Hollywoodphony.com

I'm moving!

2006-08-14T03:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true. After talking about it for months, I have a found a new, free blog service to host my blog. The new address is http://hollywoodphony.wordpress.com, but from now on, hollywoodphony.com will direct to that address, not this one.

This blog will still exist, it just won't be updated. There really is no reason to go here anymore.

All my old blogs are up at my new page, which, like I said, is located at hollywoodphony.com.

Please update your bookmarks, if you have set them to my blogspot address. If you bookmarked hollywoodphony.com, you should be all set.

If you subscribe to my blog via rss feed (which is a great idea, by the way), please re-direct your feed reader to my new feed http://hollywoodphony.wordpress.com/feed.

I hope you like the look of my new blog, I think it is better, please let me know how you feel, either way. If enough people like the old version, I may switch back. So feel free to send me an email to efilipkowski@yahoo.com.

Thanks for reading,
Eric

The blood of democracy...

2006-08-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

"Don't move or I'll blow your fucking head off."

The voice was calm. It emitted absolute authority.

Mark DePonce woke his wife, Cheryl. As she came to, she saw the four armed men in masks standing in a semi-circle around her bed and she screamed. Mark put his hand over his wife's mouth.

"We just do what they say, honey," he assured her, as her eyes grew wide with terror and she thrashed against her husband as he held her still.

"Yeah, this bitch would do well to listen to you." Only the leader spoke.

"I will not have you speak like that in my home--". He was trying to be a toughguy, but the sawed-off shotgun to his temple put an end to that act.

Mark DePonce shut up and urinated all over himself and his wife, but neither seemed to notice.

The four men motioned for them to walk downstairs to the living room where two more men were waiting with the three DePonce children.

"Daddy, what's going on?" asked the middle child, Jessica.

"It's gonna be OK, baby. Just be quiet and do what these men say, OK?" She nodded.

Jessica held on to her little sister, Megan, who was only six. Their older brother, Matthew, had his arms around both of them. He was protecting his little sisters and his father swelled up with pride until he noticed the lack of urine on his son's underwear, which stood in stark contrast to his own soaked pajamas. His pride was quickly replaced with shame.

Mark's mind was going a mile a minute. He looked for any sort of blunt instrument he could use to turn the tables. Not finding any, he reminded himself he was no Steven Seagal. No, it was best to play along, do whatever they said.

The family stood there for a moment, not sure what was coming.

After what seemed like a whole lifetime of waiting, the leader produced a 9mm handgun and issued a command to Mark: "Choose."

The children looked to their father, confused. He couldn't look back at them, though. He knew all too well what the man in the mask was asking him to do.

"I can't... I can't do it," he pleaded in a tone of desperation that sent shivers up the spines of his wife and children. This was their father, their husband, their protector. He sounded like a scared, little child.

"Fine. Then I shoot them all. All but you," said the voice.

"You bastard!" Mark grew a sack and lunged at the leader. It was futile. Two others grabbed him and a third hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his shotgun.

Mark felt his face against the cold floor, the knee of one of the men on his back. The face of the leader loomed large above him.

"You fucking coward," he said with disgust, "you wanted us to shoot you. You go out the hero and you don't have to make the decision."

As he said it, Mark realized the man was right.

"Pick this piece of shit up," he commanded.

The others roughly pulled Mark to his feet. His wife and children were crying now.

"Listen up, buddy boy, no matter what you choose, someone's gonna die. And it ain't gonna be you. You'll live a long life, grow old and have to think about this choice you're going to make for a long time. I'll see to that."

Mark hung his head. How could anyone make such a decision?

"I can't," he whispered.

"Fine, they all die." The man raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Daddy?" he sobbed.

"No!" Mark yelled, "I'll do it."

"Good," said the man.

"Cheryl, I'm sorry," Mark said through his tears.

Cheryl felt immediate betrayal. This was her soulmate, the man she loved. But in the seconds that followed, she realized she would have done the same, to protect the children.

"I love you," she mouthed to him.

"Wrong," said the man in the mask. "You choose one of them." He motioned towards the kids.

"Goddamit!" Mark cried out, "Have some fucking mercy, they're children for Christ's sake!" The kids crying got louder.

"5..." the leader counted down.

"No, I won't," insisted Mark.

"4... 3..." Continued the voice behind the mask.

"2..." He cocked his gun.

"1..." He again raised his gun to Matthew's head.

"Wait! Fine! It's Megan! Shoot Megan!" screamed Mark DePonce, motioning towards his youngest daughter.

"What?!" came the words, so primal and frenzied from Cheryl DePonce as she struggled in vain to protect her youngest and most-treasured daughter. "Why not Matthew?" she asked, not realizing what she was saying.

Matthew looked up at his mother, who was so quick to feed him to the wolves, but before he could say anything, the man in the mask cut him off.

"It's done. You made your choice." He strode over to the little girl, held the barrel of his handgun against her forehead and squeezed the trigger.

"Click."

They all stood there. Not sure what had happened. There comes an acceptance in the last few moments of your life. An acceptance of the finality of things. And this finality had been disturbed.

"What the--" asked Mark, speaking for the group.

The man in the mask knelt down by the littlest girl and did something odd: he hugged her.

He flung his arms around her neck tenderly and held her head against his face and whispered in her ear as she sobbed.

"It's going to be OK, none of you are going to die. But you must always remember: they picked you. They love you the least."

And with that, they were off. The family remained standing there, in a trance, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

Outside in the van, the leader took off his mask. As the guys congratulated themselves on a job well done, he called someone on his cell phone.

"Hello?" asked the voice, groggy with sleep.

"It's done," the man said.

"Chad?" I asked.

"I did it, buddy," he said with pride.

"Oh God, what did you do this time?" My mind began to wander the universe of terrible possibilities.

"I got even with that no-good son-of-a-bitch who stole your presidency!"

Albert Johnson of 1629 Bluebird Lane had ran against me in the election for leader of our town's Harvey Danger Fan Club. Things had gotten pretty heated and it seemed like someone had been spreading rumors about me and my past involvement with a loose association of people who traded tapes of Dave Matthews shows. Chances are it wasn't even Albert, but one of his supporters who was behind it.

Anyway, like I said, Albert lived at 1629 Bluebird Lane, right next to Mark DePonce and his family, who lived at 1633 Bluebird Lane. When my "good buddy", Chad Robuckle, heard about my loss in the election for presidency of the Harvey Danger Fan Club, he took it upon himself to "fix things", concocting this elaborate revenge scheme on Albert and his family.

Of course, after months of planning, it never occured to Chad to make sure he entered the correct house and hatch this scheme on the right guy and not some innocent bystander whose wife was now filing for divorce and custody of two of her three children.

But hey, that's Chad for ya.

Score one for "progress"

2006-08-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one?

Will no one else stand up to the tyranny of commercialism?

Today, I was deeply saddened to read that Disneyland will be removing the roller coaster ride from its beloved classic attraction, "The Matterhorn" (http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory?id=2291769).

"Oh no, they're tearing down the Matterhorn?" you ask?

No, they are not. They are removing the ride and leaving the building intact.

And what are they putting in the building, you ask? A store.

Not just a store, a Disney Store.

Maybe I'm showing my age, call me a relic, if you like, but I actually like the Matterhorn.

Sure, it's old and it's corny when the abominable snowman lights up and growls at you, but what's wrong with some good, old-fashioned, corny fun?

When I go to Disneyland, it's not to ride the latest thrill rides. If I want to go on a roller coaster that's 500 feet tall and goes 120 miles an hour, I'll go to Six Flags. That's also where I go if I want to get stabbed, but that's a topic for another time.

I go to Disneyland to relive my childhood. I walk under the train station and onto Main Street, USA and I am a kid again. Everything is safe and fun and the world makes sense. I see limitless possibilities laid out in front of me. Life is good.

Do I believe those are real elephants in the Jungle Cruise? No, they look fake as hell. Am I scared by any of the ghosts in the Haunted Mansion? Fuck no, asshole. I'm no pussy. Do I think I'm really in "the world of tomorrow" when I walk past Space Mountain? I'm not even going to answer that.

It's called "willing suspension of disbelief" and to all those people out there who lack an imagination: you should try it. If you can't take 10 hours out of your day where you pretend you're not a miserable son of a bitch, then I truly feel sorry for you.

When I would get in line at the base of that big, white mountain, I would look up at its peak in awe. Since I don't believe in vaccinations, I'll never get to travel overseas and see the real Matterhorn, so this is as close as I will get. I stand there by the pine trees and breathe in their scent. The sound of yodelers fills my ears. I close my eyes and I'm in Switzerland.

The ride is old, I understand that. According to the article, that's the reason they gave for closing it.

"'Popa granda' is a Swiss word for 'grandfather' and we believe the Matterhorn is the Popa Granda of Disneyland. Unfortunately, it just got to the point where it was no longer cost-effective to keep repairing the track, but it was important to us that we kept the spirit of the Matterhorn intact," said Sharon Mullcahy, Senior VP of Attraction Development.

They plan to "keep the spirit of the Matterhorn intact" by continuing the Swiss mountains theme of the original ride inside the store. Whoop dee doo.

The article goes on to cite the cost of several major refurbishments in the past few years and it does seem prohibitive, I will give them that. I remember visiting Disneyland many times and seeing a big white wall around the entrance to the ride as the Imagineers fixed it, yet again.

When you ride it, it jostles you around and you've only got an old, frayed seat belt holding you in. It is definitely a "blast from the past" and I feel that's why it needs to be saved. You can't find rides like this anymore. I, for one, would be willing to take a bump in admission price if it meant saving the Matterhorn.

But, like I said earlier, this isn't about old rides getting phased out. This is about the tyranny of commercialism. I might even buy the Disney Company Line, if not for the fact that they're replacing my favorite ride of all time with a store.

Tear it down, make a new ride - even that would be less objectionable. Screw it up by making it "The Emperor's New Groove Presents: the Matterhorn". I would take all these options over the one they have now.

The last thing Disneyland needs is more shopping. May I remind the executives that this is not a mall. It's a theme park. I understand the need for merchandising, but not at the expense of the visceral thrills that draw you to the park in the first place.

That should always be the focus of a great theme park, everything else is ancillary.

In the past, this has always been the Disney way, but now, I fear they've taken that model and flipped it.

If the Matterhorn Disney Store is a big hit, what's next? "Tom Sawyer's Nike Emporium Island"? "Peter Pan's Magical Flight Through the Apple Store"? "Pirates of the Caribbean starring characters from the motion picture starring Johnny Depp"?

Doesn't seem so crazy now, does it?

Thank you, American Girl!

2006-08-07T12:07:00.000-07:00

I know there's been some controversy regarding these recently, what with young kids being told to go out and get abortions or something, but I don't care.

I love my American Girl doll!

I know what you're going to say.

"You're a 30 year old man, you like women, you went out and bought an $87 doll from a website: THAT'S A GREAT IDEA!"

And you're right: it is a great idea! I named her Cristifina Filipkowski, after my brother's childhood imaginary friend who died of neglect. What brought me to this life-altering decision?

Some would call it genius marketing but I have a different word for it: kismet. Look it up.

Just like you
It’s your story, your star! Choose a doll, clothes, and accessories that tell a story all your own. For ages 8+.

Just like me? I've always wanted something "just like me". My whole life, I've felt ripped off because I wasn't a twin. I've hated and blamed my parents all my life for not being a twin but with Cristifina in my life, I feel the healing can now begin. I'm a star!

Tell a story? I love writing! How did you know?!? This is getting spooky now!

For ages 8+? That's me! OMG! I am so excited!

But which doll to choose? There's so many to pick from.

Well, cross off the minority ones right off the bat. While I often feel alienated from society, like an outsider, I'm looking for a doll who's "just like me" and I don't want to co-opt anyone's culture.

That leaves the white ones. I don't have curly hair, I'm not blonde... the list is getting narrower... I need the one that's truly "just like me"... Here we go!

"Light skin, red hair, blue eyes"

Just like I have! I had found the doll that was "just like me"! I think you'll agree, the resemblance is remarkable.

Now it was time to place my order, sit back and wait and start telling stories of my (our) own!

When Cristifina arrived, I was not disappointed. She was a beauty and her resemblance to her paternal great-grandmother was dead-on. I took her out of the box and welcomed her into the world.

"You are special," I told her, as I cradled her in my arms, "there's no one in the world just like you except me."

I kissed her gently on her forehead and rocked her back and forth. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I felt complete! Thank you, American Girl!

I had also purchased the "Kickin' Back" outfit for $26 and as I changed my doll into her cropped pants, diagonal-striped tank and green hoodie, I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of showing her off to all my friends!

I packed her extra clothes and accessories into the $38 "Backpack for Girls" (yes, I think that's sexist too) and we were off.

We were off to the local watering hole to meet up with some friends. As I strode into the bar, we immediately became the center of attention.

"Cool sandals!" enthused a normally surly-looking biker from his bar stool.

Three 20-something girls walked right up to us, drinks in hand. "Oh my god, she is adorable, what's her name?" one asked me.

"Cristifina," I said with pride.

"She is too cute! I have a hoodie just like that!"

And the night pretty much went like that.

People wanted to hold my doll, give her a hug, get their picture taken with her. She was a hit. We were a hit.

It was one magical night. Unfortunately, it would be our only magical night.

My story with Cristifina Filipkowski ends there. I'm sorry it's not the fairy tale you may have been hoping for. If you want to stop reading here, I don't blame you, but you'll be missing out on a cautionary tale that anyone who has ever given their heart to someone unconditionally will be able to relate to.

When you meet someone online, you're not really getting to know them, you're getting to know who and what they want you to see about themselves. It's an idealized version of who they are.

If I had known the real Cristifina Filipkowski, I would have never taken her anywhere that served alcohol. Not in a million years. But I didn't know that side of her. The ugly side, so full of pain. The side that didn't really like who she was and certainly didn't know how to love herself. The side that tried to bury all her problems at the bottom of a bottle.

I'm not going to recount all her awful behavior that night. I'm not looking for revenge, I'm not "venting". I don't want to slam her. She's a good kid and we really could have made something out of this and I hope one day, when some time has passed, we can start over as friends.

As we left the bar that night, Cristifina was flying high. I didn't think anything of it, at first. She was new in town, had just been getting acquainted with me and all my friends. I understood she was probably nervous and looking to unwind a bit. But when we stepped out into the cool, night air, she became a different person. As I went to get my car from the valet, I took my eyes off of her for maybe 30 seconds, but when I turned around she was making out with the biker who had complimented her sandals earlier. The sandals I bought her.

"Cristifina," I said, my voice heavy with hurt, "baby, what are you doing?"

She broke off her kiss with the biker and turned to face me with nothing resembling love. "Who are you calling "baby"? I'm not your fucking baby!" she screamed at me.

"Please, Cristifina, you're making a scene," I pleaded with her.

"I'm making a scene? I'm making a scene? You bring a fucking doll to a bar and I'm the one making a scene?" the words came from someone I thought I knew but clearly didn't and that's what hurt the most.

"I think you've had too much to drink, let's go home before you say or do anything you're going to regret later," I tried to reason with her.

"What the fuck did you just say? Are you fucking threatening me?" asked a hysterical Cristifina Filipkowski.

She pulled out the "Cuttin' and Stabbin'" switchblade I had bought for her ($23) and waved it at me in a menacing fashion.

This cleared the crowd out pretty quickly.

I backed away, trying to hasten my exit before the cops got there.

"Are you crying, you little faggot?" she asked me, mockingly.

It was true, I was crying. If things weren't going to work out with us, fine, I can deal with that. But seeing her this way broke my heart. All I ever really wanted was for us to be happy.

"I'm sorry, Cristifina, I hope you can find some peace, someday." I genuinely meant it.

"I'm serious, asshole. Get the fuck out of my face before I cut you!"

I didn't need to be told twice. I heard the sirens as I ran for my car. I guess she got out of there too because I didn't see any mention of her in the police reports in the paper.

I really do want to thank American Girl. I don't regret my experience in any way. You live, you learn and you move on, stronger and smarter than you were.

I know this is a company that has helped lots of young girls expand their imaginations and that is a great thing, I don't begrude them that. I mean, I know the target customer for these dolls is not someone who's likely going to bring their doll to a bar, so I don't know if I see a need for any sort of rigorous background testing for drug and alcohol dependence.

I know Cristifina is a good person. I know that what I witnessed was a relapse. It's an illness and to deny her the right to love would be as unfair as denying the same to a cancer patient.

I just wish it could have worked out because I know I could have made her so happy.

What? Another blog??

2006-08-03T15:31:00.000-07:00

OK, so I admit it.

I have too many blogs.

But, this is an attempt to cut back. To consolidate. From this point on, I will have hollywoodphony.com, where I will put up my fictional stories, chadrobuckle.com, where I will host my podcast and happyfuncamp.com, where I will post real blogs about pop culture, technology, gossip, stuff I saw, cartoons I drew, fake movie reviews, pictures I've taken, videos I think are funny, etc.

What about the other 15 blogs I've got? Well, most likely I won't be posting on them... maybe a lone post from time to time. It's just too much work, between those blogs and my ten Myspace accounts, I hardly have time for my six-hour mid-day naps anymore.

Anyway, enjoy!

My greatest hits updated

2006-07-31T13:28:00.000-07:00

Here is what I consider my best work, condensed into an easy to follow set of links! Imagine that! There are so many of them, not because I'm egotistical, but rather because I'm indecisive. And egotistical. If there's any you like that aren't up here, feel free to email me and let me know. Thanks!

These are in chronological order of when I wrote them because I am too lazy to do it any other way, so feel free to skip around. The Chad Robuckle ones are at the bottom and I consider those some of my best work.

The Revenge - A boy gets revenge on his parents for reasons unknown to the author.

Pickles the dog - A story loosely based on the time I tried to pay a girl to make out with her brother at my birthday.

The fish who couldn't swim - A fish who couldn't swim. Duh.

Dear Grandma - A cute little letter I wrote to my grandmother when I was younger.

My trip to Subway - I stand up for my beliefs in alternative condiments and I get a glimpse of a secret, tiny world.

Meet Mary Raptorapper - An imaginary friend and her unusual job. I don't know why I never wrote another story about her, I guess there are just no good roles for women in Hollywood.

Craig's List find of the day! - I make a fake Craigslist ad involving tattoos or something.

Jimbo hates the Olive Garden - A boy who hates the Olive Garden and almost commits murder because of it.

Roger Stubbins: American Patriot - A story about a boy and his lion. It sounds like something Chad Robuckle would write, but it's not. I wrote it. It's all true. (Also republished here.)

Ironically, literary editor caught mis-using the term, "ironically" - Don't let this happen to you!

These knuckleheads at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru are really starting to cheese me off! - A guy gets pushed too far and takes the law into his own hands.

The time I fucked Kelly Clarkson - Yeah, it's true. I did it.

The spectacles party - My mom attempts to make me feel better about being different.

You want a piece of this? - A criminal's letter to the old woman he victimized. Or is it vice-versa?

The new "what 'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" - I really thought this putdown would catch on.

Clueless movie review - King Kong - I review a movie I never saw.

The worst thing that happened in 2005 - I miss out on watching a movie at Disney World. No, I don't think I'm over-reacting.

Ms. Pacman speaks out against abortion - Who knew video games were so political?

My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation - The harrowing, true tale of the day my life was shattered. *warning - graphic content*

Girlfriend insurance - I get sexist for a change and explain the phenomenon that is sweeping the country.

My telegram to Jesus - A tribute to the passing of the telegram.

Camera corner: how to... - Some tips on taking great pictures of something.

Why I love clowns (Koko) - This is a story I wrote for my girlfriend while I should have been entering a contest.

My new ad campaign - I decide to give up comedy and do something productive with my life.

I invented a new day! - I invent a new day and luckily, have the foresight to register its domain name.

My broken heart - No, not another story about my operation and how everyone should feel sorry for me. This is a true story about my attempt to make the woman I love stay with me forever.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce' - Because nobody writes fake news stories, especially ones involving racial issues, I decided to be a hero the nation and the world and take on that responsibility.

Letters to home - A chronicle of my journey into manhood.

Podcasting by numbers - Why I love bald eagle egg omelettes.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government - I come clean.

Cunt - I use the c-word and get all "political".

How Lucky lost his leg - The true story of how my three-legged dog went from being a four-legged dog to a three-legged dog.

The Ray Bans - A story about a man and his sick aunt. Sounds like a Chad Robuckle story, but it's not. Cuz I changed the names.

Things I've Noticed - by Eric Filipkowski - I wax philosophical about some issues that have been pickin' at my craw!

Another Entirely True Story - Eric Filipkowski - My plans to kill a kid don't go so well.

23 Days Later - I deliberately try to gross out my family with this true story from the seedy underbelly of life.

Here are links to stories involving my imaginary friends.

Chad Robuckle

Chad Robuckle: imaginary "friend" - My introduction to my imaginary friend who may or may not have raped someone.

Look what I found - Chad Robuckle's letter to Mythbusters.

Chad Robuckle's Dad - Hopefully, this will explain why Chad is the way he is.

A completely original work of fiction - Chad Robuckle (doesn't) learn the lesson of the boy who cried wolf.

The early bird gets the worm - How I met Chad Robuckle.

Fish Killer - Chad's love of animals backfires.

The adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms - Chad goes on an epic quest for adventure. People die.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle - Chad wins a contest and makes an enemy of a recording artist and 70's icon.

Number 17 - Our friend Chad recalls the 17th worst thing he ever did. Needless to say, kids get orphaned.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle - Chad's brush with celebrity.

The Bachelor Party - Chad decides to have one last hurrah for his friend.

Immigrants gone wild - by Chad Robuckle - Chad sheds some light on a side of the immigration debate that many people may have overlooked.

The Assassination Factory - A heartwarming tale of a boy and his mother.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle - Chad talks about a turning point in his life.

Tucker McGrath

The worst thing I ever did - The time I convinced my other imaginary friend to tell his parents he was gay.

My note to the tooth fairy - How I found out the tooth fairy isn't real.

From the desk of Tucker McGrath - Tucker takes it upon himself to turn the tables on criminals.

Rob Wagman

The time I won a ventriloquism contest - Here's a heart-warming tale of a boy and his dummy.

A true story! - Some childhood pranks go wrong.

23 days later

2006-07-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

A note to my family: If you are reading this now, please consider before continuing: you will remember that in July of 2003, I disappeared for a while. When I returned, I told you that I had been on a last-minute, emergency charity trip to Burma to help out some orphans. This was not true, but for a long time, I would rather you continued believing this lie than knowing the truth. Thank you.

There is a show on the air that you may or may not know of. It is called “South Park” and it is an animated series that airs on the Comedy Central cable network. It is known for its outlandish and crude humor, but I have found that it often treats current issues with a surprising amount of thought and insight, if you manage to look past the potty humor.

One episode, however, went way too far, in my mind. I believe in freedom of speech. I’m all for protecting the rights of artists to follow their vision and not be prevented in doing so by the government, BUT, along with this right comes a responsibility. The responsibility to own up to the consequences of the art you create.

Do I feel celebrities should get a free pass and be protected from criticism or satire? No, of course not. Paris Hilton is a public figure. She has chosen this path and courted her own celebrity status. The issue is not whether it’s ok to make fun of her because she’s a celebrity. The issue is whether it’s ok to make fun of anyone who has befallen tragedy.

It’s not wrong to make fun of Magic Johnson and his AIDS because he’s a celebrity; it’s wrong because AIDS is a horrible thing. You shouldn’t make fun of anyone for having AIDS or cancer or whatever. It’s not the law, but it should be.

And just like it’s not ok to make fun of people with AIDS, it’s not ok to make fun of people who have befallen Paris Hilton’s fate, either.

In season 8, episode 12, Comedy Central aired an episode entitled “Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset” in which Miss Hilton comes to South Park and exerts her influence over the town’s young girls, to disastrous results. I see the need to satirize a situation in which a young woman of questionable morals, famous only for being rich and spoiled, becomes a role model to the youth of today. Believe me, I understand.

But how do the creators of South Park dispense of the villain in this episode? By having a naked gay man jump on her head, inserting her whole body into his anal cavity.

I am not making this up; this is actually what happened in this episode.

If someone could explain to me how this is funny in any way, shape or form, I would appreciate it, because I am clueless.

Perhaps I’m biased, due to my own experiences, but this is just plain gross. Nobody should have to endure that kind of punishment, no matter how awful a person they are.

Trust me, when I say this is a fate worse than death.

July 17, 2003: Alicia Jane Stevenson, certified by the Guinness Book as the world’s fattest woman, is flying from her home in Texas to the (unfortunately named) Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota to undergo emergency gastric bypass in a last-ditch attempt to save her life.

Miss Stevenson is grossly obese and suffering from numerous medical problems related to her enormous weight.

As the custom-retrofitted C 27 cargo plane chartered by the Oprah Winfrey Show for the sole purpose of bringing Miss Stevenson to the weight loss clinic is passing over Des Moines, Iowa, it encounters severe turbulence, causing the plane to rock back and forth. As it does so, its cargo breaks free from its tether and begins rolling around. This, in turn, causes the plane to pitch violently from side to side, setting off a disastrous chain reaction.

The pilots, unable to control the plane and steady its 1200 pound passenger, had only one option. I don’t blame them for lowering the cargo ramp and going into a steep climb. They did what they thought was their only option. Are three deaths better than one?

Meanwhile, 23,000 feet below all of this, a lone man spies a black spot emerging from an airplane. He notices it getting slightly larger as it falls to earth. He cranes his head upwards, unable to discern what it is. By the time he realizes what it is and where it is headed, it is too late to run.

You may remember the story of Alicia Jane Stevenson: her courageous journey, her terrible fall and her miraculous survival. It was all over the media how this poor woman had been jettisoned from the very airplane that had been trying to save her. How she had fallen from that height, reaching such speeds and yet walked away from the incident without a scratch. It was the lead story for days.

