A to Z Blogging Challenge: Reflection and Ball Scratching

      This year, as you may know, I participated in the "A to Z Blogging Challenge". It was a challenge to blog on a different topic every day in April. The subjects would correspond to a letter in the alphabet and be interesting enough to not make people vomit from sheer boredom. I failed on most of these fronts, of course. However, I did learn quite a few valuable lessons about me, the subjects I wrote about and the multitude of bloggers that I encountered during the course of the challenge. Here are a few highlights...

Jennifer Aniston highlights...

      Bone-able Jennifer Aniston aside, there were a lot of interesting things that occurred. My confused fear and anger of senior citizens was somewhat confirmed, the discovery of more hilarious blogging weirdos and a reevaluation of my "internet self" all occurred because of this wonderful challenge. Let me elaborate, before all the gray haired ancients turn their aging devil eyes upon me and cause me to spontaneously com-bust. 

Fucking OLD PEOPLE!!!

      In review, I shouldn't have been surprised...some old folks are just...old. Meaning, that they tend to carry a view of the world that is of a bygone era. It happens to everyone as they get older. It's the reason I'll never get into or understand the music of LMFAO or the popularity of "The Hangover" parts one and deux. To me, they're both examples of things that should have their right to exist revoked...due to their severe and criminal retardation. Yet, people older than me feel that bands like Pearl Jam and Radiohead are reprehensible and movies like "Young Frankenstein" are funny only to assholes...degenerate fucking assholes.

      So, when it was proposed to me, by a "senior member of our society", that I should warn people about the language I used in my blog, I "laughed my fucking ass off". This is the internet, not a shitty old folks kennel your family forgot you in, people curse here. 

      Oh, and there's also porno...an ass-load of porno. Strangely enough, some of those involve actual ass-loads, so, yeah, there's that. Listen, I feel that if you found this blog and read enough of it, you'd see that my language isn't the primary focus of what I write about (it's my infantile psyche and idiotic disposition toward my own penis that are on full display here). 

      If you read any of this, hit the word fuck and immediately feel the Devil searing your eyes with shame, get off the internet. It's only going to make you touch yourself. Believe me, the last thing I want is old, church going grannies poking and groping in a way they should have done decades before, but, didn't because they felt Jesus was watching from the closet or something. It just makes me feel sad, filthy and...somewhat aroused inside...and after that confused. You don't want that...I don't want that. No one wants that.

Ewwwww...Grannie touching her...well...you know.

      Old people's hang ups aside, I also discovered a lot about who I am on the internet and what I want to accomplish. I'm still new to all of this blogging stuff. It's a sweet gig. I've made a couple of bucks here and there and would love to branch out. I like doing this. I've decided to really work hard to deliver more as well, be it podcasting, vlogging or more. 

      Yet, I find myself often confronted with writers block. As it was never an issue before (I only wrote in notebooks or dirty letters to dead celebrities), I never gave it much thought. The A to Z Challenge really held it up to my face and forced a confrontation. I had to figure out a way around it's sweaty, dangly bits to get a post out. It was a great exercise indeed. It taught me that, no matter what caused the writer's block, a quick jaunt to the strip bar would always get the creative and not so creative juices flowing. Either that or drink a Yoo Hoo while watching Seinfeld re-runs. Either of those would work.

Thank you, Seinfeld. You genius bastard...genius bastard.

      I also found a lot of inspiration among the many blogs I read, as part of the challenge. I'll admit that I am not as avid a blog reader as I'd like to be. I find myself quickly gravitating toward sites devoted to the self sex market when I'm on the internet. The blogs I do read are usually the one's I find the most interesting and funny...(Muppets For Justice, Chiz, The ever lovely Lily and Sick Bitch) and rarely take the time to investigate further. Yet, I was compelled to read more blogs for the challenge. I am very, very glad I did. I ran into a lot of really creative writers. Some of which put my meager offerings to shame. Without this challenge I might never have found them and may have gone the rest of my days never knowing of their awesomeness. Go figure...

