Swine Flu: Fact & Fiction

I know everyone is scared of this whole Swine Flu thing and is unsure of what to do and also I heard that Ms. Piggy has been dragged from her home and strung up in the town square as an example to all other pigs, felt or not, but... folks... you all need to calm down. Your best friend and most-trusted giver of information/infotaiment/fake prescriptions is here to guide you through this national nightmare.

Using the finest minds in science (my own, plus these dudes I know that work down at the Lucky Mart and know shit about aliens), I have compiled a thorough, completely correct, pleasant smelling, and accurate like a motherfucker list that separates the Swine Flu facts you need to know from the Swine Flu fiction that can just go fuck itself. Reading this list will make you better educated on the subject, a more appealing lover, and for fifteen minutes after you finish reading the last sentence, you'll possess the power to move small objects with your mind. Remember though: With great power comes... er... something... I don't know... a kick-ass car, I think. Whatever, not important. Here, now...

Swine Flu: Fact & Fiction

FACT - Swine Flu jumped from pigs to humans because SOME people like to have sex with pigs. Not pointing fingers, here... I'm just saying that they know who they are and should be very ashamed of themselves. (Okay, look, it was your Dad. I didn't want you to find out this way.)

FICTION - Vials of Swine Flu can be used as mixers in a host of fabulous girls-night cocktails. You should never drink vials of Swine Flu, even if you do mix it with enough Everclear to stop the heart of a Clydesdale. You CAN, however use vials of Swine Flu to thicken runny soups and/or spice up a hearty batch of 5-Alarm Chili. The Hanta virus, by the by, DOES make an excellent mixer... particularly when paired with a decent-quality rum... but you have to go to Africa to get it. Hassle!

FACT - New cases are being reported every day, even in places with a lot of rich, white people. Believe me, no one is more shocked than the rich, white people. They thought... being rich and white and all... that they were immune to anything beyond the occasional migraine or bout of Tennis Elbow. Nope... they're taking it in the neck right along with the rest of us. Which is hilarious. When they start wasting away, we should rob them. Bring a surgical mask though. Because... you know... Swine Flu.

FICTION - This is all the Mexicans fault. Why are you so racist, dude? Just because you think you saw a Mexican hitting on Becky that one time doesn't mean you get to hate them as a people. That's just... well, it's not cool. Besides, they brought burritos into the world. How could you blame the creators of the burrito. But seriously though, don't go to Mexico. Swine Flu by the barrel full down there. Also, drug gangs that will stab you in the heart. Bad place. I mean, burritos, but still.

FACT - Every time you write "Swine Flu," you accidentally write either, "Swing Flu," or "Swine Flue." So fucking annoying. It makes you feel like your hands are full-on retarded and then you start wishing your hands were never born. And since they're basically like your girlfriend now, it's... well, it gets complicated.

FICTION - "Swine Flu" is a hilarious name for your just-formed punk/ska/emo band with Mathcore influences mixed with a little Johnny Cash, because Johnny Cash was the MAN. Wrong, Trevor. Topical band names are never funny, plus they're outdated and lame after a couple of news cycles, or as soon as everyone's attention is pulled away by Lindsay Lohan showing her vag again, which ever happens first.

FACT - Swine Flue is the beginning of the end of the world. Yeah, probably. I mean... maybe it's just because I'm a nerd or whatever, but... getting a pretty strong "Captain Trips" vibe off all this. Maybe it's time to reread The Stand again... pick up some tips and strategies for the months ahead. See you in Colorado. Or Vegas, if that's your thing.

"Oasis" by Amanda Palmer

Far as I'm concerned, you can't beat a peppy pop song about deeply, deeply depressing subject matter; stuff like, for example, Third Eye Blind's immortal classic, "Semi-Charmed Life," which was about crystal meth addiction, or "Burnin' Up" by The Jonas Brothers, which is about watching a lover die slowly from colon cancer (it's subtle, but it's there).

In that vein, I'd love for you to check out this little slice o' magic from Dresden Dolls frontwoman Amanda Palmer's solo album; it's insanely catchy and it's about having to get an abortion after being raped. That's entertainment, folks!

NOTE: Video NSFW if your work frowns on representations of rape and abortion played for laughs.