Doctors wanted to examine this miracle woman and make sure that all her bones and internal organs were intact. The problem is, there isn’t an x-ray, cat scan or MRI machine in the world that is large enough to contain her.

I am sad that we live in a world where the almighty dollar dictates who gets medical treatment and who doesn’t, because if they had been able to stuff that fat bitch into an x-ray machine, they would have seen the grown man stuck inside of her vaginal cavity.

They would have seen me.

The fact that one person could have survived such a fall is beyond explanation. The fact that two people could survive such an impact is beyond belief.

What I have been told is that thanks to a one-in-a-million shot, I entered this woman in the exact right location. Her body absorbed the shock of our contact, as if one of those giant air bags that people jump from a building and land on had landed on me, instead of the other way around… I don’t really know, it doesn’t make much sense to me.

All I know is, I was now trapped in a living hell that would eventually last for 23 days.

On South Park, Paris Hilton crawls around and interacts with mythical characters. In reality, you are in complete darkness, breathing in foul air, unable to move.

I screamed, but nobody could hear me. I tried to make noise by tapping on the walls of this woman’s internal organs, but that only made horrible, horrible things happen. This was easily one of the worst things that ever happened to me and I wouldn’t wish it on all but the most evil of men.

Her body recognized me as a foreign entity and her immune system reacted by trying to destroy me. I was covered in goo, which I was forced to eat to survive. I began to hallucinate. I imagined I was an olde tyme miner and I had been trapped in a cave-in. At one point, I believed I was an astronaut, set adrift in his space capsule, unable to contact earth.

As the weeks went by, eventually, I gave up all hope. I looked for a means to hasten my demise, but finding none, accepted the fact that I would probably starve to death.

Then, it happened. The literal light at the end of the tunnel. Hands. Reaching in and grabbing me.

Had I indeed died, then been reincarnated as a newborn baby? What was happening? I reached out to steady myself, the sensation of falling was overwhelming.

I was lying on the floor of a large, white room. I was wet and cold. There were doctors everywhere.

“Ga ga goo goo,” I said, trying my best to adapt to my new situation.

The room erupted in laughter. “Well he’s still got a sense of humor, that’s a good sign!” said one of the doctors. I looked behind me and saw the most enormous person I had ever seen. There was a gaping chasm… I followed the slime trail from it to my present location… everything clicked… and I lost consciousness.

For 23 days, the state of Iowa had been unable to locate a freight scale that was mobile, yet could handle a 1200 pound load. At last, a cattle farmer in Altoona was located who had the equipment to handle those specifications.

The first sign that something wasn’t right came when this 1200 pound woman was rolled onto the scale and it gave her weight as 1400 pounds. Even someone on a 20,000 calorie diet can’t gain that much weight in such a short time.

The scale had to be wrong. It was quickly recalibrated and again, the same result came up.

The doctors were mystified, but luckily for me, a young intern named Sandra Chopak had a hunch. The best OB/GYNs in the state were brought in and an ultrasound of Miss Stevenson’s uterus was ordered. That’s when they saw it, or rather heard it: another heart beat.

Naturally, they jumped to the wrong conclusion. What are you going to believe? That some fatass had a 200 pound baby in her or that she fell on a grown man when she was ejected from a cargo plane? Don’t be an idiot.

Well, further tests revealed what was really going on and I was quickly removed from my vaginal hell.

I could have cleaned up, financially, with a lawsuit, but the last thing I wanted was more publicity; to relieve this experience over and over on national TV. I was embarrassed. I told Oprah and her producers that if she wanted to make this all go away, she had my word I wouldn’t seek a dime from her.

And I haven’t. I have not spoken to anyone about this until just now. The medical staff, bound by the laws and oaths of their profession, were forbidden from repeating anything they had seen.

Through the ordeal, a large number of high-powered people had been put in rather embarrassing positions by all that had taken place, so they were more than happy to keep silent.

As was I. Until I realized I needed to get my alcohol and drug dependence under control. With the help of several 12-step programs and a newfound belief in my higher power, I have come to terms with my past, part of which is letting people know the truth about the awful events of those 3+ weeks.

Thank you to those doctors; especially Sandra Chopak. Thank you Oprah and thank you Miss Alicia Jane Stevenson. To my family, let me say that I am sorry I hid the truth from you for so long. I was ashamed of who I was and that had nothing to do with me or any of you or the fact that I had been inside an enormous woman’s vagina for over 3 weeks.

I leave you now with the words that inspired me to accept myself for who I was and all I had been through. I wish you the same.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Another entirely true story – by Eric Filipkowski

2006-07-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

When I was 25, truly living on my own for the first time, I decided I was going to kill a kid.

Before you fly off the handle and call the cops, understand this: that fat bastard had it coming.

His name was Evan and he lived next door. Evan’s parents were gone all day so this porky loser had nothing to do all afternoon but sit on the couch, getting fatter, playing video games and watching TV.

When he would grow bored of that, he would start looking for trouble.

Luckily for Evan, his parents tried to make up for their absence with a lack of discipline and an indulgent attitude. In case you can’t read between the lines, I’m saying he was spoiled.

So Tubbs would roam the neighborhood with his BB gun, shooting cats and younger, smaller children and no matter how many people complained, this dipshit’s dipshit parents wouldn’t take any action. Usually, they would defend him and start accusing the other kids and parents of being at fault, but sometimes they wouldn’t even do that. They clearly just didn’t care. Someone else might feel sorry for this douchebag, but not me.

Well, the final straw for me is when Fatty figures out that if he calls my house when I’m at work and taunts my hyperactive yellow lab, Ellie, over the speaker, he can make her go nuts and trash the house.

I come home one evening and the place is a wreck. My first thought is that I had been robbed. I’m searching around, trying to see if anything is missing, but all I really see is someone made a mess, there’s dog shit everywhere and no signs of entry.

Then I see my answering machine is blinking and I have 27 messages. I push play and hear that bag of lard’s voice calling Ellie’s name over and over and it all clicks. Apparently, this genius was smart enough to figure out this answering machine prank but not smart enough to realize he’d be leaving behind the evidence to prove he did it.

I should have called the police at this point. I had a house with hundreds, if not thousands of dollars of damage and a tape that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt who was responsible for it.

But, then I thought that he probably wouldn’t be criminally prosecuted, he was only ten or whatever. The cops would most likely leave it up to the parents to discipline their child and I knew what that would lead to. No, it was much better to just take the law into my own hands and murder Tons of Fun, myself.

I had to be patient, though. I couldn’t just run over there and strangle him and expect to get away with it. I had to think this through.

While I shoveled my now-destroyed belongings into a wheelbarrow and out to the curb, I plotted.

The next day, my plan fully sketched out, I went down to the local magic shop and bought what I needed.

I had taken the day off from work and while I sat on the floor of my barren living room, I laid everything out before me and waited for nightfall.

When the sun had gone down and all the lights were out at Evan’s house, I snuck over there, OJ-style, decked out in black, as quiet as a cat. From my rucksack I produced a satchel which contained 3 pieces of magic chalk I had purchased earlier.

Trying to remember what the store owner had told me, I sketched a small door on the side of house, maybe 3 feet high. I uttered some magic words which I will not repeat here and then the door lit up and to my amazement, began to open by itself. A door that opens by itself?!? What the F???

So I got on my hands and knees and crawled through the opening into a small tunnel. There were tiny little torches lit along the wall and I could smell something sweet, like cotton candy. I thought I must have lost my mind.

I followed the tunnel for about 30 feet and figured I was directly under the middle of Evan’s house. I marked an ‘X’ so I would be able to remember my location, when I went back, as this was just a scouting mission. Tomorrow night, I would return with some dynamite and blow that family of fat-asses back to Ohio or whatever part of the Midwest “those types” come from.

I started the fairly involved process of turning myself around when I heard some faint singing off in the distance. I strained my eyes and ears and concentrated down the dark tunnel and again, thought I was losing it, when 3 or 4 tiny people approached, smiling and waving at me. As they got closer, I realized they weren’t actually tiny people: they were elves.

“What’s up, dude?” the one in front asked me.

“Um, not much. What’s up with you guys?” I replied, not really able to think of anything else to say.

“Just chillin’. You wanna smoke some weed with us?”

Did I! They whipped out their bong and we all got high as shit. I think the cramped quarters of the tunnel served as somewhat of an airlock, trapping us in a cloud of our own second-hand pot smoke.

When the bong was cashed, one of the elves flipped it over and dumped the bong water out onto the tunnel floor. It was instantly absorbed into the dirt and seconds later, a large, bright flower grew from its spot. The flower was taller than the elf people and as my bloodshot eyes struggled to see in the dim torchlight, I realized that it was entirely made out of candy. Which was pretty cool.

I followed the elves back down the tunnel from where they had come. They told me all about the magical land they lived in. They called it “Super Cool Dude Land” and explained that for thousands of years, they had been the source of the world’s candy.

“I thought candy came from England and was made out of sugar and crap like that?” I asked them, naively.

They told me that I was being stupid, which was good enough for me, cuz I was out of my mind, fucked up, at that point.

When they asked what brought me to Super Cool Dude Land, I explained my situation and they seemed more than eager to help me get rid of this punk.

They laughed at my dynamite idea and explained that a minor cave-in would never produce the catastrophic results I was looking for. No, it would be best if they were to sneak in while Evan’s family slept and just slit all their throats.

Their three hundred and fifty dollar “suggested donation” sounded more than reasonable to me, but I asked to sleep on it. They agreed and said I could meet them back there at the same time tomorrow night with the money if I wanted to go through with it.

I thanked them for the weed and crawled home.

My problems were solved, my prayers had been answered. Evan would be dead and nobody would be able to pin it on me in a million years.

So why did I feel kinda bad about the whole thing? As crazy as it sounds, I was having second thoughts.

The next day, I asked everyone at work what I should do and my friend, Karen, told me that if I’m hearing little voices telling me not to do it, then I should probably give them a listen. I’ve always valued her advice, she’s a smart lady and one hell of an office manager.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, that night, my mind was made up: I was going to tell the elves “thanks, but no thanks”. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt their feelings.

I brought the 350 bucks with me, just in case there were any hard feelings. I figured a week’s pay wasn’t worth losing some really good friends over. I had a hunch they’d be cool with it and tell me to keep the money. If the shoe had been on the other foot and I had been the one offering to murder their neighbor for three hundred and fifty dollars and they had backed out at the last minute, I would really have appreciated if they had offered to pay me for my trouble anyway. It seemed like the stand up thing to do.

As I reached the spot where I had made my mark the night before, I sensed something wasn’t quite right. Where was the singing?

When the elves from Super Cool Dude Land approached me this time, there were no smiles. As they got closer, I could see the littlest one, who I called “Elve-us”, had been crying. He looked me in the eye and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

Before I could figure out what this all meant, a charge went off behind me. Soon the small tunnel was filled with tear gas and everything turned to chaos.

I felt my eyes burning as I gasped for air. Strong hands were dragging me from the tunnel, I felt the rocks on the ground tear the seat of my trousers.

Though I could barely see, I knew I was now outside. I could feel the cool, night air on my tear-stained cheeks. This sensation was soon joined by that of cold steel being slapped onto my wrists. An FBI man read me my rights.

I tried to explain that I had only showed up to tell them I couldn’t do it, but the fact that I had the money with me didn’t do much to convince them of my honesty.

I looked and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, my neighbors looked on with surprise to see this pleasant young man who kept to himself being handcuffed on the lawn of his neighbor’s yard.

I didn’t care what they thought. What really tore at my heart was seeing my elf buddies remove their plastic elf ears and pocket a roll of hundred dollar bills that was doled out to them from their field agent.

I wanted to confront them, to ask them why, but what does that really ever get anyone? There are no answers, only more questions.

As the officer lowered my head and helped me into the back of the car, Fatso came over to taunt me.

“You ain’t so tough now, are you, bitch? Answer me, faggot! What’s up, dude? I’m still here! Take your best shot!” he yelled, before being restrained by some FBI guys.

We drove away and I thought how right Evan was. I wasn’t feeling very tough now at all. Down at the office, they told me I was looking at 25 years to life.

They had spent 3 years on that sting operation. 14 bureaus in counties scattered throughout 5 different states had been in on it. But it had all paid off in the end: they got their patsy.

Obviously, that’s not how things ended. I’m not in jail right now. In fact, I never went to jail at all. The DA botched the case, got caught leaking confidential details to the media and a mistrial was called. I walked. Scot free.

Surprisingly, I heard Evan really turned himself around. He slimmed down, stopped being such a prick and became a doctor or a teacher or something. He even wrote me this nice letter apologizing for the way he had behaved as a kid and told me he didn’t harbor any hard feelings against me for trying to kill him.

I guess if there’s any lesson to be taken from this story it’s that you shouldn’t go out and try to kill kids who are annoying because they might grow up to be not fat at all, you just never know.

And also don’t ever trust magicians, because they are liars. That’s what they do: they lie to you.

Survey time!!!

2006-07-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, this isn't one of those mass-mailed things that everyone claims to hate yet keeps sending me 400 of a day, I made this one myself! Feel free to pass it on and answer these yourself!

1.) First thing you said after you were dumped for the third time for not being Jewish:

Um, why do I even bother? Maybe I should go to the library and check out a copy of the Koran? Just joshin!

2.) Number of dumps per day your roommate's three-legged dog takes on the patio because he can't go in the backyard due to the fact that he hasn't learned yet that if he digs up that one bush, he'll keep getting nettles in his eye:

3 or 4? I don't really count them... that seems like a weird question.

3.) If you had to choose between the third and the fourth and time you had open heart surgery, which one would you say was worse and why?

Wow, these seem really specific to me. I would have to say the fourth due to the prolonged recovery time and the fact that I'm still experiencing side effects to this day.

4.) Amount of money you were awarded when you were shot in the eye due to gross negligence on the part of your neighbors who allowed their hyper-active son with learning disabilities to shoot a bow and arrow unsupervised:

Um, none. My parents didn't sue them even though my vision never fully recovered. I'm not sure, my dad doesn't like suing people, I guess.

5.) Percentage of people you know who still believe to this day that you actually have a monkey heart even though that's medically impossible and has never been performed successfully on a human:

I would say it's now down to probably 20 or 30 percent. It was much higher for a while. Like... at least half. I mean, these are largely college-educated people we're talking about too.

6.) Number of bananas you end up throwing out because you never manage to eat them all before they go rotten which you buy out of some futile attempt to balance out all the bad shit you consume daily, as if one piece of fruit is going to do that:

Well, it's not my fault that they go from green to brown so fast. You've got a window of 2 to 3 days where they're yellow and it grosses me out when they're squishy. So... 3 probably? I usually buy five or so and only get around to eating 2. Can you buy just two? Maybe I should do that.

7.) Number of dents in the hood of your car from the time you fucked up your bumper in the Arby's drive-thru and were so mad you punched it:

OK, come on! The banana thing I'm sure people can relate to, but this one is ridiculous. There's only one person in the world who's probably done that exact sequence of events and it's me and I only punched my hood once and it's a small dent.

8.) Why do you keep all those t-shirts in the bottom of your closet that you're never going to wear? I mean, they're all ragged and have pit stains and are probably too small anyway? What's the deal with that?

I can't throw them out because they are a physical reminder of past events. They were touching my skin cells when momentous occasions in my life happened. Some of which I can't even remember, but I feel their absence like my roommate's dog feels his missing leg. Those skin cells have long fallen off and turned to dust in some apartment that housed me 7 owners ago, but the shirt lives on.

9.) Why does your toe curl under the other one like that? That's gross.

This is a great survey. I'm sure people are going to love answering these questions, I mean, that's some universal appeal we've got going here. I have no idea why my toe does that. I'm sure it's related to my genetic defect in some way? You tell me, smart guy.

10.) I sense a lot of anger in you, why don't we end with you telling us why you're so angry:

OK, well I don't think I'm angry, I'm just a little annoyed at the questions--

10.) Because I think it's due to your sense of entitlement. Like "ooh, I had heart surgery, the world owes me! Poor Eric Filipkowski, let's shower him with blessings!"

You know what? Fuck you, I don't need this.

10.) Oh no, now crybaby doesn't want to play anymore! Boo hoo! Why don't you fly back to Rhode Island again? Better book your ticket FIRST CLASS like you did last time, that way you don't have to mingle among the common folk who haven't had any heart surgery.

Are you done?

10.) Pathetic.

Look, do I feel I have been dealt a shitty hand in life? Yes, in some ways I do. In other ways, I know I am a very lucky person who has been given gifts many haven't. I know that I have great friends and family who love me and would do anything for me. I have come back from the brink of death to enjoy living on my own, free from illness and able to go about my day as a normal person.

Of course, there is more I could be doing right now to make things happen in my career, etc., but I'm getting myself out there, albeit slowly. All in all, I feel I'm in a pretty good place and have a lot to be thankful for. I'm sorry I sometimes wallow in self-pity, I'm sure it gets old. I apologize to anyone who has to listen to my bitching, but I think we can all benefit from taking the time to look around at our lives and--

10.) OK, OK! Enough! Jeez, this wasn't very funny at all.

Well whose fault is that? I have to go get in the shower.

10.) Alright, take it easy. Hey, come up with something funny for the next one, OK?

I'll try.

Things I've Noticed - by Eric Filipkowski

2006-07-18T17:12:00.000-07:00

Apparently my last “fuck you” to everybody was too subtle, as I still have some friends left. Hopefully, this pile of shit will fix that.

1. First off, have you ever noticed there are lots of differences between men and women? I have and I don’t think anybody really points them out. Especially in comedy. For instance: men like watching sports and women like shopping. Men enjoy casual sexual encounters and women are looking for lasting, meaningful relationships. I know this is probably pretty controversial stuff, but that’s what I do: I SAY the things everyone is thinking but are too afraid to admit! If you’ve got a problem with this, it’s probably because you’re on your period or something.

2. I was listening to the song “Foxy Lady” by Jim Hendrix and noticed there is a line that I believe goes, "’scuse me, while I kiss the sky", but if you listen carefully, you can almost hear him say, "’scuse me, while I kiss THIS GUY!" LOL! How embarrassing! My heart goes out to you, Jim, for this terrible gaffe. I haven’t laughed that hard since I heard that guy sing "wrapped up like a douche" in that song about being blind.

3. Speaking of homosexuals, I think that, in general, they pay more attention to their appearance and matters of cleanliness than their heterosexual counterparts. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule: Jim Belushi comes to mind, but in general, I think this is a fair thing to say. Obviously I’m not talking about lesbians. We all know what their deal is.

4. I was watching Scooby Doo the other day and I realized that whole show seems to be about drug use! Think about it: that guy, Shaggy, totally looks like some kind of marijuana-smoking beatnik and him and his dog are always hungry and paranoid! It makes sense. Can you believe people would do that in a show marketed towards kids?

5. White people are worse at dancing than African-Americans. I think the problem is we have less rhythm. That’s what a black guy told me once. If you don’t believe me, go to any club and check out the dance floor. I think this is actually a form of racism where white people dance worse on purpose so that black people won’t feel bad about us being so much better at sports than they are. Which is pretty condescending, if you think about it.

6. TV isn’t as good as it used to be. Back in the day, you could flip on the tube and be greeted with such classics as “Men Behaving Badly”, “Friends” and “Just Shoot Me”. Even “Caroline in the City” is better than that crap they show now. Case in point: “Arrested Development”. I can’t watch this show. It could be funny, I’m not sure. How are we supposed to know when to laugh if we can’t hear the audience laughing? Lame. I’m glad it got cancelled.

7. Old people drive too slow! Normally I’m not one to harp on the negatives of “The Greatest Generation”, I’m just glad I’m not speaking German right now, but this really grinds my goat. I’m no speed demon, myself. I stay within the boundaries of the limit of the law, at the maximum and the minimum. Also, what’s with them wearing their pants so high? And Geritol? What the hell does that do? Am I right? Right?

8. Sometimes alcohol makes certain members of the opposite sex more attractive to me. I know, it sounds awful, doesn’t it? But I’m trying to be totally honest here. There are times when I’ve had a little too much to drink and a woman I previously thought to be unattractive will suddenly look much better. Usually this occurs late at night, right before the drinking establishment I am at is about to close and I have been unsuccessful in wooing my previous choices for companionship. I think this is related to the alcohol impairing my judgment in some way and not really a vision problem, but I choose to call this phenomena “beer glasses” anyway. No wait, that could be confusing. People could confuse my meaning and think I am speaking of an actual receptacle for beer, instead of something that goes over your eyes and alters the perceived appearance of other bar patrons. I will say “beer spectacles” in order to avoid any confusion.

9. Billy Crystal is hilarious, but I feel that, as of late, he has lost his way. And believe me, it pleases me not to say this. I am a huge fan. Huge! His “more pepper for my paprikash” bit in “When Harry Met Sally” kills me every time. Ditto anything from “City Slickers”, but recently he can’t seem to get in that classic Fernando groove. My advice? Make good on that promised Harry/Sally sequel and Mr. Crystal will soon be “looking mahvelous” once again!

10. Finally, I’ve saved my most controversial “thing I’ve noticed” for last. I think that sometimes politicians aren’t entirely honest with us. I know Nixon famously said “I’m not a crook” and I’m certainly not going to go so far as to put that label on anyone in office because I feel nothing gives us that right, but I find the practices of some politicians both past and present to be questionable. I’m not going to name any names (well, besides the one I just named), but where are those weapons of mass destruction you promised us were in Iraq? I thought you said you didn’t have sexual relations with that woman? You really didn’t chop down that cherry tree? I suppose it chopped itself down, huh?

OK, well if you’re still reading, then you are either really bored or drunk or unintelligent. Perhaps both. Maybe it’s 4:23 and you just got high or your Dane Cook DVD got scratched and there’s nothing on Spike TV. I don’t know and I don’t care. Just give me my damn money and tell me where you took my daughter last night. I’m not mad, seriously. I just want to know. Call it curiosity. I’m not going to get in your face about it. I swear.

Eric Filipkowski: Champion of the World!

2006-07-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

(if this makes no sense to you, feel free to read the original article on thephatphree.com)

I did it, suckers!

Check it out. Number one. I am your king/god.

Having bested the formerly-top rated “Look At My Striped Shirt”, I hereby announce my retirement from writing forever, effective immediately.

You see, a couple of months ago, I noticed that one of my stories, “Number 17 – by Chad Robuckle”, had a really high rating. In fact, its rating was high enough to place it in the top 5 of all time.

So where was it?

I looked again and saw that you needed a minimum of 100 votes to be eligible to have a top 5 story. Hence, these last few months, every time I would check out the site, I would go and vote for my own story, so that it could get the necessary 100 votes.

In the process of repeatedly giving myself fives, I also bumped my rating up to a ridiculously high 4.49, as you can see from the un-doctored picture attached with this article.

Is this fair? Certainly not. Is it extremely lame? Probably, but who cares? I win.

Remember that kid in grade school who would play you in four-square, over and over? You’d kick his ass 99 times out of a hundred, but that one time he beat you, he’d throw up his hands and run home, proclaiming himself Champion of the World as he announced his retirement. You still hate that kid, don’t you?

But you know what? He’s Champion of the World and you’re not.

Such is life.

There’s a system in place that works pretty well until someone comes along and exploits its weaknesses for his own gain, ruining it for everyone else in the process.

Imagine that's me on top of your grandma's house.
Since you guys aren’t as smart as me or as good at writing as I am, I will spell it out for you: that someone is me.

This is huge. I wouldn’t be surprised if my actions lead to an entire overhaul of the voting system, if not the site as a whole.

Who knows, they might follow my lead and just close up shop, now that the pinnacle of fiction writing has been achieved.

And let’s not kid ourselves; that’s what this is.

Homer? Shakespeare? Steinbeck? How many websites were they the champions of? That’s right: ZERO. Cuz they suck.

Look, I know you guys are just gonna vote me down in five minutes. Though you can’t match me in writing ability, I am confident you will surpass me in bitterness.

As I write this, I see some angry loser is going from computer to computer at the Best Buy across the street from the Burger King he works at, giving me ones for my story in a futile attempt to "set things right”. By the end of the day, my rating will probably be .03, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m retired.

Nothing can take away from the victory of this petty, childish deed I have committed.

While some may say the ratings process is an incidental part of a larger scheme where people express themselves creatively in order to bring laughter and joy to the masses, we all know what that really is: loser talk.

This isn’t France and we’re not at the Special Olympics.

Here in the real world, only the strong survive and the cream rises to the top. And sometimes that cream has to help itself by surreptitiously holding on to some balloons or putting lead in the shoes of some other cream. I don’t know, that metaphor doesn’t really work and if I had anything left to accomplish in the field of writing, I would probably care, but I don’t, so I won’t.

But let me leave you with this, my not-so-loyal subjects/slaves: I am better than you because I am better than everyone else and you are a part of the subset of “everyone else” and that’s not just my opinion, that’s math or something.

So again, fuck you guys, I win. In the immortal words of Carol Burnett, "See you in hell, assholes!"

Look, it's something I'm in!

2006-07-07T11:21:00.000-07:00

Now that's some fine acting!

For more info about what this thing is promoting, check out www.itvfest.org.

untelligent

2006-07-06T06:45:00.000-07:00

This has not been doctored in any way.

Can't see it? Click on it and check out the orange "news alert" banner.

The Ray Bans

2006-07-04T00:49:00.000-07:00

"The man at the tire store wore a yellow shirt to church last Sunday!"

Stuart found himself sitting at the end of his Aunt Sonya's bed with nothing to say.

His mother's aunt had developed cancer and the whole family was taking turns visiting with her in the hospital as she recovered from her surgery.

He hated being here alone with her and usually managed to rope someone into going with him, but today he was flying solo.

"That's great!" he tried to feign enthusiasm.

Stuart wasn't very good with old people.

In the background, Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" was playing from a radio in someone else's room.