Here are a couple...

Seriously-WTH?

Word Nerd Speaks

Death of A Hardcore Gamer

Successfully Underachieving 

With that...I'd like to thank you all for reading my blog and not peeing on the carpet. You'd be surprised how many unruly guests disregard that common sense etiquette. I hope that you were entertained and I hope to entertain you further in the future. I have a lot of ideas...and not all of them involve carving small statuettes of Eleanor Roosevelt. It's what you were thinking, I'm sure (it's what they ALWAYS think). I can assure you that was the furthest thing from my mind...maybe.

X, Y and Z are for Xesturgy, Yare and Zanyism

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U, V and W are for Unemployent's Vacant Wideness

      There's something exquisitely dismal about unemployment compensation. It feels like a form of charity, with less nuns and government over sight. People who receive unemployment are seen as lazy, system leaching parasites that sit around all day, getting sit faced, giving the finger to babies and unwed mothers. While two of those things are probably true, the system leaching parasite portion is way off!

The jerk that fired you pays for it too! 

     Regardless, the stigma towards being unemployed can be disheartening. Even more disheartening is the empty time people are knocking you for isn't your fault. There's always a down time between getting canned from one job and picking up another, equally suck ass job. No one is ever prepared for the void that not working leaves in your life. It's not apparent at first but, it creeps up pretty fast. 

      When you have a job to attend to, you have somewhere to go and something to do. There is a set criteria and expectations regarding production during your working hours and you plod through the day to meet them. It's amazing how slaving for "the man" occupies both your body and mind. When it's suddenly gone, there are countless hours to fill and no one to tell you how to fill them. It seems like a blessing, but, you find out, sooner or later...it's not. Drinking and masturbating, as it turns out, only fills so many hours.

Porn is suspiciously absent from this list.

    Drunken pity, self-sex aside, empty hours can play havoc on the brain. Don't get me wrong, not having to do shit all day can kick ass occasionally. Those "special" days when I'm at the mall, sitting on a bench in a bathrobe and cowboy hat, staring sternly at passersby, while playing Neil Diamond's greatest hits aloud on my iPod, would never happen if I had a job. Believe me...some of those days have changed my life, but, there are far better things I could have been doing. 

Starting that much needed beer planking fad, perhaps?

      I pondered the question of what to do with my time for a few depressing days. Okay, maybe not depressing, there were hallucinogenic laced milk shakes involved, various drunken exchanges of "I love you"s with strangers and once...and only once...an emotionally abused orangutan. Don't get your panties in a bunch...the fucking monkey started it. If it didn't want to be reminded of it's forced removal from it's mother and her subsequent poacher death , it shouldn't have, via sign language, called my Mom a cunt. Fucking monkeys. It doesn't even know my mother! Oh and for future reference...orangutans can cry while giving the finger. 

He's more personable when he's sober.

      I eventually stumbled into blogging as a way to pass the time, better my writing and possibly make money. Instead of, you know, feeding dollar bills into stripper's g-string college funds. Which isn't a bad way to spend a day or two either. It's just costly and disease ridden. Blogging definitely helps with that (sorry disease ridden strippers). 

College and baby formula are just going to have to pay for themselves, Glitter Devine.

      So, if you should ever find yourself lost in the immense gulf of time being jobless creates, I suggest blogging to fill your hours. It's a great way to pass the time, augment or develop a bankable skill and you meet a lot of great people along the way. Plus, you might get an income out of it. There's nothing wrong with that--oh, don't look at me with those "what the fuck!" eyes...of course I mean after you tire of the drunken binges and touching yourself...that was a given. 

Q, R, S and T are for Quixotically Revised Stressful Times (A to Z Blogging Challenge)

      Living slightly above the poverty line sucks balls. I'm not sure if THAT state secret has been declassified yet,  but it does. It seems like there's never enough to get by and when there is enough...everyone wants it.  Everyday seems to get harder and it's only getting worse. It's either that or I'm the only one getting screwed...which would be plausible. I'm prone to random screwings. Though, according to the homeless guy yelling on my street corner, everyone's getting screwed. He says by the "pinko Nazi government" and their clean air agenda "fuckin' wit his weed". I assume he means times are hard for everybody and I see his point. This seems to be the worst time...ever.

