn’t do something at the bar last night like…

Friend: “What time should I get up if I have to be at the airport at 7?”

Me: “Ooh! You know what would be funny? If you got a hotel to give your cell phone a wake-up call, no don’t worry I’ll do it wait this is funny <calls number to Mirage mystery hotel> Hi, my name is Seymour, can I get a wake-up call at…” “I’m sorry sir you need to call from your room to get a wake-up call” “No it’s okay this is my cell.” “Sir you need to…” <snores> “Ooh, so sorry, I have narcolepsy you see and I <snores>  sorry about that I have a… <snores> still there? Okay good… <etc. etc. till they finally hang up phone>

Me: “No wait I got this. Give me your phone.” <calls Mirage from friend’s phone, puts on old lady with emphysema voice> “My son has narcolepsy! And he fell asleep because you won’t give him a wakeup call! How dare you! Now I don’t know what kind of business you run but not giving my son a wakeup call just because he has a medical condition… I mean what is this now? I’m going to call my son and have him call you right back!” “Mam, your son needs to call from…” <hang up friend’s phone> <call from my phone as Seymour again. One thing leads to another. Their time is wasted wake-up calls are made, the world is a better place>

Healing people.

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