It was summer and it was hot as shit. He should be out at the lake, jet skiing with Dave and Bonesy right now. He looked over at this frail old woman smiling back at him and felt sorry for himself. Things couldn't get much worse.

He remembered his sister's advice on how best to cope with these visits: Aunt Sonya was old; she just wanted to listen to a familiar voice. Just find something to talk about and blab on and on about it without even thinking.

But what the hell did he have to talk about with this 80 year old woman?

I can see you-
Your brown skin shining in the sun
You got that hair slicked back
And those Wayfarers on, baby

"Wayfarer's?" he thought. "Oh shit, those stupid sunglasses Stevie used to wear!"

He had something to talk about. He launched into his story.

"Hey Aunt Sonya, remember Alan's friend, Stevie? His dad worked for that sunglasses company and he had those stupid aviator sunglasses? Remember those?

I remember when I was a kid, everyone thought those were the coolest. I think that was the last time anybody wore those without being ironic about it.

That kid was such a tool. He would walk around in those like he was Tom Cruise or something and they looked so ridiculous on him. They were way too big, like those clown sunglasses they wear at the circus or something.

Anyway, I remember that kid and my brother were like best friends for the longest time. Personally, I could never stand him, but I guess he was the only kid in the neighborhood who was close to Alan's age.

They used to play Nintendo together all the time. They would sit there for hours in front of the TV until they finished a game. Then they'd get a new one and start all over.

That's why they stopped being friends, you know. When I was ten, we went to Disneyworld for spring vacation and Stevie convinced my brother to lend him like ten games, because he wasn't gonna be around to play them anyway.

So we get back and Alan asks for his games back and Stevie gives him his three suckiest games. Alan's like, "what the hell? Where are the rest of my games?" and Stevie tries to tell him that he only lent him three.

I remember the look on that little bastard’s face. So smug and arrogant. Alan gets Mom and she asks Stevie where the rest of the games were. He stands there and lies right to her face. Swears to her that Alan only lent him three games.

So Mom piles everyone in the Taurus and we drive over to Stevie's house and she explains the situation to his mom but of course she takes Stevie's side. He was the perfect little angel and if he gave her his word that he didn't steal any games, that was good enough for her.

Not only does she refuse to go look around in his room, but actually starts to lose her temper and basically kicks us out of her house.

I remember we're driving home and Mom is about to lose it. Swearing and calling Stevie a little brat. Then she goes off on his mother and what a lying bitch she is and no wonder her kid turned out to be a rotten little shit too.

She tells Alan that tomorrow she's going to Toys 'R' Us and she's going to buy him all new games and he's not allowed to hang out with Stevie anymore, which I really don't think is a big problem, because believe me, he's pissed too.

And that was it. They never spoke again. We were pretty tight with their family for a while too. Not best friends but they'd always come to our Christmas parties and shit like that, but all that stopped.

So, fast forward ten years and Alan and Stevie are in high school. Stevie's a year ahead of Alan and he's in band or something. Alan's got baseball practice so they're both there after school. It's pretty late and Alan goes back to the locker room to grab his books and he hears this awful noise.

He looks down the hall towards the pool and there's like 4 or 5 seniors from the wrestling team and they're taking turns raping Stevie. Like full-on sodomy, I guess. Stevie's screaming for help but there's no one around cuz it's so late.

Alan grabs his books and sneaks out without anyone seeing him. Mom is there to pick him up and he gets in the car and she drives him home. He doesn't say a word to anyone.

Doesn't get a teacher, doesn't tell Mom what he saw, doesn't call the cops, or anything. He's still pissed about the video games.

So later that night, he tells me all this and we kinda realize how serious this is. I mean, we knew this kid was gonna be fucked up for life and even though he didn't do anything wrong, people are gonna blame Alan for not helping Stevie. Right there, we make an oath that we're not going to tell anyone, ever. And I kept that oath until this very moment.

I mean, in his defense, in high school, that kind of thing is a no-no. Nobody wants to be a snitch. Alan always saw it as karma, I guess.

Then one day, he called me up from college. It was right before I moved to Chicago. I answer and he's like, "Do you know what today is?" And I've got no clue.

He tells me today is the seven year anniversary of Stevie getting raped and now the statute of limitations is up so he can't be charged for anything. I guess that makes it OK to talk about now, but I still didn't ever bring it up with anyone. "

Stuart paused and looked up, fully realizing what he had just been saying to his 80 year old great-aunt.

She looked stunned, she didn't move. For a second, he thought she might be dead: killed by the shocking events of his story.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw her draw a breath before speaking.

"I never liked that little son of a bitch."

She smiled. Stuart smiled back.

He had been wrong about Aunt Sonya. He thought she was a worthless, old lady, but she was actually pretty cool.

He looked up at the clock and felt something he had never felt before: he was sorry visiting hours were over.

"Well, I should get going," he said, reluctantly, "but I'll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's your cousin Katie's turn to visit me, you don't have to stop by," she said sadly.

"I know I don't have to," he said, "I want to."

Again, they shared a smile.

True to his word, Stuart was there at the hospital right as visiting hours began the next day. He took the stairs two at a time because he didn't want to wait for the elevators. He bounded into her room with a bouquet of flowers for Aunt Sonya but his smile vanished when he saw the nurse placing the white sheet over his dead relative's face.

The nurse turned to him, "I'm sorry, she just passed," she said.

Stuart's knees went weak. He quickly sat down in the chair by the door. As she walked by, the nurse touched his shoulder and left him to grieve.

He couldn't believe it. His Aunt Sonya was gone. He had cancelled his plans with Dave and Bonesy and now it had all been for nothing.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle

2006-06-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

I am a bitter, broken man.

I believe in nothing.

Hope. Love. The will to live. Foreign concepts, every one.

I would say that my only friend is myself, but I actually hate me more than you do.

It wasn't always like this, though.

Some people live their whole lives surrounding themselves with the idea that everything is great. Then one day, they wake up and they're 70 and they see it's all been one, big, cruel joke.

Life fucks you over and you don't even realize it. There's no single moment you can point to and say, "That's when it all went to shit."

But I can.

I attended Westbury Elementary School in Tuckertown, Connecticut from the time I was four until I was ten.

In third grade, my elderly teacher, Mrs. Tanzarian, had to leave for six months and we got a substitute we all called "Mrs. Wubble You", for reasons that are lost on me today. She used to give us candy if we got 5 gold stars on our homework and stuff. Nice lady.

Actually, I once got caught stealing homework candy from the bag she kept on her desk. Like all the monsters of the world, I was only following the lead of my friends. They had it all worked out: you went up, asked her a question, dropped your pencil into the bag "by accident" and when you took it out, you grabbed a piece of candy along with it. Brilliant, no?

So they pull this off without a hitch for weeks. At first, I can't get up the nerve to do it, but the sight of them stuffing their fat faces with candy was too much. So I whipped out my tiny, 8 year old testicles and strode up to the teacher's desk. First time, right off the line, I get busted.

"Chad, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Stealing candy. But Meredith and Rick were doing it too."

Let that be a lesson to you: I will sell you out in a heartbeat to save my own skin if you dare to make the mistake of trusting me.

Anyway, before the candy-stealing incident, me and "Mrs. Wubble You" were pretty tight. Until the big spelling test, that is.

I call it that to make it sound more dramatic, but really it was just a quiz. Every week, we were given 20 words in our book. We had to learn them and spell them correctly each Friday. Simple enough, right?

Well, apparently this book felt that the correct way to spell the singular form of the word "cookies" was "cooky".

What the fuck, right?

So even though I know that's how they spelt it in the book, I write the correct way of spelling it on my quiz. "Cookie"; for my developmentally disabled readers.

I get my quiz back and sure enough, it's marked wrong. I got a 95.

I march up to the front of the classroom and inform "Mrs. Wubble You" of her mistake.

Au contraire, punk, she told me, as she produced the book, backing up her original assertion that I had spelled the word incorrectly.

As I retrieved the dictionary, in an attempt to tell this bitch to shove her stupid book up her fat ass, she cut me off.

I can't remember exactly what she said, but the gist of it was that the quiz was not a test of actual spelling ability, the quiz tested us on our ability to memorize what was in the book and then later recall those facts.

I shit you not.

To top it off, I think she tried to buy my silence with a piece of candy.

Nobody would back me up on this one. Not my classmates, not the principal, not even my own so-called "parents". God forbid anyone get political or the tiniest bit controversial and dare to question the mighty bureaucracy of the Tuckertown Public School System!

Is it any wonder I joined a gang shortly thereafter? When you've got nothing to believe in, what's to stop you from punching an old lady in the face "just for kicks"? Society? Morals? The Bible?

Please.

I do what I want. If I see something I want, I take it. If you bust me stealing candy these days, I won't punch you, I will shoot you in the face with a sawed-off shotgun.

One of my professors in college described me as "the personification of the unbridled id". Guess what happened to that fruitcake? That's right: shot in the face.

When my parents had their "tragic accident" at Legoland a few years ago, the lead detective on the case came to my apartment and brought up the fact that when they dragged the bodies from the bottom of Adventure Lagoon, there was significant evidence of cranial damage from what appeared to be a sawed-off 12 gauge. That was right before I shot him in the face.

So, to sum up: for all the teachers out there, molding these impressionable young minds, remember that seemingly innocent decisions to make your job a little easier may have far-reaching consequences.

And you may even wake up one morning in heaven because someone has snuck into your house and shot you in the face.

How Lucky lost his leg

2006-06-24T18:25:00.000-07:00

Alot of people ask me how my roommate's dog, Lucky, lost his leg. I always tell them the same thing: Nobody knows because Lucky was a three-legged dog when Bordo got him from the pound and not a single person there knew anything about it.

But this is a lie.

I know Lucky's whole story because Lucky told me himself.

It's true. Some may say I'm a liar, some may say I was drunk and they would both be right, but what they don't realize is that a lie is nothing more than a truth that has gotten wasted on Jaegermeister and starts bragging about how hot those chicks it had sex with that it met last night at the strip club were.

Do you follow?

Good.

About four years ago, Lucky was on top of the world. His agent was in talks for him to replace Anthony Clark on "Yes, Dear", he was dating a great girl and he had four legs.

Then, everything went to shit.

CBS decided to scrap plans to air a two-part season finale in which Anthony Clark's character develops a nasty staph infection from a hang nail and dies, saying it was unnecessarily morbid and not in the tone of the show. Lucky and Susan Sarandon then decided to pull the plug on their 17 year relationship and go their separate ways.

Lucky made the rounds of the Hollywood party scene. He was on the cover of Us Weekly, dating a new starlet every week. He was hitting all the hot clubs and doing coke. His work suffered. He stopped getting callbacks. Then he stopped getting auditions.

Lucky's luck finally ran out one night when he got caught banging some dude's wife. He had always been a careful dog but now he had gotten sloppy. In the heat of their passion, they left the front door open and forgot to take down the sign on the lawn that says "I am cheating on my husband right now with a brown dog".

So this guy (who's a firefighter, no less), comes bounding up the steps, screaming that he's going to kill both of them. The chick manages to lock the door but now he's chopping it down with his firefighter axe, ala Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

Well Lucky's no dummy, he says a quick "goodbye/don't call me" and jumps out the window. The only problem is, his back, right paw got caught on the window sill.

So as the guy busts through the door, Lucky's dangling from the ledge, swinging around like crazy and practically rips his own leg off.

But then, right before the dude is about to grab him, Lucky breaks loose and falls down the side of the house, landing softly in a bush. As the guy hurls epithets at him from above, Lucky trots to the end of his yard, takes a dump right near the mailbox and is on his way.

As he's high-tailing it back to his place, vaguely aware that the guy is probably gonna get in his car and try and run him down, his super-sensitive sense of smell picks up the smell of smoke and burning children. He heads down a street he's never travelled before and sure enough, there is an orpahanage on fire.

All the poor, little orphans were screaming for help but of course, they didn't have any parents who loved them and would call 911 for them, so society left them to burn to their deaths.

Lucky felt this was unfair and sprang to the rescue, ignoring the flames and fearing not for his own safety, he ran into the orphanage and dragged those unloved little bastards out of there by the scruffs of their parent-less necks.

Only when he had brought the last one to safety and he had collapsed on the ground from exhaustion and smoke-inhalation did those show-boating firemen arrive.

Sure enough, there was the guy that Lucky had just been cuckolding. Well he sees Lucky and he doesn't care that he's a hero. He grabs Lucky's back, right leg and is just about to take a bite out of it, like it was a drumstick he had gotten at Disneyworld, when the other fire fighters pull him off.

"You can't do that, this dog saved all these orphans!" said the sergeant.

"This dog was just banging my wife!" replied the fireman.

"Oh get off your high-horse, Clemons," said one of the veterans of the force, "we've all had our dicks in your wife's vagina, she's a goddam whore!"

All the firefighters shook their heads in agreement and Clemons saw the error of his ways. He put Lucky down and shook his paw, telling him, "Any dog that can drag 15 worthless orphans from a burning building is fit to bang my wife anytime he wants."

All the firemen and onlookers burst into applause. Fortunately for Lucky, the local news crew caught the whole thing on tape and it was re-broadcast all around the world.

Lucky was flying high again. He was the toast of the nation and was soon making the scene at fashion shows in New York, Paris and Milan.

But just as it looked like things were going Lucky's way again, tragedy struck: Lucky was diagnosed with back, right leg cancer, which is cancer of the back, right leg.

As hard as he fought, through all the chemo, it looked like Lucky's luck was out of luck. His leg would have to be removed.

The night before the surgery, Lucky kneeled by the side of his bed and out of desperation, prayed to Satan that his leg would be spared.

When he awoke the next morning, Lucky felt like a brand new dog. The doctors were confounded. His cancer was gone. It was a miracle. It was only then that Lucky started to panic and realize what he had done.

To break his contract with the Dark Lord, Lucky purchased a band saw at Home Depot, keeping the receipt so that he could return it once he was done with it. He sawed off his own leg and since the Prince of Darkness hadn't really saved him from anything, the deal was off.

His options in Hollywood now limited by his handicap, Lucky did what all washed up losers do: he went on the Surreal Life Season 5. There he shared a house with the likes of Janice Dickinson, Omarosa, Balki and Jose Canseco's dog who introduced him to the homosexual lifestyle which he now enjoys.

If you are gay and you enjoy dogs who bark all the time for no reason and smell really bad and have terrible farts, perhaps you would be interested in making your own stories with Lucky. Mine is almost at its end as my roommate is about to leave for 48 days and I have a feeling there are some medical researchers out there who want to meet this dog.

I'm just joshin'!

The Assassination Factory

2006-06-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

As I employ literary constructs in an effort to shape the Chad Robuckle mythology and build venture capital for my novel, one thing that comes up, over and over again in the focus groups is Chad's mother.

People want to know about her. What's her deal? Where was she when all this was going on? Is she hot?

I guess this is the same sort of fascination people have with Hitler's mother. They want to know what someone who has birthed pure evil is like. Are they evil themselves, raising their seed to be the same or is it rather a genetic anomaly, a force upon itself? You know, the usual "nature versus nurture" bullshit that is all the rage in the stand-up comedy clubs these days.

The truth is, I haven't really spoken of Chad's mother for two reasons:

First off, while in the greater sense, she played a very big role in shaping who Chad would become, she did so mostly by her absence. She carried him inside her for the standard 13 months, pooped him out and was gone, not to return for 27 years.

Secondly, it's actually a pretty sad story. We can all laugh at Chad's antics because he seems so incapable of feeling human emotion. But there's just something so universal and sorrowful about an unwanted child. I just didn't want people to empathize with him at all.

Not that you should feel sorry for him or refrain from passing judgment on him because it's "not all his fault". I think you will see that his path was indeed chosen by him through his free will.

But enough psycho-analyzing. "Why don't you tell the damn story, already and let us decide for ourselves, Eric?"

You're right, imaginary voices in my head. So without further ado, I give you "The Sheila Robuckle Story".

Sheila was a wealthy socialite who met Chad's father at a cotillion. Or maybe it was her coming out party, I don't really know/care.

Anyway, they met, fell in "love" and were married soon after.

It was the 70's and they were pretty heavy into the swinging thing. I know there was a lot of concern on Mr. Robuckle's part whether or not the child was his, though I am pretty sure all doubt of that has been erased in the time since then.

The Robuckles were also heavily into drinking and drugs. Now, before you get all uppity, remember, it was a different time. People didn't know about the dangers of smoking, drinking, doing drugs and getting triple-penetrated by a team of soccer players from Brazil while you were pregnant back then.

I'm not going to defend them and their actions, but I'm sure if you ask your parents, you probably rode around with your child seat facing forwards before you were 9 months old are something else on par with the mistakes the Robuckles made.

Sheesh, I keep getting off track here! Focus, Eric!

One night, the Robuckles are out partying, I believe this was close to the beginning of their fourth trimester, when Sheila decides it will be a "larf" to go and get a psychic to talk to the fetus.

Back in the 70's, that thing was all the rage and people actually believed in that crap, so Mr. Robuckle agreed. As soon as all the mescaline was gone, they take off in their dune buggy and drive around looking for an all-night psychic. Luckily for them, the party let out right around 11 am, so they didn't have too much trouble finding one.

The psychic is playing her hokey little game, dressed up like Stevie Nicks with the flowing scarves and all that. She takes Mrs. Robuckle's hand and starts her incantation in that "spooky voice" they all seem to use, when suddenly, she goes stiff as a board, her face gets as white as a sheet and she wets herself like some other cliche I'm too lazy to think up.

Mrs. Robuckle freaks out and tries to pull her hand away but this lady has a death grip on her. Mr. Robuckle tries to help out by smashing a chair over her head. Apparently, he thought if she was dead, she would release her hold on his wife, but no such luck. Even though she's bleeding from her ears and mouth, she won't let go.

Finally, she starts speaking, no longer in the sing-song Scooby Doo villain voice we're all used to. This is deep, low and robotic. The voice tells them that they will give birth to a son and the son will bring darkness upon the world. He will signal the coming of the anti-Christ and herald the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

Well, the Robuckles were pretty freaked out. Even for them, that was some pretty fucked up shit.

The lady comes out of her trance, lets go of Mrs. Robuckles hand and collapses onto her chair. She has no idea what has happened and can't understand why her head hurts so much.

Being a man of action, Mr. Robuckle throws a twenty at her, grabs his wife and they get the hell out of there.

Well the whole drive home, Mrs. Robuckle can't stop talking about what she just saw. Mr. Robuckle, on the other hand, just wants to forget the whole thing. He tells his wife that it's all just a big act to spook people and she needs to shut the hell up and give him another beer as he's almost done with this one.

Well, Mrs. Robuckle isn't so easily swayed and behind her husband's back, she seeks out members of the clergy and other spiritual leaders, asking for them to consult her on what she should do about her demon child.

Most of them laugh it off but a few take her seriously and realize that if she's been carrying a baby for 11 months who isn't dead from all the harmful chemicals and strange penises she's put in her body, their might be some validity to her claims.

Now, they're in quite the conundrum because they know what the answer is, but they have to weigh the good of the world against the teachings of their faith.

Finally, a rabbi of all people, tells her flat out that she needs to abort that thing, ASAP.

I'm not going to get too graphic here, let's just leave it at this: she tries and nothing works.

And I mean NOTHING.

So despite the best efforts of 19 different abortion doctors, six dentists and 3 demolition derby drivers, Chad Robuckle is born into the world and his mother splits from his life, soon thereafter.

For 27 years, Chad is raised by his father and his ever-changing roster of girlfriends, nannies, butlers and street-wise prostitutes that he befriends while skipping school. And I think we all know how that went.

Fast forward to a few years ago, Chad is at one of his lucrative speaking engagements, regaling the crowd of underclassmen at Vassar College with his famous "I hate Matlock" speech when a lone figure slips into the back of the auditorium. Nobody really noticed the middle-aged woman in her blood-red robes as she stood against the wall for a few minutes, before discreetly pulling out a high-powered rifle and doing the sign of the cross. Certainly, everyone was unaware as she softly incanted, "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" and took aim at the stage.

What they definitely did notice was the gunshot blaring in their ears and echoing across the hall as Mrs. Robuckle missed her target by a good 15 feet, splattering the brains of Dean Oxham-Chipperly across the stage.

Panic ensued, but Chad was ready. Before she could get off a second shot, he had sprang forth from behind the podium, producing two Glock 9mm handguns from the inside pockets of his jacket.

As he ran towards her, shooting from both guns John Woo-style, he shouted at her, "You missed me, bitch, just like you did with that coat hanger!"

Unfortunately for those 14 or so audience members who lost their lives that day, while it looks cool in movies, shooting from both hands while running is not the most accurate way to take down a target.

People screamed as the Robuckles exchanged gunfire, Mrs. Robuckle getting off a few more shots, until she was out of ammunition.

At this point, Chad was a mere 3 feet from her, they were shooting at each other from behind the opposite sides of a chair.

Triumphant, Chad held his gun to her temple and locked eyes with the woman who had both given him life and tried to take it away so many, many times.

"You're out," he said.

"So are you," she replied.

He pulled the trigger and heard only a click. She was right. He was out of ammunition.

They stood there for a few seconds before the tears started to well up in her eyes and she began to smile.

In spite of himself, Chad couldn't help smiling too. He threw down his gun and they embraced, laughing heartily.

"How did you know?" he asked her.

"You're my son, you know you can always count on me!" she replied. They laughed some more at her joke which would have made even Michael Bay cringe.

"You mean you can count on me!" was his witty comeback.

More inane laughter.

It went on like this for another twenty minutes before the SWAT team arrived. Chad and his mother, now arm in arm, explained the situation to them.

"You see, officer," said Chad, "it's all been a big mix-up. One big mix-up." He looked fondly at his mother, "Surely you wouldn't take his mother away from a fella, now that he's just getting to know her?"

The officer thought it over. "No, I guess I wouldn't, young man. Gee whiz, I'd have to be some sort of monster to do that. Pack it up, boys, we're going home!"

And with that, it was over.

15 people lost their lives that day. 7 lived but will now be at least partially paralyzed from their wounds. This is what I mean, this asshole does what he wants and never has to face any sort of consequences! It's infuriating!

I'm a good person, I haven't killed a single person! But if I park my car for 63 minutes in a one hour parking zone, you can bet your ass I'm gonna get a ticket. And I will have to pay it, because my car isn't stolen and I have a license and insurance. UNLIKE CHAD.

Wait a minute, a baby! That's the cliche I was looking for. The psychic wet herself like a baby. God, it's so obvious. I'm sure I could have thought of it if I was Chad Robuckle. I'm sure I'd have a Pulitzer Prize by now, if I was him.

You know what? Fuck it, I'm done. Have a nice life.

What the hell are these people?

2006-06-13T15:50:00.000-07:00

I'm serious, this isn't a joke. Are they black or white? Mixed?

The guy looks like a white guy with a really dark tan and the woman looks like she's a very light-skinned African-American woman.

I'm really confused.

This picture is of former Atlanta mayor Bill Campbell and his wife, Sharon. This is a story about how he got convicted of corruption or something, I don't care. I am just mystified about this picture.

Is this racist of me to ask? I feel like I maybe shouldn't be doing this, but I can't help myself.

I know we're all the same color on the inside and people aren't black or white, they're people, blah blah blah. But c'mon, look at that picture! I am totally at a loss. The guy looks like the white dad from that show Ice Cube did where the families switched races.

OK, they're black, right? No?

Seriously, this is not a bit, help me out.

A request

2006-06-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone, Eric Filipkowski here.

I have been thinking about assembling my blogs into a "book" of some sorts, it's been on my mind for a while but recently I've been a little more pro-active about it.

At first, I was just going to take the short stories I've written and put them into a collection, but I think I would be doing a disservice to myself if I excluded the things about my real life and what I've gone through this past year or so.

It is really weird for me to read through all my old entries and have to re-live some of my recent experiences.

This is why I think the book should be about my journey as a person AND a writer. Because this isn't just a place I post stories I've written, this is a journal. This is a place where I come to share what's going on with me with the rest of the world. Or at least the people who read this.

And to those people, I really want to thank you. I think if you go back, you'll see this blog has definitely helped me through some very difficult things in my life.

I guess that's the appeal of it. You share with others and they relate to what is universal in all of us. Blah blah blah.

But seriously, I look back on where I've come from and it's kind of amazing. I'm sure lots of people go through changes like this all the time, but when it's sitting right there on a computer screen for you to see, documented through words, it's really cool to witness and this is what I'd like to share with people.

When I started writing in my blog, I was healthy and I had just started dating someone I thought I was in love with. I came to see that both of these weren't really true.

Even though I thought I was really happy, looking back now it certainly doesn't look like I was. My outlook on life was pretty negative. I think I had grown complacent.

I had my surgery and the long recovery period which gave me hours of time I had to fill without being able to do anything remotely physical.

This lead to me writing in my blog. What had been a practically abandoned webpage was soon updated on a daily basis. New characters were born and my mind took adventures my body was unable to.

Gumdrop streets with candy cane light posts opened up before me as I took a journey on a magic cupcake filled with dreams and frosting!

As my health improved, I wrote about my progress and my hopes for the future.

I talked about Harry Potter and Disneyworld and my imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist.

I churned out story after story and got my confidence back as a writer. I moved from Los Angeles to Rhode Island to Florida and back to Los Angeles. A journey of nearly 1000 miles!

I have a very special friend and she believes that everything happens for a reason. I'm not sure if I believe this completely, but when I look back at who I was and who I am now, I am glad for what I've gone through. I'm glad for the friends I've made (or re-made), I'm glad for the change in my attitude. I am thankful for the chance to re-examine my life and the things that I value as important to me.

So as I try and piece together some sort of narrative for this book, I'm going to ask for your help.

First of all, do you think there would be any interest in a book like this?

Do you think I should stick with my fictional stories or try and combine them with my real-life blogs?

Which stories would you like to see?