I don't know what's with this kid and his thousand yard stare...

he's supposed to be a poor kid, instead...he's a creepy kid.

       Though, from reading history books and listening to the whining, old, "free coffee" guys bitch every morning at McDonalds's, things were a lot worse before. From what I hear, hard times have been going on for a while. A lot of it was during that "Great Depression" shit, some "Cuban Missile Crisis" bullshit and "The Regan Era", whatever in the fuck that means.

It means; I was a president, I had an era...and I'm DEAD! EAT IT!

      I suppose it's our lot in life, being the dominate species. The animal that can kill and eat everything else has to give back somehow. I guess we do that by getting fucked. Not in the traditional "good time" sense. The other "oh, this is all kinds of fucked" sense. We're made to suffer. It's mostly by our own doing however. We bone ourselves constantly. The method of shaft? Money. Everything costs money. Money for eating, money for booze, for an unfortunate few...money for sex and for the rest of us money for really good sex. Yet, money costs something too. We get that from working, which usually involves labor of some kind.   Labor I'd like to keep...for "personal endeavors" (read: masturbating). Mostly, labor is hard work, sweating, time and sucks. We do it all for our modern suck ass life. 

      Not to say that modern life isn't remarkably convenient. I wouldn't argue that. I have yet to track an elderly cow across rough terrain for miles in order to eat a steak. Frankly, I'm rather loath to stalking anything without large breasts, super model status and an inclination for easy sex with portly men with poor vision. 

The saddest busty model stalker in the world.

      I still find that the modern world is a brutal, unfeeling bitch. Especially regarding the poorer folk within it. Maybe not depression era unfeeling but, not beyond forcing people into hooking for milk and bread. In that way, The Depression Era has it over us by a mile. Those poor bastards had to eat things like, shoes and non sliced bread. They constantly smelled like shit too. Well, I assume they did anyway. Plumbing was still a luxury back then and sewage still flowed into rivers. So, clean showering was a hit or miss endeavor. Gross.

      Okay, so, maybe we don't have it too bad. I mean, clean water is relatively free--ish. Not all of us smell like shit and I haven't eaten a real shoe in over a month. We don't even have to farm for our own food and the food we buy isn't germ infested death fruit. Instead, we work everyday to come home to non-death inducing food. Cleaner living aside, we still don't make enough to get by. We work, come home, rest a few hours...to go work again...forever. Why? For shitty pay to barely get by. 

It could be worse I suppose. My great, great, great grandparents had to start working when they were like...6. What they did at 6 I don't know. I like to imagine a Willy Wonka type scenario with them replacing the Oompa Loompas. They only made a dime a day working in that Wonkaesque factory too! What the fuck, right? Still, I get paid shit wages, but, at least I don't have to work on Wonka's chocolate slave farm. 

You'll work or you'll die.

Okay, okay, maybe today's suffering leads to tomorrows joy. We don't have it as bad as those dirty, hobo great grandparents of ours. The poor life is getting better. Perhaps, I'm being too dramatic and  (I blame it on a lack of vitamin C and peer pressure) 

      Sure, those times sucked, just like all those other bad times sucked...but, none of those times involved me (with the exception of the 80's...the "Duran Duran Era") and I know how much this time sucks. So, I tried to interject on behalf of all the poor, poverty stricken bastards living today...and I failed. Yet, while writing this bitchy, bitch session...something occurred to me, my kids are going to have it WAY better than my poor ass. What a bunch of assholes. Oh,  AND they'll think I am just as big a whiner as those coffee slurping wrinkle farms sitting at McDonald's at 5:30 every morning. So, instead, I'm writing this to my grand...no, no great grand kids. These times sucked! You don't know how good you have it! Pfff...kids. What the hell do they know? Anyone for coffee at McDonald's?