2ND NOTE: Tip of the hat to long-time friend of ZFS! Carly for directing me towards this awesome, awesome song, which I haven't yet been able to get out of my head with even the most potent of pharmapsychological drugs.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Old Dogs



Dogs... kids... Robin Williams... John Travolta... AND it's backed by Disney? Holy shit, guys, it's the PERFECT STORM!!! Of shitty, shitty movies!!! I mean really... just what the fuck are they trying to pull here? I hate to break it to them, but releasing this is going to be bad for Hollywood in the long run because, once people see it, they're all going to just give up on movies altogether. It's kind of like when you're craving Twizzlers, so you go buy a jumbo drum of Twizzlers at Costco and eat the whole thing during a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit marathon and then for the rest of you life you can't think of Twizzlers or Richard Belzer without getting queasy and having to lie down. This much obnoxiousness packed into one film is going to make all other films seem like day-old grocery store sushi that's been sitting out in the sun all day cozied up to some really mayonnaise-y potato salad, i.e. things to be avoided at all cost. Because you never know... you might have to watch two old men mugging with a Bull Mastiff and a precocious ten year old again, and you don't want that... god... you couldn't stomach that again...

Daytime Drinking



I like it when they make movies about my hobbies. This must be the third sequel in the vaunted "C-dog Trilogy," preceded by Rarely Putting on Pants and Watching the Food Network While My Dreams of Literary Stardom Die Off in Increments Over in the Corner.

Away We Go



How "indie" is this movie? SO indie. With it's illustrations and it's uber-slacker John Krasinski all bearded up, and a screenplay by Dave Eggers. So indie, it could be a band in Williamsburg. So indie, it could probably score with Chloe Sevigny. So indie, it's making me shit blood right now; I've been anally raped by it's indie-ness, THAT'S how indie this poster is. And what's insulting is that I'm totally stoked about seeing Away We Go. I am so it's target audience; a pretentious dweeb who loves films about mumbly-talked love and army jackets bought at the Salvation Army. That's basically porn, especially now that I'm marooned in a suburban hellscape that considers reruns of Two and a Half Men to be "edgy entertainment." So bring it on Eggers, you floppy-haired motherfucker who's career I want more than another beer. Hit me with your best record-collection soundtrack.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince



I've ragged on the Harry Potter series in these posts before, so instead of going back to that fast-drying well, I'm simply going to list a few things that I would rather do than sit through Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince:

-Purchase batteries at a crowded Target with no express lanes open
-Eat a sandwich that has much too much lettuce
-Get trapped in a conversation about gravel with the boring old man that lives next door
-Give my friend Carl's dog a heartworm pill hidden inside a glob of peanut butter
-Dress nicely and go to a Palm Sunday service at church

Year One



I enjoy everyone and everything that's involved with this movie, and yet... I don't know... I have feelings of trepidation, like a rodeo clown stepping out of a barrel and into the arena with a bull he's never seen before. There's just something about the whole "ironic cavemen" concept that I find inherently grating. I feel like maybe Judd Apatow, whom I believe is the main producer on this one, is at this point just flat-out trying to see what crazy malarkey he can get away with. "You think they'll buy the Stone Age, but with Jack Black acting the spaz...? Well, let's roll them bones and find the fuck out! I made millions of the blood, sweat, and tears of Seth Rogen and am consequently MAD WITH POWER!!!" I really feel like he's saying that right now as I type this. Seriously, I just got a chill up my spine. Anyway, I'll probably be eating these words when I'm laughing my ass off in the theater over the summer, but still... if this turns out to be Apatow's Little Bighorn, you heard it here first.

Postgrad

I have no opinions about this movie, the poster itself, or anything having to do with college and what it's like afterwards. I just want to take this opportunity to tell you how much I would like to touch Rory Gilmore's boobs: Very much. I would like very much to touch Rory Gilmore's boobs. If anyone could facilitate this, I would be happy to pay you upwards of $25 AND buy you a six-pack of moderately priced beer. Thanks in advance for your help in introducing my hands to Rory Gilmore's boobs. My hands appreciate it and I appreciate it. Rory Gilmore might be less than enthused, but this is only about her a little bit. It's mostly about her boobs.

The Single Most Adorable Picture of C-dog You Will Ever See

This is from my children's theater days. I believe I was 10 or 11. And yes, that IS the pinkest tunic you've ever seen. White tights? Oh I'm wearing some motherfucking white tights.

Seriously, I don't know how I grew from that into what you see in the background peering around the photo's edge; i.e. the most beard-y paragon of manliness the world has ever known. The mysteries of adulthood, am I right?