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is "Superman" and 10 is "Jesus", what score would you give me as a writer?

Thanks for all your help!

Stop taking down my videos, YouTube!

2006-06-03T15:12:00.000-07:00

Let me start out by saying that I love YouTube.

If you've never been to youtube.com, you are missing out. They have taken video web hosting to a whole new level.

In the old days, getting video online was a laborious and expensive process and they have made it easy and free.

Now, kids across the country are posting their homemade videos and expressing themselves creatively. Instead of joining gangs, they are posting videos of themselves beating up people who aren't in the gangs they've joined. Instead of getting pregnant, they are posting videos of themselves getting pregnant. It is literally changing the way the world watches video entertainment.

And this isn't just bored kids. Bands have gotten signed by making videos and posting them on YouTube and just getting millions of people to watch. I'm sure someone's gonna get a film deal the same way (hopefully me).

But along with this wave of innovation, there are always the bottom-feeding degenerates who have to ruin the good time for everyone.

Copyright infringement, inappropriate content, racism and episodes of "Joey" are causing the watchdogs to take notice and try and pass legislation to put an end to all the fun.

We in the internet movie-making community need to police ourselves so someone else doesn't come along and do it for us.

I understand this. But who sets the standards of "good taste"?

Whoever he/she is, he's a fucking moron, because that's the only thing that could explain my videos getting taken down.

Imagine if you had a kid and you made a video of that kid taking his first steps and you put it up on YouTube cuz now your kid is older and it's just a really cute video.

Now imagine if YouTube took this video down and deleted your account because "somebody" had flagged it as inappropriate.

It would make you sick, right?

Your precious memories have been labeled as sick or disgusting by a complete stranger. Someone who doesn't know you and knows absolutely nothing about your life.

Now, if you will, imagine that instead of your child's first steps, it's actually your child's first time having sexual intercourse. You were lucky enough to be there to capture the magic as your 12-year old boy became a man with your 37 year old best friend and tennis partner.

You put the video up because you want to share it with your friends and family, not to mention anyone else in the world who appreciates beauty, but then one day you go to watch it and its gone. Not only that, you can't even log into your account because it's been deleted and you've got some investigator from the FBI knocking on your door.

Does that make any sense? Is it illegal to look at "child pornography" if you're the child in the pornography? Because I am. That's me in those videos having sex with my mom's friend while both my parents videotaped it.

Seriously, I think this brings up an interesting legal issue. Where is the "victim" if you're essentially victimizing yourself?

It was the greatest day of my life. Mrs. Johnston worked me over like no woman has ever done since. She literally ruined me for anyone else, she was that good.

Watching that video brings a tear to my eye. But my tears of happiness turn to tears of rage when I think about someone sitting there and judging me for aspiring to achieve what so many can only dream of.

So, in summation, I am against child pornography in all forms. I also feel global warming is bad too. Let me be clear about that. But I ask you: how can you molest yourself? That's only illegal in Alabama, I think. But unless someone invents a time machine, it's not even a possibility. And if someone does invent a time machine, I've got bigger plans than molesting my 12 year old former self.

I'm gonna go back and bet on sporting events that were huge upsets. That way, I'll get great odds on a sure thing and become rich and have my own casino.

cunt

2006-06-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

If you've ever wanted to see me go off on a rant for really no valid reason and have me go totally apeshit, you're in luck.

Everyone else, go to hell.

So I'm trying to print out a fairly important set of files today, totaling about 30 pages. My printer doesn't work, I knew that. What I didn't know is that the 17 other printers in my house that belong to my roommate also don't work. At all.

So now I've gotta figure out some way to get my files somewhere else where I can print them out. Seems easy, right?

Long story short, it's not. They're in Final Draft, so it's not like I can just take them to anyone's computer and print them out like a text file. I have to convert them to a Word document. The problem with that is, they're scripts and scripts that are written in Final Draft don't always look great in Word but I was hoping this is one time that wouldn't be an issue.

It was. Or wasn't. I don't know which one. The one that means "they look like crap." That one.

I had to re-space everything and get it right in Word. Then, just to be sure everything would work right, I copied all the files (both Final Draft and Word) into my USB memory key AND burned them to a CD. I figured I would be set.

There is no one I know within a half-hour drive who works in an office who is either willing or able to print these out for me and plus, I figure, "well it can't be that much, I'll just go to Kinko's".

WRONG

The guy at Kinko's tells me it's $.49 cents a page to print them out from one of the Kinko's computers. If you're keeping track, that's 15 bucks. For 30 black and white pages that are probably costing them .0028 cents.

So I log onto their ancient Dell with the shit for brains asshole burnt out screen that makes you blind and my time is ticking away in the corner. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention it also costs $.25 per minute for the honor of using their 50 dollar computer from 1987 which conveniently takes forever to do anything. Odd that they would have a slow computer, don't they realize that's jacking up the price for people who are using their services?

Not only is this thing slow, but it's got a dirty roller ball mouse. It's 2006. There is no excuse for using a roller ball mouse. Digital mice can be had for 10 dollars. If you have a computer with a roller ball mouse and I catch you with that thing, I am going to take your whole computer, break it over your fucking head and then have sex with your wife. Then I will buy you a real mouse for the new computer you're going to have to buy which probably comes with one anyway, because, like I said, it's 2006.

So I'm trying to print this crap out as quickly as I can and the counter is ticking and I'm fast approaching the 10 dollar mark and I'm not even half done. So then this girl starts talking to me--

I can't stress this enough how much I hate fucking roller ball mice. Even when they're brand new, out of the box, they still suck. Having to use one of them makes my stomach muscles spasm. I feel like I'm going to throw up just thinking about it.

OK, so anyway, I finally get my shit printed out (20 bucks later and not even looking right but at this point I don't even care) and then I've gotta staple everything and stick it in the envelope. Of course, they don't have any pens there for you to use so I have to go and ask the Fed Ex guy for one. I tape everything up and get it ready to be shipped out via Fed Ex - Ha, yeah right! Like I'm going to spend 30 dollars to send something when the Post Office charges me 2 bucks. Keep dreaming, assholes.

So I'm in the car, I'm trying to calm down. The Post Office is probably 500 feet from Kinko's, but the way the intersection is set up, I have to go in the total opposite direction, down a backstreet and around to the other side. There are cars everywhere. It's 4 o'clock and I'm at Laurel Canyon and Ventura. It's basically a nightmare.

I finally get to the Post Office, which goes surprisingly well, but now it's time to leave and the parking lot is basically a parking lot (LOL!). I'm trying to leave but the street is so backed up, nobody can move. I'm sitting there, with 3 cars in front of me when I see her.

OK, GET READY.

She's waving at me frantically, "what could she want," I wonder? I roll down my window.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!" Boy is she pissed. Well I better move my car so she can get out of here, seems reasonable enough--

Wait a minute! I'm trying to leave too (see diagram). I can't move, I'm blocked in. Why is she yelling at me?

OH YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, CUZ SHE'S A STUPID FUCKING BITCH.

Imagine Elaine Boosler's uglier, fatter mother. Then cover her in feces. Punch her in the face til her bones turn to mush and then flip her over and start punching the other side. Rip off your own arm and then use it to--

OK, I'm calm. This doesn't affect me. I am above it all. You want to yell at people for no reason on a hot day when traffic is murder? That's your deal and if anyone out there believes in karma, it will come back and bite her in the ass sometime in the near future.

"You have to move your car! I can't get out of here!"

Oh, you're trying to get out of here? That's weird, cuz I was just sitting here admiring this parking lot. I had actually planned on staying there for the next six hours cuz I just love it so much. We're going to the same place idiot and neither of us can get there until the people in front of me move.

I mean, come on. I know I said I'm over this, but how fucking dumb can one person be?

OK, now here's the thing about the title. I know people don't like that word. I know it's "not cool" to say it. I thought about saying "c*nt" or "the C word" or something like that, but why?

She's a cunt. Plain and simple.

That's why words like that are invented. Yes, they get over-used, but sometimes they are appropriate.

I don't refer to all women this way, I don't really refer to any women this way because I'm not sure this beast was human.

Maybe I'm not seeing this from her side of things, maybe she was having a bad day (kinda like the one I was having), maybe she was about to shit herself because she's old and she forgot to put on her Depends that morning.

Not my problem.

In the general sense, she is an asshole. But in the specific sense, she is a cunt, because if she was a man, I would have gotten out and beat the shit out of her. Or more likely, she would have beaten the shit out of me, but whatever. It would be over. But because she's a woman, that's not tolerated in society. That's looked down upon. And bravo, says I!

But if you're going to play upon that, it makes you more than an asshole. If you think it's OK for you to go around being an asshole because you know there will be no serious repercussions because you're an old woman, that makes you a cunt.

I stand by my assertion and rest my case.

Jesus fucking Christ, I need a beer or some heroin or something.

I'm just joshin!

Happy Birthday Bill & Maggie!

2006-05-30T00:56:00.000-07:00

If you consider a marriage a person, then they were just born, so shut the hell up.

This weekend I went to Iowa or Idaho or something like that. It was Boise. Now, if you're normal, you probably would say, "oh, he went to BOY-zee". Right? Yes, you are right. But if you are not normal, i.e. you live in Boise, you would say "oh, he went to Boyce-cee".

I'm not kidding. Isn't that crazy? I never knew it til I went there.

It's not a bad place. It's clean and it doesn't get really crowded. There is a river you can go tubing in but I didn't cuz it was too cold or the water was too high or some crap like that. Did I mention they have alcohol there?

So my friends got married and I flew on a turbo-prop plane which is kinda cramped and scary. The bathroom on the plane didn't have a sink so I had to wash my hands in the toilet. Don't worry, I flushed it first. I think.

I went swimming in a pool and sat in a hottub that was really hot. I know you're probably saying "duh, no shit it was hot you stupid idiot, that's why they call it a hot tub" but no, you are wrong. It was way too hot. Much more than a regular hot tub. I ate a lot of food and saw alot of my friends, most of whom were drunk.

The wedding itself was really nice. It was short and sweet and when it was over, we all went to a great reception that didn't have any assigned seating. I had some steak and then everyone started dancing which normally I hate, but whatever.

Also, I gave a speech.

I brought my business cards with me because I was hoping to pass them out to all the people who were taking pictures so that they would email me copies of their pictures but I kinda forgot to do that so I will probably never see those pictures. But if you are reading this and took some, send them to me please.

Hmm, what else? I stayed in a hotel, that was fun. I rode on a trolley but it was fake. I saw a racist mural in a closed-down courthouse. Oh and I saw this guy spill a pita sandwich all over my friend's suit which he then tried to clean by pouring beer on it.

Now I am really tired. I will probably podcast about it tomorrow, I may even have a special guest, who knows.

I'm just joshin'!

2006-05-25T01:54:00.000-07:00

This isn't a blog so much as it is me expressing my intent to let everyone know I have a new catchphrase. And here it is:

"I'm just joshin'!"

It means, "I'm just joking" or "I'm just kidding".

"Joshin'" means "kidding", I guess.

So, for example, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something?" if I were to do that, I'd be a dick, right?

BUT, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something? I'm just joshin'!" then it's a funny joke.

These are the rules of comedy, I didn't make them up. I'm as helpless as you are when it comes to the way things are. We could try to fight it, but like Bruce Springsteen sang, "That's just the way it is, some things will never change". And he was right.

So, to sum up:

a.) you aren't funny
2.) you should quit
d.) I am much better then you
four.) seriously, give up

I'm just joshin'! You guys are great, I've never seen that before, in a show, before. You know, that thing you did, up there. That was hilarious. Seriously, no I'm not just saying that. You're great. What's that? No, you're right, yeah, totally. So many people in LA just want to hear you tell them how great they are, but not you. Not us? Oh thanks man, I really appreciate you including me in that, seriously. Great. What? Oh, no, nobody told me about a party. Shit, yeah, I'd love to, but I gotta go to this thing tomorrow. What's that? Oh, it's my pilates class. 6 a.m. Yeah, it sucks but this body takes work. Heh, yeah, I hear that. Alright dude, I gotta jet. No, I mean it, awesome. Hey, take care, have fun at that party. Keep up the good work.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government

2006-05-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

Ross, these past 3 weeks, my life has been a living hell.

I have slept probably six or seven hours total in that time. Ever since we got back from our trip to Las Vegas.

We were all excited, we were going to have a great time and you even got us a deal on our hotel room.

"I'll put it on my card," you said, "it's not a big deal, pay me back whenever!"

True to your word, due to your busy schedule at work, I didn't end up seeing you for a few weeks. When I finally did, I wrote you the check for $102.00, just like you requested.

Here's the problem: my share of the hotel room was $102.00. That's zero-percent interest. You laid out one hundred and two dollars of your own money, which I was able to keep in my low-yield savings account. I accrued interest on that. I turned a profit and you didn't get a dime.

There isn't a bank in the world that would give me money for free, but you did, Ross. You did.

I know I tried to pay you the 34 cents I estimated I would have owed you, were you charging me the normal compound interest comparable to a rate I would get from any mid-sized financial institution, but is it fair for me to say, "Ross wouldn't take it?" and then be on my merry way?

I don't think so. I know some might say, "it's only 34 cents, who cares?" but it is sad to me that this is the prevailing attitude of the society we live in.

As an example, 34 cents is probably too small to register in peoples' minds because they don't have the patience or imagination to see the possible scope of the damage my illegal activities could have.

What I have done is stolen money from you, Ross. You can forgive me, but I can't forgive myself. That is a profit I am making that I am not declaring to the government. They are not taxing me for this. That is tax money that I am not paying them that could be used for better schools for our children, health care for indigents, or fixing potholes on our roads.

I am a criminal.

Let me elucidate how big of a problem this is. If we were to apply my little scam to a much larger sum of money or perhaps more appropriately, a larger number of these small loans, we can begin to see the potential for financial mischief.

Say that you loaned me that same $102.00, interest-free, but now you've done it ten thousand times in a row. That comes to a grand total of $1,020,000. That's a lot of money! You know what the interest on that kind of cash would be, if you were to carry it for the same two week period without charging me any interest? Well, I don't, but I'm guessing it would probably be like six grand, at least!

Six thousand dollars. That's a used Honda Civic from the mid-90's. That's transportation for many years for a poor, Mexican family.

But now Felipe won't get to his job as a day-laborer. Manuel won't get that ride to school. Lupe will have to walk on her own, two tired feet to clean that rich, white family's home. All because I was selfish and felt it was OK to rip off you and the government.

I am sorry, Ross. I'm sorry.

I can't say it enough and it will always sound hollow, but I am sorry. I wish you could see me right now, I can't stop crying. I feel like--

Wait a minute, I paid you $102.00, right? But don't you remember when I bought breakfast at the Peppermill? You had like six mimosas and when I gave the waitress that hundred dollar bill I won at keno, you said I should take your share of breakfast out of the money I owed you. I tried to turn you down but you insisted.

With your mimosas and your steak and egg omelette with no eggs, that came to $37.28. Subtracted from the original $102.00, that would leave $64.72. So I over paid you.

You cheap son of a bitch. You screwed me, Ross. You screwed me. I can't believe I let you do this to me. I felt so bad. I was fucking crying. You asshole. It is taking every ounce of restraint I have to end these sentences with a period because believe me, in my mind I am screaming at you.

I know you're going to say that we were all drunk and you just forgot, but fuck you. Fuck you and your drinking problem! There, one slipped out. This is the worst thing anyone has ever done to me, ever.

You have ruined Las Vegas for me forever. You have permanently sullied our happy memories we made on that trip. My keno winnings are tainted. The same goes for the excitement I felt meeting Celine Dion. Ditto that picture Keren took of us riding the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere.

I hate you, Ross! I am glad Mr. Whiskers got feline AIDS and died! OK, I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers had nothing to do with this and I'm sorry I said that.

But you know what? I feel that since you have no loyalty to me, I have no loyalty to you and am free to tell everyone about how before you moved to California in sixth grade, you had to wear braces on your legs and everyone called you FDR at your old school! That's right, Mr. Cool! You weren't so cool then, were you? It's hard to be a badass and a rebel when you ride the special bus to school with all the retards!

Don't forget to take your urinary incontinence pills tonight, Ross. It would be really embarassing if you were to pee all over your fiancee. Oh that's right, she still doesn't know about that. Well don't worry, I'm sure she won't read this blog even though she reads my blog every day. I'm sure this time it will be different. Yes, that sounds likely. This one time she will forget to read my blog and won't find out your terrible secrets.

Asshole.

Podcasting by numbers

2006-05-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I hate getting political.

The thing is, sometimes you have no choice.

I couldn't believe this article when I read it. Basically, it says that they're trying to pass a law that would make it legal to murder people while you are podcasting.

Crazy, right? Well if this bill becomes a law, that's exactly what anybody with a computer, a microphone and a Feedburner account will be able to do.

I am opposed to this on so many levels. It just blows my mind that people could think that it's OK.

When I first saw this, my immediate reaction was anger. No, it was rage. No, it was anger.

Anger that we lived in a world where these Washington fat cats have nothing better to do than make legislation for legalized murder!

If I'm walking down the street and I shoot someone, that's against the law and I will pay a hefty fine. BUT, if I'm sitting in my room podcasting and I shoot someone I am interviewing, it's perfectly legit. Where's the sense in that?

Look, I'm all for free speech and I believe we need to take steps to protect the rights of artists in this country. The Bush Administration has repeatedly sought to censor dissident voices and that can not be allowed. The Founding Fathers didn't write the Second Amendment so we could have some Texas redneck shutting down museums and taking away school budgets for music class.

But there's a limit, people!

Murder?? Are you serious?

First of all, if we're really looking to protect the sanctity of artists in America (and yes, I do believe podcasting is an art), we need to stop alienating the rest of the world with our crazy laws. It makes us all look bad if a few loose cannons turn the American podcasting community into a joke.

I am a podcaster, so maybe I'm not the most objective person to be writing this response, but I don't see any of my fellow podcasters rushing forward to do it. Change starts with the individual and apparently that individual is me.

Oh sure, murder is great. I understand that. As a podcaster, I know the temptation experienced when a strange woman comes over to your house and you two are alone because you've misled her into believing you've got a real studio and that your podcast is a legitimate media outlet.

She's got something on her mind and she needs a forum to say it. Saving the yellow spotted flounder is important and she wants to make sure my six listeners are aware of that.

Well I've got something on my mind and it involves her lifeless corpse and an industrial-sized horse carcass meat grinder.

But that doesn't mean I should do it. Maybe it does, but it certainly doesn't mean that there should be a law on the books that allows me to do so, consequence-free.

Have these people ever heard the expression "the grass is always greener on the other side of the mountain"?

Why is murder fun? Because it's illegal. It's wrong. Society looks down upon those who do it, except in cases where you're doing it to save a baby from being aborted.

Do you remember when you were a kid and you pleaded with your mom to buy you that BB gun? You begged and begged and watched countless birthdays and Christmases fly past you until finally, when you were 27, your parents broke down and got you that BB gun.

And then what? You didn't even want the fucking thing. It was boring. You couldn't kill shit with those BBs. It takes like six of them to knock a goddam bald eagle out of the sky. What kind of bald eagle sits around and lets you shoot it with a BB gun six times? An asshole kind, that's what.

Now I'm pissed and getting off the subject. My point is, this law doesn't make any sense. Keep murder illegal for everyone. Podcasters included.

Goddam it, I hate that stupid fucking bald eagle. I'm sorry, but it was really pushing my buttons. Maybe I should have had it on my podcast, then everything would be fine!

That was sarcasm.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I realize I've inadvertantly brought up a really valid point.

What kind of world do we live in? I'll tell you what kind of world we live in: the kind of world where these New York liberals twist their crazy laws to make it legal to kill whoever you want, just as long as that person isn't a bald eagle.

Fucking shit, do you see the lunacy we're dealing with here, people?

I am retracting all my previous statements. I am now 100% FOR this law and as soon as it is passed, I invite all these asshole politicians down to my "studio" so that I can podcast about it and congratulate them in person.

Then we'll see if they keep flying around, squawking at me and sitting on their nest like they're the fucking king of England!

Letters to home

2006-05-06T11:51:00.000-07:00

Friday, May 05, 2006
10:57 PM

Dear Mom and Dad,

It's 11pm on a Friday night and guess what I'm doing?

I'M DRINKING SODA!

That's right, it's past my bedtime and I'm having caffeine. I'll probably be awake all night...

And there's nothing you can do about it!

I just had a whole can of Coca Cola Classic and I might even have another one.

Your little boy is all grown up now and he doesn't have to play by your rules anymore. You can't control me. I'm not going to play nice and be the suit and tie-wearing corporate drone you've always wanted me to be.

There will be no 3 car garage. No summer house in the Hamptons. No Sub-Zero refrigerator stocked with vegetables and 2% milk.

You know what there will be? Soda. And lots of it. And playing ball in the house. And jumping on the bed. The other day, I listened to Howard Stern on the radio and didn't even cover my ears during the bad parts. Plus, I'm thinking about getting a subscription to Playboy Magazine. And no, I won't be reading it for the articles.

I'm sorry it had to come to this, but you've pushed me too far. Unless this means you're going to stop paying for my health insurance, in which case, all of the above is totally negotiable.

Saturday, May 06, 2006
6:42 AM

I'm sorry, Mom and Dad

OK, you were right.

I had to be a big shot. I had to drink my Coca Cola Classic. "23 skidoo!" I said, be-boppin' and scattin' all over the place. I had a grand ol' time.

Then 3 o'clock rolled around. That's AM, for those of you who were wondering.

I don't know if you people have been up past ten before, but it's dark out. There are monsters out there. I heard them making noise in the bushes outside my window. I wanted to go to sleep, but I couldn't!

What do you do if you have to go pee because you've had 3 Cokes, but you know there's a monster under your bed waiting to chop your feet off with his light saber if you try and go to the bathroom?

You piss your gosh-darn pants, that's what you do.

Mom and Dad, I want to come home. Los Angeles is scary. Yesterday I saw some teenagers who I think may have been in a gang. And it's not like in those "Our Gang" short movies I love to watch. It's not that kind of "gang". They have baggie dungarees and "wrap music".

I have a giant pile of laundry that is moldy and stinking up my whole room. Now it's going to be much worse with the introduction of my urine-soaked underpants and sheets. I haven't eaten anything but Ritz crackers in days. It's hard for me to type this because I can't stop sobbing.

Please Mom and Dad, fly to Los Angeles and come get me. I hate it here, everyone is mean and I am tired of being a big boy. I miss sleeping in my race car bed at 9:30 at night, with Scraps curled up in a ball at my feet. I miss waking up to a healthy breakfast and clean sheets and bath-time with Mommy. I know I told you that I know how to wash my own penis, but I was lying! That thing is filthy and itches constantly except when I pee, because then it burns.

I don't know what those folks are going through over in Iraq, but it can't be any worse than crying your brains out in your non-race car bed because you miss your mom and dad and you are scared of monsters and your special area hurts like heck while you lay there, soiling yourself.

Again, let me re-iterate: I am sick of being an adult. I want to come home and live with you, Mom and Dad. You know what? I can't really wait for your response, I'm going to board up my apartment and drive down to the train station. I'll just give my cars keys to a hobo or something, he can live in it until you send someone to get it back along with all my stuff which I won't be taking.

I'm going to use the emergency Citibank Visa to buy my ticket. I would say that I'm going to pay you back but we both know that's a lie. If you could, see if Mr. Willickers will give me back my old paper route and I will help around the house with chores, though I am not doing the lawn til Dad gets the ride-em mower fixed.

I love you two and fully admit that you were right. I was wrong. I am a stupid, helpless baby who can't do anything. This has truly been the worst 83 hours of my life, moving out here on my own.

The real world: 1. Eric: 0.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce'

2006-05-02T21:39:00.000-07:00

(reposted from The Heath Ledger)

Albany, NY - (AP) Even before hitting shelves, Abramowitz Fertilizer and Commercial-Grade Lye, Inc.’s new ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’ is garnering controversy across the country.

Touted as “the first African American-style hot sauce aimed specifically at the Caucasian market”, many racial equality advocates are bemoaning the new product as a throwback to old-fashioned racism in advertising.

“This is a hot sauce truly fit to be served in a Sambo’s Restaurant,” proclaimed African American activist Lionel Moorehouse, “It’s outrageous that Americans of any color should be subjected to this kind of bigotry, as we find ourselves, sitting not in the darkness of the 1950’s, but rather, standing tall in the light of equality, here in the 21st century!”

Abramowitz Fertilizer and Commercial-Grade Lye, Inc. chairman and CEO, Gabriel Abramowitz, fails to see the dilemma, stating that: “For years, there has been much confusion in the hot sauce industry amongst Caucasian consumers. White people love authentic hot sauce like they get in black rib joints and chicken shacks, but when it comes time to purchase some at the market, they find themselves dumbfounded by the many, varied choices. Rather than wade through hundreds of ethnic-sounding options, we’ve taken the guesswork out of purchasing hot sauce. You want the kind black people use? Then just buy ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’, it’s really that simple.”

White shoppers, polled in a local Safeway Grocery Store seemed to share Abramowitz’s sentiment, praising the product’s straight-forward labeling. Said Todd Stevenson, “I simply adore down-home Southern delicacies like baby back ribs, barbecued brisket and cornbread. And nothing goes better with those dishes than the kind of flavor you get from real, authentic African American hot sauce. It’s like 400 years of oppression in a bottle. But I can’t exactly walk in here and say, ‘hey, give me the stuff they sell down at Roscoe’s, you know, the kind in the red squeezy thing. I mean, look at this: you’ve got Cholula and Red Hot and this Asian crap, I don’t even know what the hell that is.”

Others chose to criticize the lack of authentic southern flavor found in the so-called ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’, calling it bland and tasteless. An informal survey of several African-American employees of this news office found an almost universal inability to distinguish the sauce from regular, garden variety ketchup.