M, N, O and P are for Mitt Nearly Our President (A to Z Blogging Challenge)

      Politics suck ass...or sucks ass, whichever is grammatically correct. It's a genre fit for pretentious, closed minded argument junkies bitching about nothing. Nothing that's fixable anyway...oh...and assholes. Professional politics are a different thing altogether. It's a "Thunderdome" of endless arguments and back slapping...and assholes. Though, I do find it all very entertaining. The entertainment is more of an unintended side effect however, like the comedic bad acting in those "Twilight" movies.

     Overall I'm not a political person. Sure, I take sides but, it's usually about things like, which baconator is better a single or a double (double) or whether women in Catholic school girl uniforms give me a boner (yes...even that fat ones). So, when I think of politics, it's not about choosing a side, because it all sucks. Regardless, I believe everyone should be informed as to who or whomever their leaders or potential leaders might be. Even if it's only used to send them dirty letters about wildebeests. Plus, I still believe in government to some extent. So, picking a leader that seems less moronic than the other is important. I know, I'm an endless pit of hypocrisy and paradox...that says fuck a lot.

Yeah! Wait...what?

      Though, what I have to say has nothing to do with politics...not totally. It has to to with Mitt Romney, who is a politician. Relax, I'm not going to rip apart his idiotic foreign policy regarding prostitution or rant about some banal break down of why he should get high...a lot. Instead, I'm going right for glaringly obvious. Something so billboard plain that it seems everyone in the world has ignored it entirely...and will be the main, unspoken reason he will never be president. The thing? His name of course.

Word uuuuuuupp, bitchhheeeessss!

      It's hysterical knowing that someone on this planet, at this very moment is named after a finger-less glove. Not only is that person is a man (and not a bunny)...but he's running for President of The United States as well. I have almost pissed myself on several occasions contemplating all of the above and...oops...amend "almost" to "just".

I blame Mitt Romney...and diet Shasta.

      Can anyone honestly picture a U.S. President named Mitt? Besides rhyming Mitt with "shit" taking little to no effort and the sheer volume of bumper stickers variations of that would generate, it's too surreal to entertain. A President named Mitt would absolutely ruin any chance of being taken seriously in the world. Yeah, yeah, you can think that the rest of the world doesn't matter all you want, but, it doesn't change the fact that they do. President Mitt would never be taken seriously...unless it's a kitten at a world summit of kittens...for peace. 

Though, President Mitt might fair well 

during hostile negotiations...I wouldn't count on it.

      Yet, presidents with weird names are not a new thing. We have one named Barack right now, which ranks right above Balzac, on the "weird ass famous names" list. As weird as the name Barack Obama is, it still sounds...menacing. Perhaps as a villainous Transformer or G.I. Joe enemy. Barack Obama might sound kinda terrifying if coupled with the screams of dying soldiers, bombs and a city on fire. Try doing that with the name Mitt. Let me know how many of those dying soldiers screams turn to outright laughter. 

Destruction brought to you by...MITT!

      Mitt being an unequivocally stupid name is exactly why he won't be president. Adherent as political types are to their "beliefs" and "values", nothing can overcome putting a man named Mitt into a seat of what many consider "the most powerful office in the world". It's the same thing that has handicapped Newt Gingrich all these years. Though, cheating on not one wife, but two while both were sick (one with cancer, one with MS), probably doesn't help his cause either. Mitt also has problems beyond his idiotic name (he's extremely rich and thinks poor people exist because their parents haven't given them million dollar corporations yet). Though, isn't a name like Mitt enough?

D is for Doctor...who? (A to Z Blogging Challenge)

How I Discovered Doctor Who

by

Elton Edgar

      Sweaty, breathless and running in nothing but Superman Underoos, life was weird. Hugging  the soft, gravelly shoulder of a highway, I was scared for my life. The night air was chilly and jarring. It didn't help that I was mostly naked, except for the Underoos. It also didn't help that I was 19 at the time. I hadn't been able to fit, properly, into Underroos since I was 9. Yet, remarkably, astonishingly tight underwear were the least of my problems. 