Still though, I'd like to think that fruity child is still somewhere inside me, yearning to "put on a show" and dance a box waltz in a musical about princes and princesses. As I remember it, being that kid was kind of a blast. Beats the hell out of fat and drunk, anyway.

Well, not really. Those tights really ride up your crack.

Myths and Legends: Not Fucking True

One of the things you probably don't know about your ol' pal C-dog is that one moonless, cold night, he killed a hobo with his bare hands because he though the hobo was the kind of hobo that grants wishes, but you have to stab the wishes out of their greasy chests with a rusty piece of jagged metal broken off an abandoned shopping cart.

Of course, as it turns out, those kind of hobos don't actually exist. And I can never go back to Detroit because of certain "warrants." But the point is, killing that poor, sick homeless man in cold blood really awoke my interest in the supernatural. Wait... not the supernatural... because that's like ghosts and demons and bullshit like that... no, I mean that it awoke deep within me an interest in whatever you call unicorns (like the attractively gay picture up there) and leprechauns and whatever.

Folklore! That's what you call it. Or something... I don't really remember words and what they mean so much anymore. Switching from booze to straight lighter fluid sucked out of broken Zippos down at the flea market was a BAD idea. I think I have ass cancer.

Anyway, I've been working night and day compiling all my research into folklore and myths and legends into one handy blog post that... if you want... you can read right now. Um... here it is. When I wrote this, I was naked. God, this lighter fluid is so fucking tasty it's like vomit from angels:

Myths and Legends: Not Fucking True

Also, Folklore is Bullshit

This is Bolded and Underlined for No Reason Other Than the Fact That I Can, So Suck on THAT!

Unicorns - Might as well start with unicorns, seeing as how 13 year old girls beat off to them and we need to nip that shit in the bud immediately so they can focus their psycho hormonal energy on romantic mummies or whatever happens to be the goth teen literature rage du jour these days. Anyway, unicorns... turns out they're just horses with serious bone disorders. Yeah. It makes them have these knobby tumors that burst out of their heads. If you see a "unicorn," really you're just looking at a horse that's about to die a horribly painful death due to fucked up genetics. If you have a gun, shooting it would be the humane thing to do. Just know that you're not shooting a "unicorn" in the face. You're putting it out of it's misery. They CAN fly, though... no one knows what's up with that.

Paul Bunyan - It's funny how a creepy lumberjack that fucked his ox can, over time, become this whole big thing about a giant woodsman who created America, or whatever it is. But that's the magic of oral storytelling, I guess. But yeah, he totally fucked that ox. A lot. And it was a guy ox.

American Indians - A proud people that, today, operate some fine casinos. But the thing is, a lot of sad folks who need a reason for their turquoise jewelry think that Indians possess some kind of mystical mojo that will let them take spirit walks with the buffalo and finger a noble eagle or some shit. It's not true. Most Indians are pretty cool to hang out with, though. Usually they live in trailers on protected land and they can sell you smokes at cost. They have pretty funny stories about Government oppression, too. Oh, and they all make their own jerky AND they like to share. Can't beat that.

The Jersey Devils - Not actually a legend; they are a hockey team.

Fairies - They don't exist AT ALL. Some random guy came up with the idea because he thought it would help sell a lot of cheesy, illustrated t-shirts to fat girls and, hey, the dude was right. Incidentally, he's also the same guy that came up with the "wolf standing before the American flag" shirts that are so popular with the NASCAR/Coors Light/Can't-so-much-read set. Anyway, fairies are just marketing. And, occasionally, they make starring roles in the worst tattoos you've ever seen, usually displayed on pale shoulders meaty enough to be considered "a herd of cattle." In other words, fairies are stupid and I hate them. Lousy fat fairy-worshipers rejecting my advances... how do THEY know I'm not a Warlock...

The Maid of the Mist - She's just a pot dealer's girlfriend that lives under a waterfall. Seriously not worth the attention, especially when you consider how much bullshit she has on her keychain.

Bigfoot - Just a hairy guy named Duane out for a naked stroll, letting his hideous hairy-guy dong hang out all terrifying and in need of just SO much Nair. He gets off on the attention, so stop giving a shit about his hideous self and soon enough he'll get bored and go back to playing World of Warcraft. Still naked, still awful, just not as nauseatingly visible.

Johnny Appleseed - Okay, YES, he was real, and he planted a lot of apple trees. But you know what else he did? He touched little boys. So maybe we just let that myth die...