“That’s hot sauce?” asked a skeptical Renee Williams, echoing a sentiment voiced by many, “tastes like ketchup to me.” Ms. Williams then began to laugh openly as her white co-worker, tasting the sauce for himself, began to choke and gag, his face turning red while he pleaded for water.

Coming as somewhat of a surprise, joining the chorus of protests was the voice of Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, Brian Kellison. “Look, we talk openly about our hopes of a race war, but when you see Jews actually exploiting the black man like this, it’s hard to take, even for me.”

Asked to elaborate, Kellison would say only, “Yeah, I hate blacks, who doesn’t? But co-opting their culture to make money for your Zionist enterprises? And hot sauce? That’s just straight up ignorant.”

As of the time of publication, there were no immediate plans by the Abramowitz Corporation to halt production or alter their marketing strategy in any way.

My broken heart

2006-05-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

Saying goodbye is so hard.

As I drove her to the airport, I told myself I would be strong. It wasn't "goodbye" so much as "see you later". The truth is, she was coming back in less than 5 weeks.

4 weeks, 3 days and 22 hours. Not that I was counting.

As those three big letters came into view, I started to feel a knot in my throat.

As I passed the giant "L", I had to look the other way. I couldn't face those beautiful blue eyes and be able to keep it together in any manner befitting a man of 30.

She knew what I was feeling, because she knows everything about me. Every thought, every emotion, every fear. So she knew my heart was breaking.

As I pulled up to the curb and put on my hazards, I reached for my sunglasses and immediately felt them fog up.

We got her bags from the trunk and placed them on the curb. As I went to tell her that this felt like death, she put her hand to my lips. Then she kissed me.

At this point, I lost it. The tears poured forth from my eyes. I was crying like a little girl.

"Please don't go, I love you too much," I whispered in her ear, breathing in deeply the aroma of her long, blonde hair. I begged her like a little child who doesn't want Daddy to go away on a business trip.

She was stronger than me, though. She said nothing, smiled at me and turned. She picked up her bags and walked into the terminal.

I wanted to run after her, but I didn't. If she could be this strong, the least I could do was not be a total idiot and cause a scene.

People were honking so I got back in my car and turned to look, one last time, hoping she would be running back to me, telling me she didn't care about the practicalities of our situation, that she loved me and she wanted to be with me right now and forever and that's all that mattered to her...

But she wasn't running back to me. She was picking up her ticket at the counter. She was so strong.

I started up my car and pulled into traffic. For a moment, I thought I would be ok. I would be talking to her on the phone in probably five or six hours. I had lived my life like this for nearly one whole year and I had survived.

Every time it felt the same. It didn't get better or easier, it actually got worse. But every time I did get over it. I lived through it. My heart was not broken, I was not really dying.

I was going to be ok. Or so I thought.

As I pulled onto the 405, I experienced a feeling of panic and dread unlike none I had ever felt before. The world was violently spinning all around me, the interior of my car seemed to suddenly reach 120 degrees, my stomach heaved in painful spasms.

I quickly pulled over into the breakdown lane. I couldn't breathe. I opened my door and threw up. The air hit my face and I felt some relief, as if I was swimming upwards out of the water from a great depth.

But the dread was still there. I had to do something.

Love will make you do some crazy things and I admit I was not thinking rationally at the moment. It's not an excuse, just an explanation of where I was at.

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. I asked the emergency dispatcher if I could be put through directly to the airport. I was.

I told the official at the airport that there was a woman about to board American Airlines flight 2301 with a bomb in her bag. I gave them her description, what she was wearing, what the bag looked like, everything.

I really don't know what I was thinking. All I know is, at the time, a holding cell in the same state for a few days sounded better than living in freedom 3000 miles from the woman I loved.

I figured they'd probably arrest her and keep her around while they checked out her background and all that. There might even be a court appearance we'd both have to go to where I cleared her name and fell on my knees in front of the judge and pleaded temporary insanity for reasons of love.

It actually sounded quite romantic.

Instead, they arrested her and to my surprise, found the bomb she was carrying in the exact bag I told them it would be in.

Now I was a big hero. I was in all the papers because I had saved the lives of 237 people that day. Larry King had called me personally to ask me to be on his show. Luckily, the manager I had gotten a few hours after the incident was playing hardball with his people so they wouldn't take advantage of me and not give to me what was owed of a celebrity of my caliber.

It turns out my girlfriend hadn't been who she claimed to be. In fact, she wasn't even a "girl" at all. There was no "Jane Everywoman", that was a fake name she had used to enter the country as part of a big terrorist plot.

Her name was Mohamed Al-Jeeri Islamabad and she was a 47 year old Muslim cleric from Riyadh.

Like I told Lesley Stahl, looking back in hindsight, the signs were there that she was not who she claimed to be, but when you're in love, you don't notice little inconsistencies in speech patterns, or holes in someone's backstory, or a long, flowing, grey beard.

So that brings me to today. Everyone thinks I'm a big hero, but really I'm a total fraud. By some crazy coincidence, I've saved the lives of 237 people but the only one I really care about is the one nobody, not even her, is considering.

Because I love her, I love Mohamed Al-Jeeri Islamabad. I know she was using me, I know you're going to say that she never felt anything for me, but I don't believe that. Not in my heart.

What we had was real. Those feelings were real.

Next week, when I'm dining with the President and the First Lady, I'm going to wish I was somewhere else. With her, in that cold jail cell. As we feast on roasted duck in a raspberry vinaigrette sauce, I'm going to imagine it's the stale bread and water my beloved is consuming.

It's like when I signed my seven-figure book deal with Simon & Schuster and everyone was shaking my hand and the reporters were asking me what it was like to be a national icon, I knew that I would trade all the fame and money for just five minutes of peace and quiet, alone with my soulmate, away from all the prying eyes of the media.

Everywhere I go, I carry her with me in my heart. And I will be there on the day she is put to death. When the state issues its decree and all the appeals have been exhausted and those toxins enter her bloodstream and she closes her eyes and goes to sleep forever.

Well, not physically with her. Most likely I'll be in my beach house in Aruba or hanging out with Charlie Sheen in Cannes or something like that. But certainly not in some dirty, filthy prison, surrounded by criminals. I'm a big star now and I don't believe the officials could guarantee my safety in a situation like that.

Anyway, that is my story of love and heartbreak, trust and betrayal. I stand before you a broken shell of a man and believe me when I say that it doesn't hurt any less that the shell is made out of 24 carat platinum gold. Not even when it's covered in precious diamonds and rubies.

All the money in the world can't buy you happiness and all the fame and adoration of the public can't fix a broken heart. Not without good looks and talent. Which is why I'm going in for some plastic surgery and acting lessons.

Immigrants gone wild - by Chad Robuckle

2006-04-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

You know, a lot of attention has been focused on the subject of illegal immigration, especially here in Los Angeles.

Immigrants state that they play a valuable role in society, often performing the jobs regular Americans won't do. Their opponents claim they undercut American workers and de-value the marketplace.

Of course, real-world issues are never this black and white and the truth often lies somewhere in the rich shades of grey in which we live our daily lives.

When we think of immigrants and the jobs they go to every day, we often think of them working on farms, picking beans, or perhaps bussing tables or doing the dishes in a restaurant, but this is only one side of the picture.

Immigrants are involved in many facets of the American workplace and I want to speak about one of those today. A side not brought up in the media, one that you may not have thought about before.

Would you believe that immigrants are fast becoming a force to reckon with in what has now become a 14 billion dollar industry in America?

Like I said, when you think of 'ol Pepe or Juan jumping the fence down in Tejas, you probably say, "Well, chances are they're not going to take my job: I'm a high-paid banker with a brand new Porsche Cayman that I consider my daily commuter, which I say with a smug laugh every time I tell someone about driving it to work."

OK, fair enough, your banking job is probably safe. But you're a banker, right? You've got a lot of cash floating around. Your wife is probably getting fat and your bastard kids drive you nuts. Your mother-in-law has been riding you for months, asking you whether you're all coming out for Thanksgiving even though when you do, she complains about too many people being at her house and she's a terrible fucking cook and you just want to have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving for a change and not deal with all that bullshit.
You're stressed and you need some "relief".

So you call up the local escort service and you answer the door, expecting the big-boobed blonde from the ad, right?

Nope. Instead, you get "Yessica": a 23 year-old mother of sixteen from Guadalajara, whose feet are still muddy from traipsing through the shallow waters of the Rio Grande. At least you hope that's mud.

You see, not only are foreign immigrant sex workers undercutting their American counterparts in the price department, sometimes drastically so, they are also introducing a host of new sexual services (and parasites), often heretofore unheard of on our native soil.

Think about it this way: you're an American who picks corn for 30 bucks an hour or whatever the hell minimum wage is these days. Along comes Tito and Jesus offering farmer Ted to pick his corn under the table for 17 cents a day, which is a King's Ransom back in Mexico.

You're shit out of luck, right?

Well now imagine that not only will Tito and Jesus pick the corn for less than you, they're willing to stick it in their asses while they do so. And they tell Farmer Ted it's cool if 99 of his farmer buddies come over and throw those stringy corn husk things in their faces as they do it.

Call me old fashioned, I just long for the days of yesteryear, when you could drive over to the black side of town, pick up a normal, yet dangerously young-looking girl for some regular sex, pay her a decent, but fair amount of money and be on your way.

I also remember a time when you could "settle disputes" with these independent contractors and not have it turn into a federal hate crime case, but that's neither here nor there.

Look, I'm not blaming the immigrants. I know that for a long time, American prostitutes have had it easy. They have been sheltered from the outside world by a society that protects and cherishes them. Within the global economy, competition is relied on to set prices. Supply and demand dictate the specifics of the situation.

The system works and I'm not one to call for restrictions placed on a free-market economy, but I’m sorry, it just makes me a little sad. I can't help but get nostalgic when I think about the way things have changed.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good Dirty Sanchez as much as the next guy and anyone who's gone to TJ with me knows my first stop is always the donkey show, but I guess what I'm lamenting is the fact that as much as I claim to love dehumanizing people, especially women, I can't prevent my heart of gold from shining through.

We all know prostitutes aren't real people. At least that's what we tell ourselves because then it makes it easier to beat them up, but that's because we know that no matter how close to the edge of life and death we take them, they've got things like health insurance and OSHA to fix them up as good as new.

When you're knocking some bitch's teeth out and she's pleading with you to stop and think about her children, you keep going because you know those kids are Americans and Americans go to college. Hell, they'll probably write their thesis on women's studies and cite as examples all the times their whore mother got her ass kicked by some coked-out psycho who just couldn't deal with the shame of his own erectile dysfunction to prove how women are still second-class citizens in our society. The irony is delicious!

If only these whiny liberals knew how good they have it.

In summation, I join the long line of pussies who long for a simpler time while simultaneously accepting the fact there is nothing that can be done about it. Sure, I can urge you to "buy American" but I know that the second your wallet is feeling a little light, or your tastes skew to the obscene or bizarre, your ideals will go out the window. Morals are fine but only if they don't affect the bottom line.

And when that happens, they’ve won.

It's sad, but we all know it's true. In the words of W.C. Fields: "A hole is a hole is a hole."

Viral Video Reviews!

2006-04-21T17:44:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody, I have a favor to ask.

I started a new webpage called viralvideoreviews.com. Viral videos are those crazy videos that people post on the web and then get passed around all over the place. Like those two Asian guys singing Backstreet Boys' songs or whatever.

Well, until now, you had to rely on getting forwards from your friends or searching all over by yourself, which is kind of a pain.

Enter me and my site, viralvideoreviews.com. What I am going to do is post links to these videos in one convenient place so you don't have to look all over the place. You can just go to my site and know I'll have only really funny or bizarre videos up there.

Not only this, I will review them for you, providing a short synopsis of what the video contains, so that you don't have to waste your time if it's not something you're interested in. All with my patented "Hollywood Phony" sense of humor!

It's great!

This site is entirely free and all I ask is that you check it out and if you see a video you like, tell your friends about it. Also, if you have any videos you'd like to share, just let me know and I'll put them up so then you don't have to send it out yourself, you can just send people to my site. Just drop me an email.

Thanks again, I really appreciate all your support.

I have a miracle cure for baldness

2006-04-13T01:03:00.000-07:00

Don't waste your money on Rogaine or all sorts of quack cures, my solution is simple:

Don't be bald.

Visualize the hair. It will grow back. Sometimes in as little as sixteen seconds.

Your hair loss isn't due to clogged pores or hereditary issues and it sure as hell isn't your genes.

It's your negative thoughts. Think positive.

This also works for cancer.

YOU'RE WELCOME.

The Bachelor Party

2006-04-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

I didn't want to let Chad write this blog, but he said he would kill one member of my family if I didn't. Anyone else, I would consider it an idle threat, but with Chad...

So anyway, here it is, he gave me a little preview of what he's going to write about and it's pretty bad, so if you're sensitive or one of those relatives whose life I may have saved, stop reading now---

OK, Chad Robuckle here, that pussy wouldn't shut the hell up so I shut him up. With my fists.

Just kidding, I actually threw some orange juice in his face. How come I never film this shit? There's your reality show. Trust me, it was hilarious. "Oh shit, my eye! You got it in my eye! It burns!" What a douche.

So anyway, my buddy Marcos is getting married soon and I decided to throw a bachelor party. I know what you're thinking: "my buddy Marcos" sounds like an oxymoron for ol' Chad "Let's Keep Our Borders Strong" Robuckle and you're right. I can't stand those types, but what I can stand is strippers.

So I volunteered my services and naturally, there was some resistance at first. This nutbag named Jeremy who works over in accounting was like "Hey man, me and Marcos have been best friends since high school, I'm his best man and I'm throwing his bachelor party."

I was stoked cuz I love getting in fights at work, but all I had to say was, "Well Chad Robuckle doesn't care who you were best friends with..." and this pussy totally backed down. He was like "Oh shit, I'm sorry, I didn't realize who you were, Mr. Robuckle, I'm really sorry. Of course you can plan the bachelor party, Mr. Robuckle!"

I guess word spreads fast once you've slammed some dude's head in a closing elevator door. Especially if that dude is already in a wheelchair. It's funny that they're all scared of me, because we all know I'm really just a big teddy bear. I think if you look at the facts of that situation, you would see that crip totally had it coming.

So I planned the festivities, got someone to "volunteer" their house for the occasion and even sent out an Evite to all my friends and some of his too. At first, some of his pals seemed reluctant to partake and things got pretty heated, but they saw the error of their ways eventually. I don't even remember what I said to most of them that made them change their mind, I was tweaking pretty hard.

So the big day comes and I'm way under budget, by 3 or 400 bucks. How did you achieve this miracle of financial wizardry, Chad Robuckle, you ask?

Simple, I took the stripper money and spent it on something else.

But that doesn't make any sense, Chad Robuckle, you just told us you love strippers.

That is true and if you question my authority one more goddam time I am going to throw you through a plate glass fucking window on the second floor of this building because I don't want you to die on impact, I want you to be a fucking vegetable who is a burden on his family, causes them to go broke and lives on for another 40 or 50 years. I want your wife to resent the fact that she can't divorce you cuz she'd look like a heartless bitch. I want your kids to hate you for the lives you were never able to give them.

Are we clear?

So anyway, I love strippers. What I don't love is Mexicans. And paying for strippers. So I don't.

Everyone gets to the party and they're pretty impressed. They're all asking who's house it is and beats the fuck out of me if I know, so I make up some story about my uncle and tell nobody to go in the master bedroom, that yellow police tape is there for a reason.

Things get pretty uncomfortable as everyone realizes they're in the infamous "McKenzie Murder House" they have heard about on the news. See, that's the difference between me and everyone else. I see opportunity, I see a free fucking house to have a party in, where they see "the mansion that was the scene of a brutal quadruple murder/suicide".

They start talking about "bad vibes" and getting freaked out but just as I'm about to tell them they're going to get some bad vibes real soon if they keep that shit up, the doorbell rings.

The stripper comes in, alone, which is one of the perks of having a real nice house. The escort service figures they've got one over on you, coming to your nice house in the richest part of town. They know you're not going to screw them over because then you've gotta explain to the cops why you're having strippers over to your house on a Saturday night while your wife is out of town visiting her sick mother while you're forced to work the whole weekend.

So she comes in and she's pretty hot. Everyone is really excited and Marcos, who is pretty drunk, comes up to me and tells me that he was honestly pretty worried when he heard I would be throwing his party, but that he is now really impressed that I pulled it off.

Normally I would "pull off" his fucking tongue for speaking to me like that, but I figured, hey, he's drunk and it's his bachelor party. He's getting married, he's gonna need that tongue, so I let it slide. Like I said, I'm a softie.

This girl is a pro so she immediately starts asking for her money, but that was part of my plan from the beginning. I low-ball her by 200 bucks and she makes for the door to go get "Bunny", claiming this is a non-negotiable deal.

I put my arm around her and assure her that everything is negotiable. I can tell she's about to freak out so I offer up some of my coke stash and that seems to calm her down. It was very important to my plan that she got that "coke" in her body and washed it down with plenty of "vodka tonics".

Well that definitely got her in a better mood and she decides she's going to dance for the agreed-upon rate, but I really wasn't interested in that. Luckily, the Dilithium Pentasocal I gave her kicks in pretty quickly.

She excuses herself and runs off to the bathroom. The guys are all riled up at this point and kinda bummed they're gonna have to wait another five minutes but I tell them not to worry, the party is really gonna get started right now.

I flip on the big screen and at first everyone is kinda puzzled as to what they're looking at. But once she walks into frame and drops her knickers around her ankles and sits down on the pot, they see what's going on.

Immediately, five or six of Mark's buddies head for the door, exclaiming that they're going to be sick. "Have fun sucking each other off in the driveway, you fags!" I tell them as I settle in on the couch with Mark to watch the festivities.

Well at this point, he leans over and pukes all over the floor. Lucky for him, he didn't get any on my shoes. Things kinda go downhill from there.

I guess I gave her too much Dilithium Pentasocal cuz she sorta falls off the toilet and proceeds to make a pretty big mess. The worst part is, the way she was lying on the ground, you couldn't even see any good stuff.

Pretty much everyone else makes a beeline for the door at that point. A few suckers stay to make sure she wasn't dead, I tell them I'll be there in a minute.

Naturally, the sight of 20 guys fleeing a mansion 15 minutes after a hot stripper enters it is going to be cause for some alarm in the mind of any chaperone for such an event and Bunny was no exception.

He grabs me, as I'm the ringleader and demands to know what's going on. I decide to be honest and tell him that two jokers showed up and thought it would be funny to slip this bitch some Dilithium Pentasocal, only they didn't trust the guy in the van down by the park when he told them to use just a little so they gave her the whole thing and now she's passed out in the bathroom and they're trying to have sex with her.

He hears this and off he goes. I figured everything would just sort itself out and as I was getting into my car, the gunshots I heard confirmed my assumption.

Work has been pretty great since that day, which was an added bonus. No one dares finger me for the whole thing, because they know they'd go down with me for sixteen to seventeen months minimum and these guys all have families and shit.

A dead stripper and two paralyzed friends is a small price to pay for Mark's happiness. And by happiness, I mean me telling his fiancee about the whole thing and she deciding to call off the wedding.

You're free, pal. And you're welcome.

Now shut the hell up

2006-04-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

I told you so.

Christie Alley

2006-04-04T00:34:00.000-07:00

Has anyone seen her new Wizard of Oz-themed Jenny Craig commercial? She looks kinda cracked out. Not to say that she's on drugs, she just seems crazy. Which is not to say she has mental illness.

I don't know why I can't stop back-tracking and just say what's on my mind. Who am I afraid is gonna sue me? Nobody reads this blog but a bunch of stupid fucking losers with no brains. Just kidding.

See? I did it again!

All of which leads me to believe I could probably beat up any kid under the age of six.

Think about it. I'm 6'5", a tad under 200 pounds. Your average six year old is, what? 150? 175? That's like a 70 pound advantage I've got. Plus, most six year olds don't have the martial arts training that I also don't have.

On the plus side of the equation (for the kids, anyway), they are small and hard to hit. Also, they have hearts of evil and no soul. Add to that all their martial arts training and I'm clearly a goner.

So, in summation, I can beat up little kids and that's gotta be worth something in this crazy world.

Speaking of crazy, how about that new Jenny Craig commercial? And what's with her voice? Did someone punch her in the throat? Is that what she always sounds like? Hey, did you know Blossom is on that show of hers?

And what ever happened to Ted Danson? He just totally disappeared off the face of the earth, after Cheers. Same with Frasier, he should have done a show. I guess the cream always rises to the top.

Bah, this is all wasted on a bunch of idiots like you!

Charlie Sheen is NOT off the hook

2006-03-31T14:41:00.000-08:00

I don't know if you've followed the news about this, but I guess Charlie Sheen made some comments to the effect that 9/11 was orchestrated by the government.

There was even a debate about whether Google was censoring peoples' attempts to try and find information about the story.

That's fine, the man is entitled to his opinion.

But nobody has a right to go out and make a movie this bad.

I'm talking to you, Richard "Ditch" Brodie.

Maybe it's petty of me to be harping on a 12 year old movie nobody saw anyway. Sometimes it feels like nobody even remembers Terminal Velocity.

Well guess what, I remember. Parachutes. Stolen gold. The Russian Mafia. And I'm not willing to just let things go. I could sit here and spew venom, but I'm over it. It's done. I am leaving, my anger intact. I am bitter and I don't care.

I have been hurt and I could be the bigger man and forgive and forget, live and let live, but I have had enough. I am taking a stand. This is not alright. This is not OK.

This is a country based on freedom and justice for everyone who is rich and white and Charlie Sheen is both of those, so it's time for him to belly up to the bar and apologize.

I'm not even saying that will do it for me, I have a feeling it won't, but it's a start.

The Dixie Chicks have a new song that sums everything up about how I'm feeling over this whole Charlie Sheen business, I will leave you with those lyrics.

I’m not ready to make nice

I’m not ready to back down

I’m still mad as hell and

I don’t have time to go round and round and round

It’s too late to make it right

I probably wouldn’t if I could

‘Cause I’m mad as hell

Can’t bring myself to do what it is you think I should.

Thanks for nothing, jerks!

2006-03-30T18:46:00.000-08:00

Well this explains my 8 month recovery period.

(Just kidding! *hugs*)

I invented a new day!

2006-03-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

For all those people out there who said I'm an idiot and I'll never amount to anything, I say: SUCK ON THIS!

Maybe I didn't go to "college" and maybe I'm not all smart and junk, but I have accomplished something that hasn't been accomplished in thousands of years.

Behold, the majesty of "Skizzleplex"!!!

That's right, "Skizzleplex".

It comes between Friday and Sunday and it's the best day ever and it never existed before until I invented it.

How the hell did I do this, you ask? Well, it's simple:

I took seven hours out of Sunday and added 3 hours to Friday and then I invented Skizzleplex. Trust me, if you do the math, you'll see it all adds up.

Don't you ever feel like "oh, it's Friday, hooray!" and then all of a sudden you're like "oh shit, it's Sunday!" and you wonder, "what the fuck happened?" Unbeknownst to anyone but me, that feeling happens because there has been a secret day occupying that space and that day is Skizzleplex.

It all makes sense now, huh?

Sure, this is going to cause lots of problems. There used to be a certain number of days, I'm not sure how many (ten?), but now there's one more. Calendars will be fucked up, people will get slightly older or younger and the moon will probably spin off of Earth's orbit and fly away into space.

I really feel like things are going to change. Not just for me, either. I'm probably gonna get a Nobel Prize or a lot of money or something, but I also think the world as a whole will be a much better place as well.

If I get elected President of the World, I probably won't have much time for this blog, so I won't be posting as much from now on.

But I promise to stay grounded by taking a few minutes out of every Skizzleplex to give you, my loyal readers, a quick heads up about all the private jets I've been flying in and all the supermodels I'm banging and how many mansions I have.

Enter my contest!

2006-03-29T14:34:00.000-08:00

Hey gang, guess what?

I'm having a contest!

Enter my contest and you can win 250 Iraqi Dinars! That's right! This is genuine Iraqi money with Saddam Hussein right on the bill! Taken from Iraq by our brave fighting troops in the U.S. Army.

Imagine what you could buy with that much money! 250 Dinars! Houses, gold, women! All of this could be yours! Perhaps you've had your eye on that brand new luxury car your neighbor just got? That could be you! Stop being a fucking loser! Enter my contest!

OK, now that I've got you all hyped up, you're probably wondering, "What is this contest I keep hearing about via the local news media, podcasts and cereal box prize cartoons?"

The contest is simple: you send me an email at hollywoodphony@yahoo.com and tell me what you think of me. Whoever has the best entry wins and I will send them 250 IRAQI DINARS!!!

What do I mean by "best entry"? I'm not even sure. I have a feeling I will know it when I see it. Maybe it is the most original or creative. Maybe it is the meanest one, the one that really tells me, in plain English, what a bastard I am. More than likely, though, it will be the one written in flowery language that is all about how I'm so great.

Maybe you're thinking, "Hmm, I barely know this guy, surely I couldn't win"? But fear not, I'd actually rather hear from someone like you than my real-life jerk friends! If you want, just write something about how you found my blog or who told you to read it or hell, just make some shit up. What the fuck do I care, right?

I will post the top 17 entries on this site and dedicate a whole post to the winner.

That's it, that's all you have to do. Chances are, you'll be the only person who enters and you'll win by default. Then you can tell your boss to shove it and quit your job and retire to your own little tropical island.

So again, do it. Don't be a jerk.

My new ad campaign

2006-03-28T00:25:00.000-08:00

Here's the deal: there's not a lot of money in comedy.

For every Jim Carrey making $300,000/year or whatever he makes, there's six or seven people who barely crack a hundred.

Maybe I'm a sellout, but I want to be rich. I want a Dodge Caravan with a DVD system so I can park by the beach, curl up on the bench seat in the back and fall asleep to Patch Adams.