I search "running down highway in underwear", 

Google gives me underwear clad midgets in marathons. 

Thanks Google.

      Roughly eleven hours prior to my Underoo clad terror jog, I was sitting on a couch. A couch located in a loft rented by a friend of mine. I was people watching, nursing a beer, when a strange girl sat next to me. Buxom and violet hair dyed, she intrigued me. "Take this." she said, handing me a tiny square of paper. I knew what this was of course...a tiny stamp. Did she want me to mail a tiny letter as well?

I only got as far as licking the stamp.

      After putting the, ill constructed, stamp on my tongue, I was advised that the trip would be awesome. I asked "Where we were going?", to which she replied, "The universe.". I wrestled with the idea of explaining that we were, in fact, already in the universe, but, that might have jeopardized my chance to see her sweet, sweet boobs. No universal reality check is big enough to fuck up seeing boobs. So, we sat and talked...and talked some more...until her face melted. Melted onto those sweet, sweet boobs.

An artist's conception.

      Several hours and numerous escape attempts from unicorn powered space pirates, I found myself alone...running...in Underoos, at night. Breathless and...well, now, slow jogging down a highway in terror, I never noticed the police car following me...slowly...with it's lights on. Then, I began to see the changing blue/red light pattern dance across the road around me, as if on cue...the car pulled alongside me. I continued to run...er...slow jog.

"Having a good night?", said the officer with the extraordinarily large head.

"Yes, large headed constable. Just escaping soul stealing space pirates.", I replied, through tired huffs.

"Oh, oh...I see." was his response. The car crunched the gravel shoulder occasionally, we continued on in relative quiet for a moment. I running, him hanging out the window while his partner, Abraham Lincoln drove. They kept pace with me.

"Are they with you now?" he said. "No, sir...I fed them my clothes to get away. It was a diversion.", I answered.

"Oh, right, that explains a lot...that's pretty smart", he complimented.

"I'm a smart guy. Especially when being hunted by space pirates.", I responded boastfully.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I can see that...say, say you wouldn't mind getting in our car here would you?" he inquired.

"Me? No, I wouldn't mind. In fact, I'd be honored, Sergeant Large Noggin. Does mister Lincoln have a problem with it?"

      Confused, the huge skulled monster cop looked around. Then, realizing whom I was talking about, responded, "Ehhh...nah, Mr. Lincoln is fine with it." He eased the car to a stop. President Lincoln and Lieutenant Large head got out and explained their elaborate braceletting procedure. It seemed fine, plus, I got jewelry! 

Fancy!

      After our conversation filled car ride I was "booked" into their "station" and placed in a holding room. The door was open and I could see a t.v. in the room across from it. An officer was bored and watching a show. Being a slow night and also having the face of Fred Flintstone might drive anyone to boredom, I imagine. Alas, he was watching "Doctor Who". I had never seen this before and was curious. I was quickly engrossed in the program. It seemed that with the walls melting around me and people talking like Charlie Brown teachers, here was a program that actually made sense! It was completely logical and non-melty. It was a show...about a doctor...who helped people. How amazingly simple and sane! In a world where unicorn power was evil and space pirates wanted desperately to gouge out your soul, here was a show that was "real". I was hooked...and have been hooked ever since. Thank you Fred Flintstone, Detective Large Cranium and President Lincoln, I will forever be indebted for your introducing me to "The Doctor".

C is for Chair...of the damned. (A to Z Blogging Challenge)

      Yesterday, I found myself shopping, alone. I happened to be in the furniture section of a department store. While perusing the ottomans, easy chairs and couches, I came across the most fantastic chair I had ever seen. It was a dark brown suede couch. The kind you'd think Hugh Hefner has Playboy Bunnies waiting around in...before he bones them. Yeah, that was kind of gross...the guy is 900 years old and bangs people that are the age equivalent of his great grand kids. What the hell is with that? Oh...right...it's every man's dream. I forgot.