Bloody Mary - I don't know if she's real or not because I always got too scared! I bet she's real though. All coming out of the mirror and stealing your soul. Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, BLOODY MA- oh god, I just shit all over myself. Great...

Leprechauns - Short, drunk Irish guys that covet money? Yeah, they're around, but they don't wear green and they don't talk in amusing, cereal-bandit accents. They're usually dark-haired frat guys named Sean or Mickey and they hang out in faux-authentic pseudo-pubs in and around Midtown Manhattan. They work in finance, which means they work in the billing department of an advertising agency, and St. Patrick's Day is the greatest day of their year because barfing green impresses the ladies, or so says their older brothers (whom they worship). If you catch one, you don't get a pot of gold; you get genital herpes.

Me, Also Known As...

At Home... Clinton; Clint; Fat Boy; he who eats all the potato salad out of the fridge at 2am; the distributor of empty beer cans throughout the premises; Thunderdumper

Online... C-dog; your favorite blogger; a guy who eats weird crap for the amusement of others; the poet laureate of the internet age; the place where fart jokes go to die

At McDonalds... The customer who's not allowed inside anymore because of what he did in the bathroom

To the police... The Midnight Fondler

At the drag bar's amateur night... Dee-Lishious Thighs

In Heaven... The angel that's really filling out that robe; the soul who must have got in on a technicality because... seriously...

To your Mom... "An animal"

At SeaWorld... Omigod, Shamu can walk!

In a Dickensian novel... Old Master Hunchen, the cruel tormenter of orphans and owner of much land

In outer space... The bastard who snuck on the space shuttle disguised as a crate of Tang; Grathnox, the Eater of Worlds

At fetish clubs... Little Baby Oopsies

Under the sea... The disgraced Prince of Atlantis; a soggy corpse

On VHS in the back room... Ramrod Steele, Ace Panty Inspector

To the Steve Miller Band... The space cowboy; the gangster of love; Maurice

In my own mind... Superman, if he were a rock star cowboy that knows kung-fu. And is black.

On The Road With C-dog

This weekend, I drove down to Austin to visit some friends, enjoy a bounty of Mexican food, and... of course... drink my weight in tequila-based beverages so powerful they could have fueled my car in a pinch. On the way down, I decided to keep a running journal of the road trip; a record to show you, the loyal reader, just exactly what it would be like to head out on the highway, looking for adventure, with your ol' pal C-dog. Herewith, the long day's journey into the Austin night. Buckle up, bitches:

NOTE: Keeping a diary while driving is extremely dangerous. Do not do it unless you're just so fucking awesome, much like C-dog.

Mile 0 - Before I get on the road, I usually like to fill up on a hearty meal. Road Food. Something to power the internal engine. I eat a large helping of turkey, a few buttered rolls, some really starchy potatoes covered in cheese, and I wash it all down with a pint glass of gravy. I'm kind of sleepy now, so I take a few ephedrine drinks I found in a box in my Dad's garage, then I take a few belts of Old Crow to smooth out my ragged edges. Ready to drive!

Mile 5 - Blasting out speed metal, I make the turn on to I-35... Austin, here I come, you nasty bitch, you. I jam the accelerator to the floor and am OFF, BABY!!!

Mile 5.5 - I am immediately stopped by a State Trooper. He writes me a ticket and gives me a lecture on safe driving while I sob loudly onto the dashboard. He walks away in disgust. No breathalyzer!!!

Mile 22 - As it's Springtime, the Bluebonnets... our state flower... are out in full force along the highway. Huge patches like monster brushstrokes on a humongous canvas line the road. Families stop and take pictures of their children amongst the bright blue blooms. Looking at these wild patches of flowers calms my soul and reminds me that home is not just another word for nothing left to lose. Ah, the majesty of Texas.

Mile 25 - All that Road Food isn't sitting too good. I have to pull over on the side of the road and I diarrhea all over a Bluebonnet patch. The kids getting their picture taken cause a big scene. Like they've never seen a guy shitting in flowers before. Oh please. The patriarch of the clan calls me several hurtful names. I use a fistful of Bluebonnets to clean myself up.

Mile 52 - Feeling the rhythm of the road now. Actually, it's more like highway hypnosis. I only snap out of it when an old man in a pickup truck leans on his horn. Not sure when I'd flipped the car around and started driving in reverse, but... hey... the mysteries of travel, am I right? I take a few more pops of Old Crow to help me focus. Give the old man in the pickup truck the finger.