I'm sick of doing stand up six nights a week like I do. I'm tired of the grind. There are some weeks I wake up in a shitty motel in a different, anonymous, midwestern city every single day.

I want a family and kids and a dog and a wife who understands that it means I love her more, not less, when I hit her.

I am a simple man, with simple needs. My one extravaganace that I allow myself is my goat cheese pizzas. I'm nuts for those.

So anyway, the comedy thing ain't happenin' for me. I give up. I'm talented and I'm super good-looking but it's just not enough, you know? I'm not sure what it takes, I'm only sure I don't have it. That's a good one, I should use that in my act.

So anyway, what does a guy with all this talent do? I can't just go and design computers and rockets and hot air balloons and crap like that, I need an outlet for my creativity. I need to give birth to the torrent of ideas pounding at my fucking brain like the tumor my doctors keep insisting I have after I blackout from my migraines and wake up in the hospital for the 47th time this week.

And then it hit me. The junction of comedy and commerce: the advertising business.

You get paid to create and the things you create make money. That's advertising in a nutshell. There is the little matter of demographics and research and focus groups, but let the suits handle that bs, I'm an idea machine, mother fucker!

Now, I could go the usual route and go to college and try and get an entry-level job and work my way up the ladder, but that really wouldn't be me, you know? I'm a "grab life by the balls" kind of guy, so I've decided I'm just gonna make an ad campaign for something that already exists and then I'll probably get paid or something when people start buying it.

But what product should I advertise? What's something everybody likes and is entirely free from controversy? I'm not sure.

All I know is people hate kids and they hate having kids. If there was some way to take pregnant people and make them not pregnant, the fella who thought up that idea would be a millionaire.

Well, imagine my surprise when I found out there is such an invention and it's called "abortion". Catchy, no?

I haven't written it down or anything, but here's the gist of it: Being pregnant is awful. You get fat, you can't stop eating weird food (according to TV, anyway), you turn into a total bitch and you're in pain all the time.

Some guys out there who are probably less sensitive than I am wouldn't realize this, but a baby is much bigger than the average size vagina, from which they eventually come out of. Get it? It hurts.

Abortion: Just End It! Trust me, chicks are gonna eat this shit up. I'm assuming they just don't realize this thing exists, or else, why would anyone go and have a kid? It doesn't make any goddam sense. There's kids everywhere, who the hell needs another one? No one, that's who.

So there, that's my pitch. A well-defined market of people looking for a service, a catchy jingle which I'm not going to write, some posters, yadda yadda yadda. Can I have my money now?

God Bless, South Park

2006-03-22T22:39:00.000-08:00

I have just seen the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life.

The season premiere of South Park was a truly magical thing to behold.

I'm not going to give anything away, plot-wise, but it was amazing on so many levels it has literally blown my mind.

The genius of this show is that they fucked Scientology in the ass, but did it in a way that while everyone knows they're talking about Scientology, Scientology can't say, "Hey, this is about Scientology" because if they do, they'll be admitting they're nothing more than a fucked-up cult that brainwashes people.

I really feel like they may never show this episode again, it's that awesome and out there. If anyone has a tape or dvd of it, I would appreciate a copy of it so that I can make my own fucked-up "religion" based on its teachings and then the circle will be complete.

Seriously, if you don't watch the show, but you've heard about the Issac Hayes/Tom Cruise/Scientology controversy, check out their response to it all, because it's really great.

My faith in humanity and comedy restored, I bid you goodnight.

I am afraid of Rob Wagman

2006-03-22T18:42:00.000-08:00

People often ask me, "Aren't you afraid you really, truly believe all those horrible things that your imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist, Chad Robuckle, says in your stories?"

To this, I say no. What I AM afraid of is Rob Wagman.

"Your dummy?" you ask, "why that's ridiculous! He's nothing more than a harmless piece of plastic!"

Plastic? Maybe. Harmless? Hardly.

Look at him. Tell me if you had that thing sitting in your closet every night, you wouldn't be tossing and turning til four am, shitting the bed with fear. Go ahead, tell me, I dare you. You're a fucking liar.

He sleeps in my closet, in a duffle bag. The duffle bag is zipped and the door to the closet is ALWAYS closed.

But sometimes a house makes noise. Sometimes the wood settles as the temperature drops and things contract and expand. Creaking noises eminate from all around and if one of them happens to come to the closet, I have a heart attack.

Not a fake heart attack like I pulled last year, either. Oh, by the way, April Fool's, that was all made up.

I'm talking a real heart attack, like "holy shit, I'm gonna die" heart attack.

If you saw the season opener of the Soprano's and you watched that guy hang himself, you have a tiny inkling into the kind of fear I have for my dummy, Rob Wagman.

Maybe you don't see the connection, but the hanging scene was a very graphic account of a man committing suicide. It wasn't: here I go. Snap! It's over. It was struggling, kicking out and thrashing around, probably as you realize the finality of what you've done and attempt to take things back, but you can't. It was a haunting image. I guess the guy pissed himself at the end, I couldn't really watch that much, because it was too intense.

When you realize how frail and fragile our human bodies are, how you can commit so much damage upon them in the blink of an eye, you begin to experience the real palpable fear of having Rob Wagman in your closet.

Look, do I know if he's really alive or not? No, I can't make those kinds of claims. All I know is, I look into those dead eyes and I want to run and hide in my mother's arms as I sob myself to sleep.

Maybe I'm over-reacting, but imagine if that thing was in your own closet, just four or five feet from where you slept. It's dark, you're alone in a big, new house. You hear strange noises. You shut your eyes tightly, afraid to open them. Afraid that when you do, he'll be there, looking down at you. His soulless limbs flailing about, to and fro.

To paraphrase The Usual Suspect: I don't believe in Rob Wagman, but I'm afraid of him.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle

2006-03-16T21:31:00.000-08:00

So I'm driving over Laurel Canyon in the kind of slow-moving, not quite bumper-to-bumper traffic you experience on this road during the afternoon when this stupid whore rear-ends me out of nowhere.

I get out of my car, she gets out of hers, all apologetic and we stand there, examining the damage to my bumper. It's not bad and I decide I'm not going to give her a hard time about it, even though she was totally on her cell phone, not paying attention, as women are apt to do.

"Hmm, well the damage really isn't bad, maybe we don't have to get the insurance companies involved in this?" Big mistake, bitch. Now I'm pissed.

I tell her that, no, I'm actually going to have to see her insurance and she offers to pay me a couple hundred bucks to avoid having her premiums go up. I'm looking at the damage and really it's nothing that a three dollar jar of touch-up paint couldn't fix, but she's really pushing my buttons now. If there's one thing Chad Robuckle values above all, it's his honesty and his integrity and I'm not about to compromise my good name so I can play nice and commit insurance fraud.

Her kids are screaming in the back seat and people are honking so I lean in really close and whisper, "I'm going to act like I'm walking over to get my insurance card from my glove compartment, but I'm really going to get my gun and shoot you in the fucking head. So, if you value your life and the lives of your children, I suggest you run for it."

I can tell she can't quite believe this but my iron cold stare is starting to convince her so I walk back to my car and say loudly, "OK, let me just get my insurance out of the glove box," when she decides I'm not joking. I look over and she's got this expression of pure terror as she jumps in the car, puts it in drive and pulls around me, tires squealing and runs right into a car in on-coming traffic, airbags go off and everything. Priceless.

So I close the door and some bystanders run up to her car to see if everything's OK and she gets out, blood running down her face from her broken nose and she can't stop screaming. She pulls her kids out of the backseat and starts running up the hill.

The onlookers give me a "what the hell?" kind of look and I give them a "beats the shit out of me" one in response and we all stand around and wait for the cops. I explain to them and the police officers that I just wanted to do everything by the book and was walking over to my car to get my insurance card when this lady flipped out and tried to drive off. Several eye-witnesses backed up my side of the story, so even though the lady insisted I had threatened her, nobody had come forward and corroborated this. Not to mention, the cops search my car and the surrounding area and find no evidence of any gun, so I'm off the hook.

The 5-0 apologize to me, take my name and number, send me on my way and as I'm driving off, I look in the rearview and she's screaming and yelling as they rip her kid out of her arms and throw her in the backseat of the squad car.

So I last about three seconds before I lose it and start laughing my ass off! Oh man, that was some funny shit! The irony of this whole situation is, I left the accident in such a good mood, that if it had happened again, I wouldn't have been such a dick in the first place.

Anyway, a couple days pass and I get this knock on the door. This weasely-looking guy is standing there, holding his hat in his hands like people do in old time movies. He looks nervous as shit so I look over and make sure my Louisville Slugger is right by the door. It is.

"Chad Robuckle?" he asks.

"Who wants to know?" I reply.

He goes and explains that his name is Terry Bradshaw, when I say, "Like the football guy?" he gives me this blank stare and I know I'm dealing with a real winner. Anyway, he tells me he witnessed the accident and he knows I really did threaten to shoot that woman. Well at this point, I'm inching towards the bat and trying to remember how many corpse-size garbage bags I've got saved up under the sink. I figure he's looking for money or whatever, but he actually has something else in mind.

"Man, I couldn't believe that shit, it was great. You stayed so cool and totally fucked her shit up, that's some next level shit and I'm down with that," he says, never quite looking me in the eye.

Normally, I would kill someone just for making any sort of reference to Men In Black, but I'm also a sucker for flattery, so I released my grip on the bat and let him go on.

"Anyway, I don't know who you're with, CIA, FBI, KGB, whatever, but if you need any help, just let me know."

Now let me pause here and tell you that I am a big fan of Mr. Miyagi. Not Pat Morita. Not the movie itself, just that character. I'm not into the kind of karate where you defend yourself as a last resort and you never use it to get money out of people, but still, there was just something about the way he bossed that greasy little wop around that tickled my fancy. So here I saw my chance to be my own Mr. Miyagi and I jumped at it.

"Well, Terry, you're in luck. My last intern just quit and you look like you're cut from good stock, so why don't you go down to the 7-11 over there and get me a twelve pack of beer, for starters," that seemed very mentor-like to me.

"Uhmm, well I was thinking like I could be your sidekick or partner or something, you know, go on special ops reconnaissance and shit like that?" I figured on this response and I was ready for it.

"Terry," I began, closing the door behind me as I stepped outside in my underwear, "how many years of military experience do you have? Is it 12? Because that's how much I have."

"Oh, shit, Chad, I'm sorr—"

"Mr. Robuckle." I cut him off.

"Sorry, right, Mr. Robuckle, anyways, I didn't mean to question your authority or nothin', I was just wondering what kind of beer I should get you and also um, I don't have any cash…" What a stammering idiot.

"Terry, listen, when they would drop us Rangers behind enemy lines and we'd have to sneak into a village and cut every male resident over the age of thirteen years' throats, rape all the women and then burn that whole place down, do you think we had time to sit around and question the orders of our superior officers? Do you think I would ask Sarge for some money? No, if he needed something, I would take it."

"No, no, of course not, I'm sorry, sir," he was practically crying. And he called me "sir!" This was great!

"Apology accepted. Now go. Get!" He ran as fast as his gimpy legs could take him. I guess he had a limp or something, probably from someone beating his ass when he was a kid. He looked like that type. "Heineken, Terry, no cheap shit!"

I went back inside, pretty pleased with myself. I began to fantasize about all the future "missions" I could send Terry Bradshaw on. Things were working out pretty well for ol' Chad Robuckle, but not for long. This always happens to me. I live my life the best I can, I try to be a good person and how do I get rewarded? By a swift kick in the balls from J.C. or Buddha or fate or whoever the hell is running things up there.

My chance to be Mr. Miyagi went down the toilet when that stupid shithead literally ran right into two of Los Angeles' finest as they were entering the same store he was fleeing from.

The cops drag Terry back to my place in handcuffs, he'd clearly been crying. I tell them I've never seen that sorry piece of shit in my life and he starts spouting off something about the accident and the CIA and a secret black ops Delta Ranger force or some crap like that. I just deny everything and they cart his ass off.

So not only does he fail me, he rats me out like a little pussy too. Why am I constantly made to suffer these indignities at the hands of the assholes of the world? If I did something to deserve it, I can't think of what it is, for the life of me.

What a prick. I hope he's sharing a cell with that uppity bitch from the other day.

Hello, stupid idiot regular blog!

2006-03-14T12:11:00.000-08:00

You know when you were a kid and you were super cute and everyone loved you? And then your baby brother came along and you weren't so cute anymore and your mom would beat you for being ugly and less adorable than him?

We can all relate to that. Except, I guess, only-children, but they all turn out to be maladjusted, sociopathic psychos, anyway.

Anyway, the point is, this blog was my baby. I lavished it with gifts and attention. I would have it sit on my lap while I read it stories and stroked its hair so it could fall asleep.

Now I have a new baby. It's name is chadrobuckle.com, and it is my podcast.

I wrote about my new podcast before. You should check it out. It's me, yappin' into my headset mic about nothing for seven whole minutes! How could you say no to that? In fact, it's not enough that you go there and just listen to it from time to time, you need to go subscribe to it on iTunes so that it loads it to your iPod automatically and my lovely voice comes up every once in a while when you put it on shuffle.

Subscribe? iPod? Shuffle? What?!?!

"That sounds complicated, Eric. We're not all technical geniuses like you."

This is true, but it's easy. If you have iTunes, click on "podcasts" and search the words "Chad Robuckle". Then hit "subscribe". It's really that easy.

Or if you want, click on this: feeds.feedburner.com/chadrobuckle and you're all set. There are like fifteen ways you can subscribe to this.

If you have a "My Yahoo" page, you can do it that way.

People, I will level with you: this is the wave of the future. You're all on your Atari 2600s and I'm playing "The Smurfs" on my Colecovision. Catch up or be left behind as I beat you like my mother used to do to me because I was so ugly and not all shiny and new like Alex.

Actually, the truth is, I'm probably just gonna end up reading some of my more popular stories from my blog during my podcast. That should be a nice treat for you, because I know you've been wondering, "Hmm, what does this beautiful prose sound like coming from the mouth of this angel brought to earth?"

It sounds like the future and not getting beaten, that's what it sounds like.

Thank you for your time.

PS, do it now.

How exciting! I'm podcasting!

2006-03-11T03:39:00.000-08:00

What the hell is podcasting, you say? Good question, idiot.

Podcasting is basically making a blog with an audio file instead of typing crap out. So it's good if you're lazy. You can get podcasts delivered to your itunes or right to your my yahoo page or whatever.

That way, when I make a new podcast, it appears on your computer and you don't have to go and look for it, it's right there. Just click on it and listen to it. C'mon, don't be a jerk.

Here's the deal. I have a new blog, appropriately titled, Hollywood Phony's Podcast - hosted by Chad Robuckle. So you can go there and do that, but if you want to make it easy on yourself and me (most importantly me), go to this address instead. There is a whole list of ways to get daily Hollywood Phony content delivered to your computer. C'mon, just do it.

The first couple of podcasts aren't that great, but in the very near future I'm really going to step things up and give you all the great entertainment options you've come to expect from the Hollywood Phony organization.

You like celebrity gossip? We've got it and it's all 100% untrue! I just make this shit up on the spot.

Do you like sports? Well I love them and I will give you all the latest scores on the big game. Again, these will all be made up.

Plus some other crap I will also make up. Look, I had heart surgery, just do it.

Thanks!

PS, if you want to get this site delivered to your my yahoo page or whatever, click here and I will hook you up for free, but only if you act now. If you don't act now, the price goes up to $17.

Why I love clowns

2006-03-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

I'm back! In case you didn't know, I was competing in the Ultimate Blogger 2 competition last week so I was too busy to write any new blogs. Well guess what? I got eliminated! Yay! Now I have more time to write for Hollywood Phony!

Here is my third, never-seen entry. I wrote it before I even knew what the competition was. I was planning on just sending it in anyway, no matter what I was supposed to do. Maybe it was this attitude that got me kicked off. I don't think so. I think it was the other contestants' hatred of people who had heart surgery.

That's my theory.

Anyway, here is my latest story, I hope you like it.

Koko - by Eric Filipkowski

I lay in bed with Meredith after another unsuccessful attempt at love-making.

“Baby, just tell me, what can I do? Is there anything you want, anything you need? Anything?” she pleaded with me.

“No, I’ve told you, it’s not you. It’s just this… I don’t know. I just… I want you, I do. You’re so beautiful. It’s just…” I searched for the words. I searched my soul and I felt I could trust her, but it was just… too hard.

“Please, baby,” she saw through my façade. At this point, I realized my attempt to protect her was now doing the opposite. I had no choice.

“OK, I want you to know that I’ve never told this to anyone before,” I took a deep breath, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Just say it, baby.” She put her arm around me and kissed me on the forehead.

“I need you to dress up for me.” I felt my pants growing tight, it was exhilarating.

“Oh! Is that all this is about?” she laughed, I could feel the sense of relief running through her body.

“Well, it’s like…” I hesitated, because I felt she was getting the wrong idea.

“What? Don’t be shy,” she sat up in bed, “You want me to dress up like in a nurse’s uniform or something? I could totally do that.”

“No, no, Meredith, listen. I need you to… dress up… in a clown’s suit.” I almost came from the rush of humiliation.

Silence. In that instant, I knew I had made a mistake.

“You asshole!” she hit me with a pillow and started laughing. “I thought you were serious! Oh my god, that is so funny! You totally had me going!”

I stared at the ground. “Mere, I…”

Her expression changed. She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, you really are serious.”

I nodded. I couldn’t look at her.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I just… I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, you must think I’m such a jerk."

“No, it’s OK,” I said, “I figured you would laugh or freak out and leave. I’m glad you didn’t do that last one. Although, maybe you’re planning on doing it right now.”

“No, of course not, come here,” she pulled me close, “Baby, I love you. That’s all there is to it. And if you…” she took a big breath, “If you need me to dress up in a clown suit, that’s fine. I can do that.”

“Really?” I couldn’t believe this was actually happening, that she was saying these words I was hearing right now.

“Yes, really. But before I do, I need to know why.” A fair enough request.

I took a deep breath, held her hand and began my story. “Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve loved the circus; especially the clowns. I really think there is nothing more noble than someone who spreads laughter and joy to thousands of people like that. My parents took me to see The Big Top Circus when I was six and that’s where I met Koko. I couldn’t believe my luck when he chose me as a lover. I mean, he was a celebrity, he literally could have had his pick of the children in that tent and he singled me out as special. I felt like the luckiest boy in the world—“

“Wait,” she interrupted my story, “What?”

“Huh? What?” I asked, barely able to contain my impatience with her obtuseness.

“Are you serious? This clown molested you?”

I threw her hands off me and pushed her away, she fell back onto the pillows. “No! Ewww, that’s disgusting. Gross! I never said he molested me.”

She was clearly confused. “Oh, I thought I heard you say—“

“First of all, he wasn’t ‘some clown.’ He was Koko. And what we had was beautiful.”

“Oh my god, please tell me you’re kidding.” She clutched her hand to her mouth.

“You’re being a real bitch right now,” I told her, “I’m beginning to think this was a big mistake, trusting you like this.”

She threw up all over my bed.

“Thanks,” I continued, “Just so you know, you’re paying for those sheets.”

“Why,” she said, as she sobbed, “I don’t understand. Don’t you see this man victimized you?”

“Say one more thing about Koko,” I threatened, “Say it, Meredith and see what happens to you.”

“Jody, you’re scaring me,” she sat there in her own pile of sick, choking back her tears and she was truly hideous. “Please, explain this to me, I want to understand, but you have to realize, this is so much to digest. I mean, what do you even want with me? Find a real clown. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Oh my sweet, naïve, Meredith. I never said you were for me. And I’ve found a real clown. Well, we found each other.”

From the closet came a loud honking noise, which caused Meredith to jump and splash vomit all over my room. The folding closet door swung open and out strode the man who had been my lover for the last 23 years, naked except for his red wig and nose and of course, his big, red clown shoes.

Koko had barely gotten out the words “Hiya, Meredith!” before they were drowned out by her screams as she ran from my room, completely naked and covered in filth.

Koko and I stood there, looking at each other. I feared his response, now that I had failed him yet again, but I needed not worry: he shrugged his shoulders and we both enjoyed a hearty laugh.

Later, as we made love in his tiny clown car, as we had done so many times before, I caught myself smiling, as I thought about this amazing man with the uncanny ability to bring laughter to my heart, no matter how down I was feeling.

Attention: Drunken Micks

2006-03-01T11:38:00.000-08:00

I can say that because I'm Irish.

Anyway, even though my friends are assholes and don't tell me when my favorite sandwich of all time is (temporarily) back at McDonald's, I figured I'd be the bigger man and not repeat their mistakes.

THE SHAMROCK SHAKE IS BACK.

That's right. The minty, delicious Shamrock Shake is now available at your local McDonald's. And it's good! Of course, now it's a "Triple Thick" shake, but it's basically the same taste, only thicker. If anyone has any idea why Mickey D's would go and change their milkshakes like this, please let me know.

Nothing takes me back to my childhood in Ireland like the creamy goodness of a mint-flavored milkshake. As you know, the Irish are famous for their ice cream and nobody does ice cream like my favorite Irish restaurant.

On an unrelated note, please check out my most recently published article on the Phat Phree, as well as the Ultimate Blogger 2 contest I am in. Also, tonight I will be on the David Lawrence Show at 9pm PST.

And I like tacos.

I'm in a contest! (apparently)

2006-02-27T23:28:00.000-08:00

That joke never gets old.

So here's the deal, last week my friend Starr is all like, "yo Eric, you need to enter this contest!" So I was all "sure, whatevs, who cares, right?" I had never heard of the Ultimate Blogger contest before, but I'm always up for being the ultimate anything. I've already cornered that market in the "douchebag" category. Zing.

So I enter and they're like, "you're in the finals". Now I figure, oh ok, it must not be a big deal or anything. Well it turns out thousands of people applied and only 12 got in. That's pretty good, right? And I could win all sorts of prizes and shit.

Now I'm not really sure how this works, but I guess it's like Survivor. They have competitions where we have to write about a certain subject or something, then one person gets immunity, but I'm not sure how and then the other bloggers vote to kick someone out.

So hopefully I'll win cuz I could use some free shit. I'm not sure if there's a chance for you to vote and help me out or whatever, but if you're truly my friend and committed to helping me forget about having heart surgery and all that, you'll check back every day to see how I'm doing. Oh and also to read my hilarious posts and no one else's. Just kidding. Or am I? I am. Sorta.

Once again, thanks for all your support and whatnot.

The 17th worst thing I ever did - by Chad Robuckle

2006-02-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

Chad here, Eric's off having his monkey heart injected with banana juice or something today, so he asked me to fill in. I know you guys can use a break from his usual drivel, so I figured I'd take pity on you all and grace you with one of my gems.

Anyway, my court-appointed psychiatrist has told me it will be a good exercise if I write down all my regrets on a big list. The only things I really regret are selling a fake piece of the Berlin Wall to that undercover cop and not dumping my ColecoVision stock back in '82.

Well she didn't think that was good enough, so she made her own list of all the "terrible things" I've done and revealed to her in our sessions. I'm supposed to write about them. It'll be good for me. So she says.

So I'm like 3 days into this bullshit and I'm still only down to number 17. What a fucking drag. I figured it might be more enjoyable/less painful if I shared it with you DBs instead of wasting all this talent on that stupid cunt.

Number 17 on my list of all-time worst things I ever did, as compiled by this nitwit from the tiny portion of the shit that I've actually done but felt obliged to tell her about is the time I got my girlfriend thrown in the slammer for being an abusive mother.

She actually wasn't an abusive mother, which I guess is why this is bad. In my defense, let me say that kid was a little prick and deserves to be in an orphanage. She doted on that brat night and day. Anything he needed, she was there for him. Love, support, help with his homework, whatever. A shoulder to cry on. She loved that kid more than anything in the world.

Well, if you know anything about me at all, you know Chad Robuckle doesn't play second fiddle to anyone.

I tried having a rational conversation with her about this. I tried to comprimise, to meet her half-way. If she hadn't been so headstrong, that kid would be living with his father in Nebraska right now. That's all I was asking. Seems reasonable, right? But no, she had to argue with me. She had to push my fucking buttons.

My thinking was this: I like this bitch, I don't like her kid. I don't like his face. I don't like his attitude. I don't like him telling me I'm not his real dad in his smug little 8 year old voice when I order him to drive my car down to Arby's and get me a couple Beef N Cheddars.

This is really embarassing, cuz as I'm thinking about this story, I realize I can't remember this whore's name. I'm drawing a total blank. But the kid was definitely Tyler. No wait, Taylor? Fuck it, let's call him Skippy.

So Skippy needed to be out of the picture, ASAP. Normally, I wouldn't even sweat a bitch like this, I'd just take her stuff in the middle of the night and move on. The problem is, her dad was loaded. Like Bill Gates. Like Chad Robuckle before he lost all his family money when ColecoVision went bust.

Now, how do you keep your girlfriend but get rid of her kid? I know what you're thinking and normally I'd be right with you, buying my first class ticket on the murder train, but I recently had some heat on me from the fuzz so I had to play it cool. This had to be real subtle.

Well, I thought to myself, what kind of mother doesn't have any kids? An unfit mother, that's who.

Like I said, this bitc--- Candy! That was her name! Anyway, Candy was practically mother of the year. I couldn't just slap this shithead around and blame it on her, nobody would buy it. But if I was out of town and he started showing up with all sorts of bruises and he couldn't explain why he had them, well that was another story, indeed.

Luckily for me, I had befriended a certain sack of shit with numerous heart problems, who will go nameless. Let's just call him "Eric Filipkowski" for the sake of convenience. Anyway, Eric Filipkowski was on like 50 different drugs to control his blood pressure and whatever, so he wouldn't have a heart attack in case he looked in the mirror and thought he saw a skeleton.