I win.

T      he chair was immaculate and splendid in every way. The cushions, plump and firm. The frame sturdy with simple design and brilliantly comfortable. It's cushioning was divine. The only problem was the old lady currently admiring it. 

Bitch.

      She was a kindly old soul. Her white hair curled ever so humbly about her head. Her tweed skirt and jacket were rife with cliche' church going styling. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to have be napping. I hated her. She was violating what would soon be mine...a chair of the gods. 

"Excuse me ma'am...would you kindly remove your death addled ass from my heaven sent furnishing?"

I believe in being firm with the elderly. If not, then, they can grow embittered and snooty very quickly. Then, it's bitch, bitch bitch. 

"Hello? Old Timer? Take your last stand against death's door somewhere else, there are actual buyers present!"

Just then, a salesman approached and interjected, "Sir, may I help you?"

Like this...but, with more facial hair...and Cheeto fingers.

"Indeed you can, good sir. I wish to purchase this fine chair, yet, I am unable to fully test it's capabilities with this future carcass taking up it's awesomeness."

"Sir, you don't have to be rude.", was his reply.

"Rude? I'm merely stating a fact. I'm in a buying frenzy good man and this bag of age is hampering my ability to spread the wealth. Should I take my business elsewhere?"

Sighing in a disapproving manner, he began to try to wrest the woman from her sleep.

"Ma'am? Excuse me ma'am, I'm afraid I need you to get up. Ma'am?". 

The salesman's mood changed to worry and he began to speak louder and with more urgency, "Ma'am? Ma'am, can you hear me?". She remained unresponsive. He checked her breathing and put his ear to her chest. He then, yelled for anyone to call "9-1-1". Another salesman rushed to the phone. The salesman stood up. Other customers gathered to see the commotion first hand.

"Oh, my god.", he said, while rubbing his hand across his forehead in anguish. "Oh, my god, I can't believe this. This is horrible."

"Tell me about it", I replied, "I've been here for 5 whole minutes and this ghastly woman is still in the chair I want to buy."

The salesman turned to me aghast and said, "What? Are you serious? What is wrong with you? This woman is dead."

"Yes...", I replied, "Dead in a chair I desperately want to buy."

"Well, I can't sell it to you now!", he exclaimed.

"Why not?", I retorted.

"A woman's died in the bloody thing!", he shouted.

For a moment, I stood there, looking solemnly down at the woman...taking in the information. A full minute passed between us.

"So, there's a discount then?"

So, who's the proud owner of an old lady killing death chair? This guy.

B is for Busty (A to Z Blogging Challenge)

      Based on years of research, thousands of field tests and gallons of lotion, I have confirmed rumor that has been circulating. No one uses the word "busty" except porno sites. Actually, "circulating" is being a bit generous. It's more accurate to say, "I just noticed this" and "field test" should be read "while searching for masturbation materiel". Now that, that is settled, on to the real dilemma..."busty"

Hawt.

      It seems to be one of only a few words, that has been shunned by the rest of the non-sex peddling masses. It's joined the likes of "flaky", "hung" and "trustworthy" as words everyone knows, but, few use in everyday conversation. Thrust into the world of smut, "busty" has been relegated to describing hot women with big boobs. Is this wrong? I think it is.

Busty? Maybe. Posing in a forest? Creepy.

      The time has come for the reclamation of "busty"! No longer is it to be the plaything of perverts and prepubescent teens looking for porn on kid locked web browsers. Nay! It should be taken back by the populous! 

Busty to the people!

      Now, I propose a liberal usage of the word in the beginning. Perhaps using it to describe food (My, that's a busty chicken breast. I think I'll have another!) to buildings (Goodness, could the front of that building get more busty?). I admit the last example is strange, but, if you're referring to over hangs and awnings...it makes perfect sense. Plus, we can now refer to men as busty. Why should women have all the fun?

So, get on board people...the busty train is leaving and you're going to be stranded in flat chestville.

What a busty fella.