Mile 60 - Lots of signs telling sinners to repent. Also, quite a few letting us know that Jesus is coming soon. Not to be a dick or anything, but these signs have been up there since I first started driving back and forth to Austin ten years ago. Where is he? Did somebody get fucked up on the date? Because that's a pretty serious clerical error. The people that made those signs must feel like assholes. Speaking of assholes, my asshole is itching like crazy. Could a native son like me be allergic to Bluebonnets? Irony!!!

Mile 74 - Starting to get bored, so I pick up a hitchhiker. He promises that he will not chainsaw massacre me and that the chainsaw he's carrying is simply a tool he uses at work. It's awkward at first, but soon we're talking about our childhoods and sharing with each other our hopes, fears, and dreams for the future. Nothing gets a conversation going like meth.

Mile 95 - We burn through Waco. The hitchhiker tells me a story about a waitress that he killed in Waco. I think he's kidding because at the end of the story, he winked at me. We start to pass the bottle of Old Crow back and forth, but I notice that he's backwashing pretty bad so I just let him keep it. He pees in it. His pee smells pretty bad. I think the hitchhiker might be really sick.

Mile 108 - This is what Kerouac was talking about. I get it now. Using the road as a tool for exploration of the soul. Finding out who you are, meeting the people that are OUT THERE in all senses of the phrase, feeding your mind with the kind of knowledge that can't be learned at a college or a three day Taco Bell training course. I feel connected to my own sense of being for perhaps the first time! I am a man! I am Man!!! I am the road and the road is me!!!

Mile 120 - The hitchhiker is complaining about my farting. I explain to him about the Road Food. He gets belligerent. I pull off the highway and go down a few dirt roads, deep into the wilds of the Hill Country. We get to this little shack way out of sight that I discovered one night while looking for a place that could help me make problems disappear. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say... free chainsaw! Gotta clean it now, though. Bummer.

Mile 144 - God, driving is boring as shit. I listen to some original cast recordings of old Broadway shows. Start to miss the hitchhiker a little bit because he claimed to have a fine soprano singing voice. He probably would have sung Auntie Mame to my Patrick Dennis.

Mile 153 - Have to diarrhea again, but this time I make it to a truck stop bathroom. Well, mostly.

Mile 168 - Not too much farther now! I can almost taste the wonderful weirdness of Austin, TX on the wind. Turns out to be diesel fumes from the 18-wheeler in front of me. Give the truck driver the finger. He looks mad but what's he going to do, chase me down??? HA HAHA HA!!!

Mile 173 - The truck driver ran my car off the road. Then he challenged me to a fight, but he backed down when I diarrheaed all over myself. Also I was sobbing. Anyway, he's gone now so it's back on the road! Austin, here I come!!!

Mile 187 - Pulled over by another State Trooper. This one DOES give me a breathalyzer test, but I'm able to beat it using this patented trick of mine that the Government doesn't want you to know about. (here's a hint: It's just giving the State Trooper fifty bucks)

Mile 195 - Austin, TX!!! The UT clocktower! That new building that looks like a supervillian's corporate headquarters! Bats flying out from the Congress bridge! Hookers everywhere, or at least they are in the part of town I head to first! I tell a hooker about the hitchhiker and she actually knows him!!! What a small world it is sometimes.

Mile 197 - Ah, it's good to be around friends again. Too bad they won't let me in the house. Something about a bad smell and my hands being caked with hitchhiker blood. My friends have really changed, man. I go meet back up with the hooker. We start the long journey back together. I can't wait to show her my "problem shack." What a great vacation!!!

What Makes This Friday So Good?

-It baked you a delicious ham.

-It earned all the badges required for Eagle Scout status when it was like twelve or something, plus it won a bunch of Pinewood Derbies.

-Low on funds? This Friday will buy you a beer. If you're really hard up, a bottle of your favorite booze (top shelf, no less) will arrive via FedEx with a note attached that reads, "The drinks are on me, buddy. Take care." He knows how important booze is to you. You lousy drunk.

-It knows all the words to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" and isn't opposed to singing it for you in public, just for funsies.

-Cheez-Its were totally it's idea.

-It saved a baby from a monster this one time.

-They were going to cancel Seinfeld after it's first season, but this Friday told the NBC execs that maybe... just maybe... they should give it one more chance.