One of the drugs Eric Filipkowski was (is?) on is a blood thinner that prevents clotting. Perfect. I swipe it, replace it with Tic Tacs, slip some of this crap into Skippy's chocolate milk, he goes to baseball practice and blammo!

So I go to Thailand on some "business" and while I'm taking my pick of 15 year old prostitutes, poor ol' Skippy does all the work for me.

Simple, right?

Well, unfortunately for everyone involved (but mostly me), I guess I gave the kid too much, cuz he ends up in the hospital and now Candy has to explain why her son nearly bled to death, internally.

Since suspect numero uno was safely out of the country at the time watching a couple of trannies have sex with a midget in a Superman costume, the blame falls directly on poor, sweet Candy.

When they analyzed the kid's blood while he was in that coma, obviously they found the huge amounts of Eric Filipkowski's blood-thinner drug inside. Thankfully, I didn't realize it's actually a common ingredient in rat poison and basically available to anyone, so they didn't think to connect the dots and tie it back to me.

So, long story short, they throw Candy in the klink and when Skippy wakes up in the hospital, they tell him he's being shipped off to live with a foster family or something.

The worst part is, I return from my trip with a scorching case of syphillus and nowhere to crash.

Actually, the worst part is I had to dump 10 g's worth of some pretty sweet H in a Bangkok Airport bathroom because I was tripping on really bad mescaline and thought I was being followed by an invisible robot who could read my thoughts, but that's neither here nor there.

So there you have it. Lesson learned. Now you guys can join Doctor Thompson and her lesbian lover as you laugh at my misfortune. Great. I hope you're proud of yourselves.

Now, on to number sixteen and the time I switched out that blind dude's t-shirts with ones that had swastikas on them.

Hollywood fucks me again!

2006-02-23T18:09:00.000-08:00

Well, you did it again, you stupid asshole city.

You may have seen the trailers for this new movie, Aquamarine. It's some sort of teen comedy about a mermaid or something, I don't know.

That's right, a mermaid.

I had that idea! Nobody has ever done a mermaid movie before. They totally stole my idea.

I know you're sitting there going, "what about The Little Mermaid? that's about mermaids!"

WRONG

That movie is about fathers and daughters and the relationship dynamic between the two. MY movie is about mermaids.

My movie is about a man who falls off a boat and almost drowns but he's saved by a mermaid and falls in love with her. He goes to live in her mermaid village but then sneaks off in the middle of the night, after bangin' her, to go enter the glamorous world of competition deep diving.

Because she's made out with him and given him gills or whatever, he kicks ass and sets all sorts of new records and becomes a media darling. Meanwhile, his mermaid girlfriend swims to the Big City to find her true love but unlike in those other movies about mermaids, she doesn't sprout legs or anything and has to drag herself through the streets to look for him.

It all culminates in a big finale where the mayor presents our protagonist with a medal and the keys to the city. In his moment of greatest triumph, he thinks about all he gave up back in Mermaid Town but reassures himself he's made the right decision.

As he prepares to make his big speech, a woman screams, the crowd gasps and the camera pans around to his mermaid girlfriend who is now all shriveled up and dried out as she drags her body the last few feet towards the podium.

He rushes to her side as she draws her last breaths, whispers I love you and dies. Our hero takes his medal and throws it into the crowd in anger, hitting a small child in the face. The camera zooms down from the sky as he looks to the heavens and screams "Noooo!"

Just then, a procession of magic penguins makes its way through the crowd up to the podium. The Magic Penguin King tells our hero that in the name of true love, the penguins will grant him one wish, so that he can be reunited with his mermaid girlfriend. However, they warn him, he'll have to spend the rest of his life under the sea in Mermaid Town.

He thinks it over, passes and then makes out with a much hotter girl who has legs.

Oh, also there's a part with some robots.

So anyway, Hollywood, you can make it up to me. Buy my movie and give me millions of dollars. I figure I deserve since I had heart surgery, plus you already stole my idea for Casablanca.

Today, I met Steve Guttenberg

2006-02-18T00:22:00.000-08:00

Actually, I thought it was him, but it wasn't. Today I went to Disneyland for the first time in 2 years. I had been to Disney World plenty of times (actually, 26 times in 15 months) but it's just not the same.

For the uninitiated, Disney World is not just a bigger version of Disneyland. They are entirely different. I'm not gonna geek out and list the reasons why, but I will just say that I now like Disneyland better.

If you know me, you are aware this is an abrupt, about-face from my earlier position on the subject. Maybe it's the result of certain changes in my life. Maybe it's the heart surgery I went through. Maybe it's 9/11. Maybe it's the fact that if you go to a place 26 times in 15 months you get sick of it.

You want to know the real reason? It's the bread bowls. Namely, the lack of these wonderful inventions at Disney World. Whether this is indicative of greater problems relating to supply and demand, globalization, the internet in modern classrooms or what, I don't know.

All I know is, it's unacceptable that you would pay 60 bucks a day to enter a place that only has plastic recepticles for any soup you would wish to eat.

That, my friends, is a ripoff.

(Oh, and yes that's a picture of me and my cousin on the Buzz Lightyear ride and yes, she's kicking my ass, but then again, every six year old in the joint was kicking my ass. I suck. I had heart surgery, it's not my fault.)

Camera corner: how to...

2006-02-13T10:10:00.000-08:00

If I get one question over and over, it's, "How do you take such good, gosh darn poop pictures, Eric?"

Don't laugh, there's a real art to photographing your own dookie. I had to learn by trial and error, but luckily, you've got my years of expertise to rely on as I show you the way.

First off, let me just say that we are truly living in a golden age of fecal photography. When I was comin' up, you had to lug 20 pounds of bulky camera equipment to the john, every time you wanted to snap off a shot. Nowadays, you just whip out your camera phone and you can zoom off a picture or a real-time streaming video to hundreds of your friends with the push of a button.

So step one is to get yourself a camera phone. Which leads me to the most misunderstood part of the whole operation: what do you do with the toilet paper?

If your crap is pretty hard, it's easy: you just stand up and take the shot, sit back down and wipe up. That's fine for some people, but I go to Taco Bell at least 4 times a week. The best way to ruin a picture is to have some toilet paper floating around in the bowl when you take it.

In some (rare) instances, it can add to the composition, but as a rule of thumb, it's a no-no. The site of a big, brown log in the middle of a white, porcelain bowl is truly a magnificent thing to behold. Don't let people (women) make you feel ashamed: this is something to be proud of. You're not a fecalphiliac. Poop is funny and pictures of poop are goddam hilarious.

So the problem becomes, what to do with the toilet paper? This is where some advanced planning comes in handy. Bring a bag. I would recommend plastic over paper or cloth and I would check it for holes by blowing in it, closing off the top and seeing if it stays inflated.

Once you've got your bag, it's only a matter of wiping up and depositing the toilet paper in the bag, and continuing with the procedure detailed above (see: "if your poop is hard").

If you're in a "fuck you" kind of mood, you can always just leave the bag, opened, in a trashcan or even on the floor. Sometimes if I'm at the gym, I'll just shove it in a locker because I feel like they're ripping me off, charging me sixty bucks so I can go on a treadmill for 45 minutes each month.

If you're not feeling like a dick, or it's your house or something, tie that fucker up tight (this is where the previous integrity check will come in handy) and take that shitty stuff out to the dumpster. Oh, and by the way, I think this is all technically a 'felony' or something, because I guess poop in a bag is a bio-hazard, so this whole article is for entertainment purposes only and whatnot.

Just kidding. Not about the felony part, but fuck it, what's the point of living if you can't have a good time, right? That's what I say.

Finally, once you've taken your picture, you're gonna want to show it off to people. That's understandable. But in today's modern society, some people feel like they have to put up this front like, "oh, that's so gross" or "I feel like a weirdo looking at someone else's shit." That's all bullshit. People want to see it, no matter what they say, so sometimes you have to trick them.

If you trick somebody, you've taken the control out of their hands and they are free to enjoy your wonderful photographs and not feel guilty that they actually wanted to see it. Basically, you're giving them an "out". They can say to themselves, "Gee, I didn't really want to see this, I was tricked into it, I'm normal. I love my wife and my 2 kids and I'm not some sick pervert. Let's go watch "According to Jim" and drink low-carb beer." It's sad, really.

That said, the easiest way to trick someone is to rename the picture "flowers.jpg" or "bigboobs.gif" or whatever. My advice is to avoid the word "poop" anywhere in the title. It really doesn't matter what you name it, you can tailor the name to your audience. Don't worry, it won't change the content. A lot of people think that if they take "poop.jpg" and change it to "bunny.jpg" their beautiful poop picture will turn into a rabbit or something, but this just isn't the case.

So in summation, I've given you the basics so you won't fuck things up, but I really feel like the rest is up to your individual preferences. Some people are attracted to diarrhea’s "gross out" factor. Maybe you're just looking to brag to your friends about a giant, foot long monster you squeezed out, it's really up to you.

The important thing with poop pictures, just like with life, is to have fun with it. So go have some fun!

My greatest "hits"!

2006-02-09T22:23:00.000-08:00

Here is what I consider my best work, condensed into an easy to follow set of links! Imagine that! There are so many of them, not because I'm egotistical, but rather because I'm indecisive. And egotistical. If there's any you like that aren't up here, feel free to email me and let me know. Thanks!

The Revenge - A boy gets revenge on his parents for reasons unknown to the author.

Pickles the dog - A story loosely based on the time I tried to pay a girl to make out with her brother at my birthday.

The fish who couldn't swim - A fish who couldn't swim. Duh.

Dear Grandma - A cute little letter I wrote to my grandmother when I was younger.

My trip to Subway - I stand up for my beliefs in alternative condiments and I get a glimpse of a secret, tiny world.

Meet Mary Raptorapper - An imaginary friend and her unusual job. I don't know why I never wrote another story about her, I guess there are just no good roles for women in Hollywood.

Craig's List find of the day! - I make a fake Craigslist ad involving tattoos or something.

Jimbo hates the Olive Garden - A boy who hates the Olive Garden and almost commits murder because of it.

Roger Stubbins: American Patriot - A story about a boy and his lion. It sounds like something Chad Robuckle would write, but it's not. I wrote it. It's all true. (Also republished here.)

Ironically, literary editor caught mis-using the term, "ironically" - Don't let this happen to you!

These knuckleheads at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru are really starting to cheese me off! - A guy gets pushed too far and takes the law into his own hands.

The time I fucked Kelly Clarkson - Yeah, it's true. I did it.

The spectacles party - My mom attempts to make me feel better about being different.

You want a piece of this? - A criminal's letter to the old woman he victimized. Or is it vice-versa?

The new "what 'chu talkin' 'bout, Willis?" - I really thought this putdown would catch on.

Clueless movie review - King Kong - I review a movie I never saw.

The worst thing that happened in 2005 - I miss out on watching a movie at Disney World. No, I don't think I'm over-reacting.

Ms. Pacman speaks out against abortion - Who knew video games were so political?

My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation - The harrowing, true tale of the day my life was shattered. *warning - graphic content*

Girlfriend insurance - I get sexist for a change and explain the phenomenon that is sweeping the country.

My telegram to Jesus - A tribute to the passing of the telegram.

Camera corner: how to... - Some tips on taking great pictures of something.

Why I love clowns (Koko) - This is a story I wrote for my girlfriend while I should have been entering a contest.

My new ad campaign - I decide to give up comedy and do something productive with my life.

I invented a new day! - I invent a new day and luckily, have the foresight to register its domain name.

My broken heart - No, not another story about my operation and how everyone should feel sorry for me. This is a true story about my attempt to make the woman I love stay with me forever.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce' - Because nobody writes fake news stories, especially ones involving racial issues, I decided to be a hero the nation and the world and take on that responsibility.

Letters to home - A chronicle of my journey into manhood.

Podcasting by numbers - Why I love bald eagle egg omelettes.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government - I come clean.

Cunt - I use the c-word and get all "political".

How Lucky lost his leg - The true story of how my three-legged dog went from being a four-legged dog to a three-legged dog.

The Ray Bans - A story about a man and his sick aunt. Sounds like a Chad Robuckle story, but it's not. Cuz I changed the names.

Here are links to stories involving my imaginary friends.

Chad Robuckle

Chad Robuckle: imaginary "friend" - My introduction to my imaginary friend who may or may not have raped someone.

Look what I found - Chad Robuckle's letter to Mythbusters.

Chad Robuckle's Dad - Hopefully, this will explain why Chad is the way he is.

A completely original work of fiction - Chad Robuckle (doesn't) learn the lesson of the boy who cried wolf.

The early bird gets the worm - How I met Chad Robuckle.

Fish Killer - Chad's love of animals backfires.

The adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms - Chad goes on an epic quest for adventure. People die.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle - Chad wins a contest and makes an enemy of a recording artist and 70's icon.

Number 17 - Our friend Chad recalls the 17th worst thing he ever did. Needless to say, kids get orphaned.

Terry Bradshaw and me - by Chad Robuckle - Chad's brush with celebrity.

The Bachelor Party - Chad decides to have one last hurrah for his friend.

Immigrants gone wild - by Chad Robuckle - Chad sheds some light on a side of the immigration debate that many people may have overlooked.

The Assassination Factory - A heartwarming tale of a boy and his mother.

The time I lost my way - by Chad Robuckle - Chad talks about a turning point in his life.

Tucker McGrath

The worst thing I ever did - The time I convinced my other imaginary friend to tell his parents he was gay.

My note to the tooth fairy - How I found out the tooth fairy isn't real.

From the desk of Tucker McGrath - Tucker takes it upon himself to turn the tables on criminals.

Rob Wagman

The time I won a ventriloquism contest - Here's a heart-warming tale of a boy and his dummy.

A true story! - Some childhood pranks go wrong.

Apparently, I'm a dangerous psycho

2006-02-06T14:48:00.000-08:00

It's true. I have a violent temper. I am irrational and angry. I lash out at people when I am hurt. I take everything personally.

How else to explain the way some women walk on egg shells around me?

I am speaking, specifically, of women I've shown an interest in who then go and get a boyfriend. They seem to have a way of becoming distant and evasive with me.

This runs the gamut from "serious girlfriends" who plan on breaking up with me for months while pretending everything is great and simultaneously seeing other people behind my back to "casual acquaintances" I've never even met in real life and only talked to online who I may have confessed to having some sort of crush on.

Maybe women do this to all guys, perhaps I'm over-reacting. Afterall, I do take everything personally.

I can see why it might be a difficult subject to broach. I wouldn't want to say to someone, "hey, I know at one point it looked like we might have something, but now I've found someone else and I really like them, so I can't continue having feelings for you like that, but I'd still like to be friends with you (or not)."

Actually, when you (I) put it like that, it doesn't sound so bad. Afterall, we're all adults here, right?

Then again, that could just be my violent temper or my irrational way of looking at things.

No, I don't think I'm over-reacting and no, I don't think this is asking too much. If you don't want to talk to me because you don't like me, that's fine. If you're worried your new boyfriend will get mad or you just don't want to deal with it, that's up to you too.

Seriously, if you're my friend, have the courtesy to tell me what's going on. If you don't, then I just feel stupid. If you're trying not to hurt my feelings, ask yourself would YOU rather be a little hurt from the truth or rather be lied to and ignored and kept in the dark about what's going on?

Because eventually these things come out. You might think your best friend is going to keep your secrets, but apparently you did something to piss her off. Or maybe she just has a big mouth.

And remember: I'm dangerous. I'm very, very dangerous. You don't want to piss me off even more, do you? I hear that I'm angry and like to lash out at people when they hurt me.

Sure, I have an aortic aneurysm and I'm under doctor's orders not to exert myself or lift more than ten pounds but I could probably poke you pretty hard! And though I can't really yell too well, I could berate you in a moderately loud tone of voice!

Ooh, scary!

Actually, I've got a better idea. I'll just write a really passive-aggressive blog about it, instead, knowing full well you're probably going to read it.

And then when you write me an angry email or call me up, I'll deny it's about you and try and make you feel kind of self-centered for thinking it was.

But it is.

My telegram to Jesus (Re-post)

2006-02-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

In honor of Western Union discontinuing their telegram service, I am reposting this blog from my early years. It really takes me back to a more innocent time, kind of like the telegram itself.

Enjoy!

Dear Jesus stop

Last night you took Biscuit away stop

I'm not sure why you did this stop

Maybe you are mad at me stop

Teacher says we aren't meant to know your reasons stop

But I can't help wondering if it was something I did stop

Or if I had done something different, maybe Biscuit wouldn't be gone now stop

Jesus, I can't stop crying stop

I know I should be happy that Biscuit is with you in Heaven stop

But I miss her so much stop

I know it's childish to blame myself, I'm not the reason Biscuit is gone stop

It's not fair, Jesus stop I am so mad at you right now stop

I know that is wrong of me, but I can't help it stop

If you love me and you love Biscuit, why did you make her dead stop

When you killed Nana, I didn't cry even though she gave me five dollars stop

But I really love Biscuit, Jesus stop

She was cute and playful and didn't smell like Aspercream stop

Sometimes she would bark too much but then I would choke her and she would stop stop

But this time you made her stop for good when I was choking her stop

You are a bad man, Jesus stop

Maybe I won't go to Heaven cuz I am mad at you stop

But I don't want to be your friend anymore stop

You killed Biscuit stop You are a murderer stop

Stop killing dogs, Jesus stop

Some of them are very loved by their owners stop

They are not old and smelly like Nanas stop

That is all stop

Please write back stop

Eric Filipkowski, age 7 stop

I am a bad blogger.

2006-02-01T15:33:00.000-08:00

So I just moved back to LA and haven't written anything in over a week. I feel like a total loser. I'd like to say there's been nothing going on in the world, but that's not really true. I remember there was something about the Supreme Court, the President said something and a bunch of people got shot.

Anyway, here is a digest for what's been going on in my world.

Last Friday, I flew out to LA from my parent's place in Florida. I flew first class because I am still too fragile to deal with the stress of trying to get the emergency exit row seats. Plus, I don't actually meet the requirements. When you're 6'5" and your legs smash up against the seat in front of you before the person even reclines, you can't really fly coach without the emergency exit row. I'm not being a baby, it's physically impossible.

The flight was nice, first class is good but it's hardly the rockstar experience you might think. In my opinion, that should be the base level of service. I wasn't drinking so I couldn't take advantage of that. But I did get too pretty decent meals and plenty of ginger ale. But most importantly, I didn't have my fucking legs smashed in and get a blod clot and die. Which is always a plus.

Friday night I hung out with Pickles, Yury, Bordo and Violet, which was cool. These are all people I had seen a month earlier so it wasn't the "holy shit, you're alive" moment you might have expected.

Saturday, I went to the Garage Comedy Film Festival, where my group, Animals From the Future, had our short, Imagination Safari, played in the festival. Mel was also there and it was good to see him. I got to meet his girl too, which was nice. It was cool, I got to see a lot of my friends and it was fun seeing something I wrote and worked on up on the big screen. Me and Bordo went and I saw my friends, Joe, Amy, Aaron, B, Marcos and their friend whose name I forgot. Lili and David showed up too, which was cool. I owe Justin a gift basket.

Sunday, I hung out with Bordo again... I'm not sure what else. I think I got my car washed. Oh, and I took my first class at UCB. The two alexes are in my class, Todd and Matt are in the other one. I also saw Lindsay. After class, I went to the bell and got some food and ate it over at my cousin Siobhan's house. She was pretty busy with her grad school though. It was still good to see her. I took that picture with her camera phone.

Monday, I was very productive. I took my car in (like a big boy) and scheduled appointments and such. That night, I went to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater and watched two harold groups, which were really great and then half of the Myspace show, which was good too, but I got sick and had to leave early. I saw Ed and EJ there.

Tuesday was also productive. I met with my agents and they seemed glad to see me. Hopefully I can book some commercials and make everyone some money. I also saw my doctor and got the ball rolling on some follow-up visits and tests with my other doctors, which I need to get out of the way. Then, I went to be on David's radio show, which was great. I think it went really well. After that, we all went out to dinner.

Today I was really lazy, I'm just getting up and about now and it's four. I'd like to blame this on the time zones, but I went the wrong way to do that. I'm just a bum. Tonight I am going to see my friend Kirk's show, that should be cool. I'm gonna try to head over to IO to see Trophy Wife, the harold group my friends Tim and Zabeth are in.

That's about it, I am really upset that they don't have McRib's at McDonald's.

Hmm, this is why I don't generally "blog" about my everyday life. It's pretty damn boring. Unless you know these people I'm talking about, or are one of these people, I doubt you're even still reading this. This just proves my point that reality sucks and it's better to live in a fantasy world of your own creation. Hopefully I will get back to that soon so you won't fall asleep half-way through reading my blog.

Thank you for your support, it's good to be back in LA, though I miss my parents and my cat and my free-wheeling lifestyle I had grown accustomed to in Florida.

My name is Eric Filipkowski and I was a victim of child molestation

2006-01-22T12:09:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's true. Before this moment, there were 3, maybe 4 people who knew the truth. Two of them were professional therapists. My parents didn't even know.

I was molested. I was raped.

God, you can't believe how good it feels for me to say that. For 17 years, I've had that horrible secret bottled up inside of me and now it's out. It's gone.

Up until now, I haven't been able to move on. Not completely. There was always a part of me that was the same, scared little boy who had his innocence ripped from his grasp, so many years ago.

I feel that part of the healing process is to tell my story, but I warn you, it's very graphic. If this kind of thing bothers you, I implore you not to read any further. It doesn't make you less of a friend and I really do appreciate you listening so far. I wouldn't be at this place I'm at now, where I am healthy enough to stop blaming myself for what happened, without you, my friends whom I love so much. Thank you.

OK, well if you're still reading, hold on, cuz it's a bumpy ride.

My story starts when I was just 13 years old. I was a happy kid. I had friends and I did well in school. I remember feeling like I was standing on the edge of a world with limitless possibilities. I truly believed that I could do anything I put my mind to. But that was all about to change.

My attacker was older than me, around 20. She was about 5'11", maybe 120 pounds at most. One of my few clear memories of the incident involves me staring at her enormous 34DD breasts through my tears and wondering how a woman that skinny could have such large breasts.

I know a few of you are probably snickering right now. You think a horny, 13 year old boy would love to have sex with an insanely beautiful 20 year old college sorority girl who worked as a topless dancer on the weekends to help pay her tuition and you would be right. But that doesn't change the fact that I was raped. You should be ashamed of yourself. I was a child.

If things were different and I was a 13 year old girl getting molested by that gorgeous 20 year old stripper, would it still be sexy to you?

Yeah, I didn't think so. You didn't think of it like that. Nobody does.

They say most victims of sexual assault know their attackers and this was true in my case. Who she was and how I knew her aren't important. I'll leave it at "she was a family friend." She was home for the holidays for a few days before she went to a regional gymnastics competition.

My parents had a Christmas party and she snuck up to my room where I was sleeping, safe in my bed.

I remember the faint aroma of alcohol on her breath as she kissed me awake. If you've ever wondered why I don't drink, well, now you know.

I sat perfectly still as she got under the covers and removed my boxers. If you're wondering why I didn't yell out for help, let me point out that it's easy for you to say, safe in your home, staring at your computer screen. I was terrified. I literally couldn't move a (voluntary) muscle.

She took me into her mouth for close to half an hour. The first time I orgasmed, I thought it would end. She got her sick thrill from raping this sweet, young boy and now she would be on her way. "OK, that was terrible, but I've survived."

But I was wrong. So very wrong. Every time I came, she'd just swallow it or shoot it all over her face or naked breasts. After the seventh time, everything seemed to blur together. I lost track of time. I think this was a self-defense mechanism.

Finally, her voracious appetite for my semen seemingly satiated, she ceased her aggressive felating. I told myself that this wasn't happening to me, I was somewhere else right now, this couldn't be real. I was snapped back to reality when she informed me that this nightmare was not over yet. Though her voice was sweet and sexy, her threat to "fuck my brains out" was taken very seriously by yours truly.

As we repeatedly engaged in hot, steamy sex in every imaginable position, I began to pray to God. I had never been a religious person but I felt that if there was a God out there, he needed to hear my prayers and help me.

Well if there is a God, he's a sick bastard, because he cursed me with an erection that just wouldn't go away. No matter how many times either of us climaxed, my phallus was paralyzed. All the prayers in the world wouldn't make it go away as she raped me repeatedly. The most humiliating part of the experience was her affinity for "doggie-style" sex. I pounded away at her from behind until we were both, quite literally, sore from the effort.

I thought that perhaps her screams of intense pleasure would alert someone downstairs at the party, but the revelry was simply too raucous. When you're having a good time with your friends, celebrating the holiday season, you never imagine that such an awful crime could be committed in your own home at the very same time. I don't blame you, mom and dad. I did, for a very long time. But I have forgiven you. I love you both. You weren't the best parents a kid could have, not by a long shot, but you did your best. Well, you tried to do your best. You'd think that one of you would have checked on me at least once during that party, but no--

No, forget it. It's over. It's done.

Anyway, after what seemed like hours, but which was only 3 or 4 hours in reality, she kissed me on the cheek, got out of bed, put her clothes on and walked out of my room and my life forever. To add to the humiliation, she left with me a casually tossed off "Merry Christmas" as she closed the door. Once she was gone, I immediately burst into tears.

I didn't sleep much that night, even though I was exhausted emotionally and physically. I felt dirty and sat down on the floor of the shower, sobbing. The warm water cascading over my body, taking away some of the physical evidence but none of the deep hurt I felt inside.

I tried to go on with my life as normal after that, but it was impossible not to associate the sex I had with thousands of other women to the traumatic experience I had gone through as a child.

Some might read this and say this is all just an invention in my mind and they could very well be right. I'm not going to sit here and say it's not wishful thinking and a complete fabrication from someone who never came within sixteen feet of a real naked woman until he was in college, but that doesn't mean I'm not a victim.