-It reads ZFS! everyday. (thanks, this Friday!!!)

-This Friday hates racism and once punched out a skinhead down in the Village who was picking on these two B-girls who were just trying to buy some Rakim singles from one of those sketchy booths that are always blasting rap music and manned by guys that look like a cracked-out Tommy "Tiny" Lister.

-With this Friday, you always come first, ifyaknowwhatImean!!!

NOTE: Yes, I am aware that this a repost from last year. However, I think it's message is even more true today, and that message is this: I am lazy and didn't feel like writing anything, and then I remembered about this post and thought, "well, fuck it... most of my readers are so drunk on bathtub gin, they won't even notice." So there you have it. Reruns!!!

2ND NOTE: If you thought this was a new post, then please ignore these notes. They are a hallucination caused by all that bathtub gin.

Thoughts & Feelings: Arlington, TX

Despite the fact that it feels like a thousand years of solitude since I left New York for my hometown, it has only been a month. Here, now, my collected thoughts and feelings on the subject, the place itself, the life I'm leading now, and the music of ZZ Top.

Thoughts & Feelings: Arlington, TX

There's a lot of people here who are dressed like hipsters, but aren't hipsters at all. They're recovering alcoholics shopping at the Kroger, or they work part-time as a paralegal in a law office, or they're late on child support while getting gas at a 7-11. They all, in other words, shop at Thrift Town completely without irony. They go there only because the clothes are cheap; looking sharp at the Animal Collective show has nothing to do with it. You have to understand, coming off of five years in NYC, this is huge. It's like discovering that the Man in the Moon is not only real, but can breakdance. Mind blown, for real.

I'm living at the house I grew up in, but out in this garage apartment thing that used to be my playroom and is now filled with old furniture and stuff from my grandparent's house. So it's like I'm living in a memory that's stuffed full of props from other memories. Which is fine day-to-day, but metaphysically it's a mindfuck. I keep waiting to bump into me at ten years old and I kinda hope I actually do; I need to tell him a lot of things that would have been useful to know five years ago.

Since I've been here, I've gone from a very decent social life that was exactly what I wanted and fulfilling in every way to days where the only conversations I have are via text messages, so when I actually open my mouth to sing along to a song on the radio, the sound of my own voice actually startles me. I don't mean that like it's a bad, poor-me thing though. The quiet time has been an interesting change of pace. Plus, with me not blogging as much, it's like I have a non-public, interior life for the first time in three years. It's kind of the same as my regular life, but in this one I can see through time and space and women's clothes, and also I'm a rock star on television. Oh, and it rains beer into flowers shaped like pint glasses.

Parenthetically, I haven't been drinking as much as I thought I would. Before the big move, I just kind of assumed that I'd fall back into my "Los Angeles Nights" habits; every morning would bring with it a hangover and all the nights would run together like wet art. But I've managed to keep shit on a pretty even keel, much to my surprise. Not saying that I'm thriving under a new regimen of clean living and Jesus or anything, but it hasn't been a 24/7 Ray Milland impression either. This might be real-live, actual-factual personal growth. Or it could be a statistical aberration caused by inherent flaws in the poll-taking mechanics. Only time... that cruel bitch goddess... knows for sure. And she ain't saying shit right now.

My new job is so very dull, and I have to get up wicked early for my shift, but the hits to my attention span and sleep schedule have been worth it because at this job... nobody bothers me. I am a faceless ghost (or "temp") that drifts in before sunrise and enters data silently, plugged into my Go-Fuck-Yourself Machine (or "iPod"), and then I slip away in the mid-afternoon, my presence barely physical enough to operate the automatic sliding doors. It's kind of sweet, particularly since I'm pretty surly in the mornings and they don't provide free coffee.

I've heard the ZZ Top song "La Grange" at this point about 14 times in the last month, which is exactly 14 more times than I've heard that song in the last five years. The song is fine, ZZ Top is always good, if for nothing else than their beards and spinny guitars, but... still... that's a LOT of "La Grange." And I'm pretty sure the official city song is still "Misery & Gin" by Merle Haggard. So what gives, local radio? Does the girl no longer have legs and, as it goes, know how to use them?

I'm happy to say that Whataburger took me back, us both weeping gently, like no time had passed between us at all. That's what real love is like... greasy-mouthed and accepting of dalliances with cheap floozies like White Castle if that's what I need during the dark times in my life. Whataburger is a stoic love, an understanding love, a love that doesn't skimp on the jalapenos when you order them extra on your burger. We're having a June wedding!!!

Why You're Being Audited

-The IRS will not accept "your sweet ass" in lieu of a check.

-Claim to be Amish, and thus tax exempt, but you clearly run a successful car dealership.

-A book of Sudoku puzzles starts to look an awful lot like tax forms when you're drunk on bargin tequila.

-Voted for Obama; assumed everything was square now.

-IRS auditor has had a thing for you FOR YEARS; finally got up the courage to destroy your life with math so you and he could get a little one-on-one time.

-Thought you were off the grid since most of your income is derived from dollar bills shoved into your underwear.

-Your idea of filing online is just masturbating to some very disturbing fetish porn.

-Thought they said "Snacks Season;" have spent the last two months creating more and more elaborate Chex Mix and Rice Krispie treats recipes.

-Brick of hash not an acceptable form of payment, though a big hit in the IRS break room.

-Can't go to H&R Block because of a bad break-up with H. (cheated on H with R)

-Tranny hookers only deductible for residents of Atlantic City.

Arbitrary Rulings 22 (Decades Edition)

The 1950's - A great decade to be alive, provided you were white, could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you'd never even HEARD of the Communist party, and it probably helped things immensely if you were just boring as all get-out. I mean, sure, there were pockets of seediness and debauchery... Bettie Page sprung forth from the 50's netherworld, after all, and as I understand it there was a quite a bit of heroin to be had if you knew the right way to knock on the back doors of various Jazz clubs. But still... by and large... everything was very post-war shiny and freshly-mowed grass and smiling Dads lighting a fresh pinch of Borkum Riff while Mom (in pearls) makes a pot roast using nine pounds of butter and a full jar of lard. So the food was delicious, but otherwise... blah. As bland and colorless as their television.

The 1960's - Yeah, yeah... peace and love, letting the sun shine in, Timothy Leary slipping us all LSD as we sobbed over Kennedy's corpse. We get it (because you keep reminding us); the 60's where the greatest decade ever . The decade where IT ALL CHANGED because naked chicks rolled around in an upstate NY muddy field for a few days. You know... a lot of good stuff came out of the 60's; The Beatles, it being okay to have loose morals, Rosemary's Baby, etc. But honestly I think I would trade it all in if it meant I didn't have to listen to leathery sacks of bong resin talk about how, "we ended a WAR with MUSIC, man." At this point, it's like, seriously, that's awesome that you did that one thing that one time...now please go back to your organic farm outside of Portland or I will beat you to death with one of your $200 hemp sandals. You smell like a compost heap farted patchouli oil and it's stinging my eyes.

The 1970's - How could you NOT like a decade that gave us The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, "The Boys are Back In Town" by Thin Lizzy, and the last years of baseball before free agency made the whole thing sort of no fun (unless you like watching millionaires whine about hurt toes). Honestly, though, I think any appreciation we have for the 70's comes from the residual nostalgia put forth by films like Dazed & Confused; nostalgia that is, it should be pointed out, manufactured out of whole cloth. Because I'd be willing to bet that the 70's weren't really as awesome as they looked... I bet they were basically just like now, but instead of surfing the Internet all the time, you got to make out with girls who heard about the loose hippie morals we were talking about earlier and decided to give it a whirl, and the drugs were relatively safe, and AIDS didn't exist, and Star Wars hadn't yet been raped by greed and... er... hang on... so... who's up for finally conquering time travel? I'll bring a wrench and some Diet Dr. Pepper if you'll bring a physics textbook and Stephen Hawking's phone number on speed dial.

The 1980's - This is where I come into the picture, so OBVIOUSLY things are much better from here on out. Yep, on August 6th, 1980, the world was blessed with a little bundle of Texan joy named C-dog... and nothing was ever the same again. Also, everyone made some really unfortunate fashion choices and bands with names like "Haircut 100" and "Bananarama" became, not popular exactly, but present enough to where they STILL get mentioned on Vh1 every once in a while. I remember that I spent quite a bit of my time during the 80's laboring under the assumption that one day I'd grow up to be a fireman or a marine biologist or perhaps a marine biologist that put out fires in his spare time... ah, the heady days of youth, with all the vigorously avoiding the outdoors and the memorizing cheat codes of the NES that that implies. I was so very pale... an embarrassment of nerdy riches... a tabula rasa for braces, glasses, acne, and shame yet to come. OH, REMEMBER THE GHOSTBUSTERS CARTOON?!?! That was so awesome. Not to mention that guy whose sister's best friend's cousin had a kid in her class that slashed his wrist with a Slap Bracelet. Good times.

The 1990's - I think it's only natural that one would think of the decade where he came into adulthood as "the best," particularly if said person managed to get laid during that ten year span. So, needless to say, I'm a big fan of the 90's... I grew from an awkward young lad to a chubby, horror-loving nerd but, most importantly, I HAD A CAR! And I was blessed to be a part of the one high school in America where the drama department was actually regarded more highly than the football team. Certainly made my life easier, though I imagine that our QB spent his four years there desperately searching for the magic wardrobe that lead away from this crazy-go-nuts bizarro world. Anyway, you were around, so you know what was up... Nirvana, of course, Jane's Addiction, and "How Bizarre" by OMC, and so much flannel it was like we were all loggers for a few years, and The Simpsons, and you couldn't get any cooler than hanging around a coffee house that overcharged for espresso but it was okay because you were SO TOTALLY "a Chandler." Also of note, at this point in my life, my dreams hadn't been kicked to death by reality. Hope! Boy, that takes me back...

The 2000's - Dunno. Not over yet. But not great so far. I mean some stuff has been cool... but... eight years of George W. Bush and now we're heading back to selling apples from a cart while we wear barrels and someday soon we might be spinning the wheel in Thunderdome, raggedy man, and so forth. I don't know. This last year and a half better contain some WICKED-ASS shit. And not just like an iPod that's also a taser. I'm talking Hoverboards, bitches. And sex robots. Actually, just the sex robots would be fine. Otherwise, I'm calling this decade a non-starter and we'll pick it up in 2010. I bet BY THEN we'll have sex robots.

Plugging For Friends: iPhone Edition

Ah, the iPhone. A marvel of the modern age. Technology all POW up in your grill like an electric daydream where science and magic meet cute at the party of a mutual friend (he spilled salsa on her shirt, then she tried to drown him in the punch) and are now so in love and weddings and trips holding hands and happiness... so much happiness it leaks out of them and messes up rugs... so sticky...

What was I talking about...?

Oh right, iPhones. They are neat. I assume, anyway; I don't have one. No, they're a little out of my budget. Instead, I've been making due with a cellphone that I believe began it's life as a hand-cranked walkie-talkie from the Vietnam War. It's the size of a party sub and the reception is like trying to shout over a rock concert made of static, but... hey... it gets the job done. Sort of. Oh, and it doesn't take pictures, but if you're willing to sit still for three hours, it WILL sketch out a nice caricature for you. Usually it's pretty pornographic. My phone has a lot of problems.

Anyway, I bring up iPhones because a very good friend of mine has, along with her husband, designed an iPhone "app" (that stands for "application," or possibly "Applebee's menu") that I am... for lack of a better phrase... helping to shill.

My sweet lambs, I give you Don’t Dial!... the iPhone's premiere "drunk dialing" prevention system. I'll let the makers themselves tell you how it works...

When you left for the bar, you had no intention of emailing your boss, texting your ex, or calling your crush.

Then someone ordered tequila shots.

Now you can avoid the drunk dial temptation by blocking certain contacts before you go out.
DON'T DIAL lets you lock out those dangerous numbers for up to 24 hours. Don't worry: As soon as you're sober, they'll re-appear in your phonebook.

You can also opt to make a friend into your "designated dialer," and let them set a password for the evening.

Hangovers are hard. Don't Dial is easy:

-Pick all of your usual suspects from your contact list.
-Choose a block: use the timer, or have a friend enter a password.
-Go out, knowing you're safe from embarrassing drunk dial incidents!
-The next morning, run the app again to unlock everyone.

Genius? Yeah, pretty much. So what are you waiting for??? Go... clicky-clicky the above link... buy the "app" today!!! You'll be helping out good people AND you'll avoid making a fool out of yourself because you can't hold your liquor. Oh, and if you don't buy this iPhone application, I will shoot an orphan baby. And nobody wants to see me shoot an orphan baby. Especially the orphan baby. The orphan baby has leukemia, just so you know.

So you'd better buy Don't Dial!

NOTE: If you do not own an iPhone, you should go buy an iPhone. Actually, buy two and send your ol' pal C-dog the spare. Then we can ALL have Don't Dial! and no orphan babies have to die.