So if you see me some day casually making comments about rape or child molestation, maybe you'll think twice before you jump down my throat about it. Because when someone has been through what I have (or more likely have not been through), sometimes the only way they can deal with it is through humor.

Thank you for listening, I wish you all the best.

The Adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms

2006-01-20T14:19:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, Chad Robuckle used to love to play this game called "Wealthy Industrialist". It wasn't so much a "game" as it was an excuse for Chad to dress up in his father's suit, put on a fake moustache and try and scam old people out of their money.

I'm not proud of the fact that I tagged along with him on many of these occasions. In fact, not only was I a "criminal witness" to these crimes, but I actually could have been branded a "felony accomplice," in some cases. But like Chad says, the statute of limitations has long since passed on anything we've done, at least from that period of time, so I feel like I can finally share these awful secrets.

Chad's parents would leave him alone for weeks, sometimes even months, as they went globe-trotting all over the world on one of their lavish vacations, so I spent a lot of time at his house. It was paradise for a 12 year old: no adult supervision, all the cable channels, a pool table and an absent father with a monumental-sized porno collection.

Inevitably, Chad would get bored and start looking for some excitement. That year, his brand of excitement was playing wealthy industrialist. Now, of course, a 12 year old boy with a fake moustache does not look anything like a wealthy industrialist. What the hell is a wealthy industrialist anyway? What kind of 12 year old kid gets his kicks pretending to be J.P. Morgan? The kind who kept his stash of baseball cards tucked away in the back of his closet, underneath some stolen uranium he got from the nuclear plant that they closed down.

The kind named Chad Robuckle.

Luckily for Chad, the primary target of his game (or scam) was the elderly. If you've ever been to Florida, you know old people can't see too well, so I guess it's not too surprising that they usually didn't catch on. That last sentence was confusing, I was just trying to make the experience relatable, not imply this took place in Florida.

So one day, we pull up to the local senior center in Mr. Robuckle's Ferrari and me and "Arthur Q. Pennybottoms" step out of the car to try our luck with the bingo crowd.

Arthur Q. Pennybottoms may have been short and ill-fitted to his suit and his fake moustache might have moved around way too much, but he sure was able to walk into a room and find a mark.

We sat down next to some rich dowager and immediately he starts with the sweet talk. This lady had one of those fake glass eyes that didn't quite focus on you when she was talking to you. I kinda got this vibe that she used to be really hot, so his attention probably took her back to a better time, before her grandson threw a firecracker at her face, or whatever.

He starts in with his usual rap, he's Arthur Q. Pennybottoms, wealthy industrialist. He had this whole script he would follow though he claimed to improvise and tailor what he was saying to each individual "player". He told her he had made millions in soybeans and now spent most of his time traveling the world in his yacht. Which would explain why he was in the middle of Connecticut at a senior center playing bingo, but whatever.

By the time we're done having dinner at Sizzler, we've invested a good six hours in this broad. I'm bored out of my fucking skull. She's telling us stories about FDR and doing the Charleston and god knows what else. Chad, excuse me, Arthur is acting like he's eating it all up, he couldn't be more fascinated and on her side of things, she probably hasn't had anyone listen to a word she's said in 20 years. What's the harm, right? Well, I'm getting to that.

Finally, Arthur decides that the three of us, Mabel, I think her name was, him and me, his personal attorney, Jerry Leibowitzstein, should all go back to her place for some warm milk. I thought we were off the hook, because at first she looked pretty offended but then she patted her arm and called him a sly dog.

I don't know if you've ever ridden in a 1988 Ferrari Testarossa, but if you have, you know there's no back seat. There's barely a trunk, so I really just wanted to go home, at this point. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, ran over to the pay phone and called Mr. Robuckle's cell phone, which we brought along to make it seem more plausible that I was lawyer. Well, I run back to the table to answer the phone and pretend to have a serious conversation. I tell Arthur that, unfortunately, we're going to have to cut the evening's festivities short, because I have pressing business back at the law firm.

Well what does ol' Arthur do? He tells her that I'm a liar and I'm not even a lawyer. As I'm sitting there, this kid has the balls to tell this old woman that he feels sorry for me, because I'm not as successful as he is, so he lets me pretend to be a lawyer because I'm jealous of him. He apologizes profusely on my behalf and tells her that we'll bid her adieu right now, so embarrassed he is by my behavior.

Of course, this only works to play into his favor even more, because she laughs the whole thing off and insists we both come back to her place now. As I'm sitting there, squatting over the hump in the middle of the 3 inch space behind the seats, she tells him that she has many friends who are jealous of her, as well and that people like me should be pitied and not judged too harshly because the poor didn't have the advantages of a moral upbringing like the moneyed classes.

I know what you're thinking, but at this point, I'm keeping my mouth shut just to see how far this whole charade is gonna go.

Well we get back to her place and of course it smells like moth balls and Aspercream, but at this point, I'm pretty used to that. Arthur called it "the scent of money". No wait, it was Chad. Let me reiterate that both these kids were loaded. He had a $1500/month allowance when we were in sixth grade, so he didn't need this money at all, he just liked to rip people off.

Arthur isn't through the door more than 2 minutes before they start making out. I took this as my cue to start searching the bedroom for loot. I found the usual crap: stock, bonds, jewels, pearls, shit like that. Nothing too interesting. If he wanted any of that, he could get it for himself. I wasn't a thief.

As I was about to leave, though, I spotted a wall safe poking out from behind an old portrait of this lady's great-granddaughter. For some reason, the picture was painted while she was dressed up for a 1920's theme party. Anyway, I put the painting on the bed and take a shot at the combo.

I try the old standby: 61 19 26.

Bingo! First try! Matlock's birthday. I'd need the hands of five people to count the number of times I opened an old person's safe by knowing Andy Griffith was born June 1st, 1926.

Well I peek inside and there's nothing staring back at me but a curled up piece of old parchment. I pull it out of the safe and carefully roll it out on the bed.

A pirate map.

Is she kidding? What hell is an old lady doing with a pirate map? Nowadays, I would have ripped it up and put it back in the safe with a note telling her not to be a fucking moron, but you have to understand this was a different time. We were just a few short years out from the Goonies, at this point, so the lure of a pirate map in the hands of a 12 year old boy was just too great to resist.

I snuck out the door unnoticed while Arthur was busy fumbling with this old woman's enormous bra/girdle contraption and ran the few blocks back to Chad's house. Luckily, I knew his parents were one of the few people back then to have their own Xerox machine, so I made a couple copies of the map, ran back to the old folk's home and returned the map before anyone had a chance to notice. There were clothes all over the floor in a trail to the bathroom and I could hear the two of them splashing around behind the closed door, so I figured I wouldn't be missed.

I went back to Chad's house to examine the copies in greater detail. I knew enough to make sure to copy both sides and scoured them all for clues. Around 3 am, Chad showed up with a smile and a big bag of goodies. He actually seemed pleased that he didn't have to steal anything this time, seeing as the old woman handed over anything he wanted. I wouldn't attribute that to relief on his part, for avoiding any criminal activity (besides the obvious fraud and statutory rape), but rather because now he would spend the next few hours bragging about how great he was in bed, going into way too much detail about his exploits.

I told him to shut the hell up and showed him the map to which he made a big show of producing the original from his satchel of booty. My annoyance was quickly forgotten as he launched into the story behind the map. Apparently, it had been a family heirloom stolen from a pirate captain by the Spanish back in 1655. The map lead to a cave on a remote island in the Bahamas that was said to hold a magic lamp.

Sounded like a bunch of bullshit for me, but I was gonna say so. Not when I knew I was getting a free trip to the Bahamas out of it.

We boarded the Robuckle's personal Gulfstream III. We took the Gulfstream III because the family's main jet, the Gulfstream IV was taking Mr. and Mrs. Robuckle to a Japanese island at the time, so we got what Chad referred to as "the filthy leftovers".

As we took off, he spent quite an amount of time mocking the wide leather captain's chairs we were sitting in. Apparently the ones in the other jet had heat and massage, these only had massage. Chad was so angry at his parents that when he got sick on all the Dom Perignon we were drinking, he threw up all over his parent's private bedroom.

I started to yell at him but he assured me there were three other cabins available and we would be landing in a few hours anyway.

So we got to Nassau and our charter boat was waiting to take us to the Island. In addition to the crew of six, Chad had hired a local to follow us around and be our manservant. I guess this guy had a regular name but Chad liked to call his manservants "Jub Jub". At first he objected to the moniker, but five hundred dollars in cash tends to smooth things over quickly. Jub Jub it was.

I asked Chad if Jub Jub was a sentimental thing, because he always called these people he would hire to carry his bags and spare bowler hats "Jub Jub". No, he explained, it was simply more humiliating that way. Touché.

After a few days on the yacht, Captain Chad finally located the island in the exact spot the crew had told me it would be, but he wanted to get there on his own, without anyone's help, save that of the US Coast Guard and the $40,000 satellite navigation system the boat had.

We set down anchor in a harbor and me, Chad and Jub Jub got in a dinghy and headed for shore.

Immediately, Jub Jub started asking for more money as Chad had brought a considerable amount of crap ashore with him and expected this 120 pound man to carry it all. Chad told Jub Jub to quit whining, threw another wad of hundreds at his feet and we were off.

We walked around the island for a while, it wasn't that big. I didn't see any cave, though Chad kept referring to the map and his portable GPS while insisting it was just around the corner. There really was no "corner" to speak of, it was just a small island. I think it may have actually been an "atoll", I'm not sure.

You might be reading this and thought to yourself, "Chad Robuckle had a portable GPS device in 1988? That sounds like bullshit to me." You might think that only the military had access to things like that back then and you'd be right. They were also the only ones with submarines and jet-packs. So when Chad threw a fit and demanded something like that, that’s where his parents went: the military. But good eye, nonetheless.

Finally, after a few hours of searching and several fainting spells by Jub Jub, we were ready to take a break. The sun was beating down pretty hard and though he was holding an umbrella to block the sun from Chad's face, Jub Jub was pretty tired and couldn't hold up his arm that well. Chad was pretty annoyed with the whole thing and took his anger out on Jub Jub.

Jub Jub was pretty pissed off too and threatened to walk. As Chad took out his wallet, Jub Jub told him to shove his money up his ass. No amount of money was worth the humiliation and hardship he had suffered.

Chad tried to reason with him, pointing out that not only was Jub Jub hundreds of miles from home on a deserted island, he was hundreds of mils from home on a deserted island with two 12 year old white American boys with active imaginations and a working knowledge of Bahaman sodomy laws. This seemed to work.

We took refuge under a palm tree and Jub Jub went about laying out our picnic lunch, but after that many hours in the sun, our cucumber finger sandwiches didn't taste too well. Chad started chucking them at a giant tortoise that was lumbering past us, maybe 20 yards away. One of the sandwiches took a weird bounce and disappeared from sight.

Chad and I looked at each other in disbelief. Could it be? We ran over to the spot where the sandwich had disappeared and there it was: the cave! It was little more than a 2 foot wide hole in the ground, but it was a cave, nonetheless.

Chad clapped his hands twice in rapid succession and summoned Jub Jub. He was to lower himself into the cave first, to make sure it was safe. Well, it wasn't.

From the darkness, we heard Jub Jub scream out in pain. Apparently the floor of the cave was covered in sea anemones and Chad had demanded Jub Jub remove his shoes so as to make sure he didn't crush any of the pearls or valuable gold trinkets with his feet.

We scurried down after him and even in the little light drifting down into the cave we could tell there was blood everywhere. Chad remarked that it was too bad they hadn't brought any morphine, which was a lie. There were three or four bottles of it up with the picnic basket, I think he just didn't want to waste any time going back up to get it.

Chad urged Jub Jub along, promising they would take care of his feet after the treasure was found. I can't help but think that if he hadn't been so eager to find something so he could go back and tend to his horrible wound, he would have easily seen the tripwire that had been laid along the floor of the passage, but he didn't.

Real booby traps aren't like the ones you see in the movies. They're kind of lame. At least these were. The large wooden spike was not even traveling that fast when it pierced poor Jub Jub's abdomen. If his brain had been getting the blood that was instead dripping out of his foot and covering the ground, he would have had the mental wits to dodge it or at least put up his hand to deflect it. That's probably all it would have taken. Like I said, me and Chad easily defeated the next six or seven booby traps we encountered and we were only 12 years old.

As Jub Jub clung to life, we promised him we would find the magic lamp and use it to save him. He gurgled something about not leaving him there alone and that we were a couple of pricks, I'm not sure exactly. Anyway, we raced ahead, merely jumping over the trip wires and walking around the deep pits with spikes in them. We encountered a dead end where there was simply a wall in front of us. We noticed there was some sort of clue or riddle written in Spanish on the wall that I think we were supposed to solve, but instead we just kicked at the bricks until the wall fell down.

And then, we saw it. The magic lamp. I nearly shit myself out of surprise. I was almost as sure of the fact that there was no magic lamp as I was that there would be only two (living) people riding that dinghy back to the yacht that afternoon. I began to question myself, as I often did when I hung around with Chad. Had I misjudged him? Maybe he wasn't so bad, after all. I knew I was lying when I told Jub Jub we would be back to save him with the power of the magic lamp, but Chad had seemed to believe in the lamp all along. Maybe he really meant it?

Chad walked up and carefully pulled the lamp down from its pedestal in the middle of the room. We heard some rocks moving around in a side compartment somewhere but whatever booby trap they had been designed to power, it was had long ago stopped functioning.

He held the lamp up and examined it in the streaks of sunlight that managed to shine through from a mysterious outside light source. He took the lamp in his shirt and lovingly caressed the side of it with the fabric when suddenly, smoke poured forth from its end a giant bald man of Middle Eastern origin appeared out of nowhere.

I shit you not, it was a fucking genie. He launched into some big spiel about how he was the seventh son of Agra bah, king of Arabia, and he had been entombed in this magic lamp for sixteen centuries, yadda yadda yadda. Apparently, Chad sensed the urgency of the situation and told him to shut the hell up. He cut to the chase and asked if we were getting a wish or not. The genie said that we did indeed get one wish that he would grant with his magical powers, not three like we were thinking we were entitled to. I'm sure if there had been more time, Chad would have wished him back in the lamp until we got three wishes or a million wishes or better yet, infinity wishes, but like I said, time was of the essence.

Chad looked at me and gave a sigh. He told me he knew what he had to do. I had never seen Chad so serious in his life, but this was a big moment for him. He was about to do the one unselfish thing he had ever done in his whole life.

Or so I thought.

When we got back to the yacht, some of the crew members inquired about Jub Jub, but Chad threw some cash at them and said he wasn't familiar with anyone named Jub Jub. They seemed to catch his drift and didn't bring it up again. For my part, I didn't speak to Chad til we were back on American soil and I knew he couldn't strand me in some foreign country to explain to the local police and Jub Jub's widow what had happened.

I was fed up. Sure, I laughed when Jub Jub cut his foot in the cave, but murder was something else. And that's what it was to me: murder. Chad had the power to save someone's life, but instead, he used his one wish on himself. Not only that, he wished for something so ridiculous and stupid, I can barely repeat it. If he had wished for a giant penis or the power of flight or something like that, at least I wouldn't have been that surprised. But to let a man die just because you want the ability to tell which celebrities are secretly gay? That's just plain awful.

Of course, eventually I forgave him. He agreed to send Jub Jub's widow a letter explaining what happened on the island and where she would be able to find his corpse. I made him put in some stuff about how he was a great guy and he died valiantly, saving some babies who were trapped down in the cave. Chad didn't like that but he knew I was seriously pissed about it, so he did it.

In the end, I think I've come to terms with the fact that Chad will always be my best friend. More than a best friend, he's like family to me. Not in the hokey sense, of "you're my brother and I'd do anything for you", but in the real way. You can't choose your family. They may be terrible murderers who cheat old women out of their retirement savings and laugh hysterically when a man's stomach is punctured by a sharp wooden spike, but they're family.

Chad Robuckle is my family. Sure, Jub Jub had a family too: a wife, six kids and several infirm old relatives he took care of, but he wasn't my family. And while I'm sad he's gone, you've gotta look out for your own family, not some immigrants who you barely know.

Buy my t-shirt

2006-01-16T13:29:00.000-08:00

OK, I admit it. I bought a "vote for pedro" t-shirt. In my defense, though, it wasn't for me. It was a gift.

Well then I went to this website and they pointed out that there are 8 million websites trying to profit off the success of "Lazy Sunday" already and I just lost it.

Oh, you've got some cupcakes on a shirt? And it says, "Snack Attack Mutha Fucka"? Just like in the song? Oh man, that's great. That's so clever. You know, that was kinda funny when I saw it the first time, on the show, but you wearing it on a shirt? That's hilarious!

What's that, you tell me? You've got another shirt with Chuck Norris on it? And it says his tears cure cancer or he can karate chop a pigeon in mid-flight and turn it into two seperate pigeons without the pigeons even knowing? That's awesome!

Oh look! Here's one with Mr. T! Do you want one with the Smurfs? Or Alf! Remember Alf? He's back. In t-shirt form.

Yes, I know I just ripped off the Simpsons, but I don't care.

The point is, this shit has got to stop. Do you think I like being this cranky? Well I don't. Sorta.

In some ways, this is a good thing because it makes it that much easier to spot morons walking down the street. But in a different way, it's terrible.

I know you think you're the first person to like the Snorks. I believe you when you tell me, "No dude, you don't understand, I loved that shit back in the day and I never really stopped liking them, I was just looking for this shirt for a long time, that's all, everyone else is jumping on the bandwagon, but not me." I believe you, I do. You're the only one. Except, of course, for the people who made that shirt. And the other 50,000 people who bought one, but besides them, you're the only one.

Maybe I'm full of shit. Maybe people just like to buy these shirts cuz they think they look cool, not because they're trying to make a statement about their originality or individuality. I have a shirt that says, "tastes like chicken" written in 70's block lettering. Doesn't that make me just as bad?

No, it doesn't. Shut up.

Let me tell you why: first of all, I am smart and you are stupid. Every reason you have for why I'm wrong, I've already thought it up. Second, all joking aside, this is a serious problem.

People really do think this is what passes for humor these days. Look at Robot Chicken or for that matter, anything on Adult Swim that isn't Family Guy or Futurama.

80% of those shows you think are "totally awesome" are nothing more than some guy saying, "Hey, remember these obscure cartoon characters from your past? Well we're gonna change them and make them have sex with each other and talk about poop and stuff."

And as far as "web comedy" goes, that's even worse. Sure, the G.I. Joe PSA's were funny. The Shining trailer? That was amusing. You dubbing new words over some lame TV show from the 70's? Not so much.

The point of something being a "cult classic" is that nobody got the joke the first time around. If you know it's a cult classic when you're making it, or worse yet, that's what you're aiming for, the results will predictably be terrible.

Wet, Hot, American Summer? That's a cult classic. It was a huge flop when it came out. It's a great movie and it's hilarious but you saying, "Hey JJ, save me a waffle" makes me want to kill you.

I mentioned Family Guy, which I love, but the new episodes can't compare to the first three seasons. Now, it's just painfully obvious that they write these episodes, fully aware that they're looking for Stewie's new catchphrase. Which is why the Simpsons is now unwatchable. I knew that show had lost it when they did a whole episode about Ralph.

God! This is why I drink. It's not your mother, though she's the one I take it out on, but it's really you. You're the reason. Cuz you're stupid and you make me embarassed that you carry half of my genes. Now go to your room before I tell your grandmother what you wrote on your Myspace profile.

The Andrew McCarthy Award

2006-01-16T09:04:00.000-08:00

The 17th Annual Andrew McCarthy Award for Excellence in the Field of "Nobody Gives a Shit" goes to this guy, Leyan Lo, who set a new world's record for solving a Rubik's Cube in the fastest amount of time, just 11.13 seconds.

That's right, just 11.13 seconds! That's pretty fast. The last time I picked one of those up, I would play with that sucker for hours and only get one or two sides.

Of course, I was like 7 at the time.

Hey, I hate the 80's as much as anyone does, especially this recent "80's resurgence" that's been going on, but still, this is pretty fucking stupid. Read the article, it's ridiculous. Here are some quotes that I liked because they don't make any sense.

Leyan Lo is part of Caltech's Rubik's Cube Club, a student group that hosted the competition at the Exploratorium museum in San Francisco.

Cal Tech? Isn't that like a real school? If this was my kid, I'd have him invent a time machine so I could go back in time and give my wife an abortion.

His time of 11.13 seconds broke the previous record of 11.75 seconds, set by Frenchman Jean Pons at the Dutch Open competition last year.

Not to get all "elitist" and "macho", but any "sport" dominated by the French that doesn't involve the speed in which you can hand over the keys to the city to the Germans isn't a real sport.

Lo went up against the teenager widely considered the fastest Rubik's Cube solver on the planet -- Shotaro "Macky" Makisumi, a 15-year-old from Pasadena.

Ditto if a 15 year old can be considered the best. A 15 year old named "Macky".

"I don't know. Faster first two layers," he surmised, referring to solving the first two layers of the cube's colored tiles before moving on to the last.

What?

For his victory, Makisumi won a Rubik's Snake puzzle, one of several variations of the basic cube which has sold more than 100 million worldwide, according to the manufacturer.

All he won was another puzzle? Basically a toy? And what they forgot to include in that statistic is the fact that 99,574,283 of those Rubik's Cubes are now clogging up landfills.

In other news, my eye doctor hates me.

Once again...

2006-01-11T20:38:00.000-08:00

Once again, I have predicted the future/had my jokes stolen.

I shit you not, on March 28, 2004, I wrote a sketch about a pregnant woman getting pulled over by a cop for driving in the car pool lane and arguing the ticket on the grounds that if abortion is murder and fetuses are just people then she should count as two occupants in a vehicle.

Well, it happened.

I'm not saying it's good or it's funny but it did happen in real life and that's gotta count for something.

So buy me my fucking iPod already.

Buy me this!

2006-01-08T21:26:00.000-08:00

Come on, do it!

I'll be your best friend! I'll take my top off! You can see my scars!

It's the special edition Harry Potter iPod that comes loaded with all six audiobooks!

You know how much I love Harry Potter!

It's only $548.00! You can totally afford that. You've got that new job and all.

You did miss my birthday and Christmas. And that's ok, I didn't say anything cuz I was out of town and I knew you were busy, but now...

Look, I hate to even bring this up, but you owe me. I kept my mouth shut for a long time and now it's time for you to return the favor..

What? Whoa! Who said anything about extortion? DON'T TELL ME NOT TO GET LOUD.

Oh, so now I'm embarassing you? You're embarassed? Well I'd hate to make a scene in front of all your hotshot, phony, Hollywood-player friends. God forbid I upset Bob Seger or Steve Guttenberg!

You know what? Fuck it. I don't even want it now. No, don't even bother. Seriously, I'll throw it out. Fine, I'll donate it to a needy kid or someone with cancer. I'm serious.

I'm over it. I'm over you.

If you see me walking by and the tears are in my eyes, look away
Baby, look away.

I hate Carly Simon - By Chad Robuckle

2006-01-04T13:05:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody, Chad here, sorry I haven't written in a while. I had this phony worker's comp claim going and my crooked, Jew lawyer told me it wasn't a good idea to be posting blogs if I was gonna say I couldn't work cuz of my carpal tunnel. Anyway, some shithead ratted me out and now that I'm not getting any more free money, I'm back here on Eric's blog to bring the occasional bright spot to this douchebag's otherwise dreary collection of anecdotes.

In case you didn't know, I hate working. I've always hated working, which brings me to the subject of today's lesson. Back when I was 24, my scam was entering sweepstakes. I had recently gotten fired from this job I had at IBM after only a few days because I "padded" my resume a little bit and said I knew how to work with computers. Well, I kept my key card and what I would do is sneak back in there, late at night and use their bulk mail stamp machine to send out tens of thousands of sweepstakes entries for free. It didn't cost me a dime cuz I had also stolen all the envelopes and paper and pens too.

Normally, I'd just win little crap here and there; gift certificates, lame-ass 3 day cruises, stuff like that, but I did hit it big once. I won the "Always Stay-Free Maxi Plus Carly Simon is My Mom For-A-Week Sweepstakes". I was stoked even though I didn't know who the hell this broad was, but then someone showed me one of her records and she looked hot.

Well unfortunately for ol' Chad Robuckle, here, the album I was shown was from 1971 or something cuz this bitch was old! She opens the door and my jaw drops down to the floor, landing right next to her boobs.

I make nice for a while but she seems pretty pissed off that I don't know any of her music. Give me a break, I'm not a hundred years old, right? She's naming off these songs and I'm looking at her with a blank look, it was pretty funny. So to be nice and mostly get her off my fucking back, I pretend like I've heard of a few. "Oh yeah, that one about that guy, that was good," I said. I think she sang backup for Beethoven or someone, I’m not sure.

Well that didn't work for very long because then she starts hassling me about putting my shoes on her couch or something. I told her, "Lady, this contest is a joke, you're not really my mom so stop giving me static. If you want to do some mom-stuff, go make me a sandwich."

So next thing I know, she's on the phone with her manager or the tampon company or something telling them that I'm being incredibly rude and she wants me removed from her home and whatnot. Oh yeah, I had also called her a "stupid cunt", I forgot that part.

Unfortunately for her, she had signed some contract that made her legally bound to let me stay. Boy was she pissed! I was actually gonna leave anyway, cuz it was so boring, but once I heard her on the phone talking shit about me, I made it my mission to piss her off.

I figured, I'm supposed to be her son, so why not act like it? What do kids do? They breastfeed. Surprise, surprise, she wasn't down for that. Those milk sacks dried up 50 years ago, anyway, I know that. I was just busting her balls.

No matter how funny my antics were to a normal person, this stuck-up whore just couldn't appreciate them. I can understand her being sore when I let her dog out and it got run over but how was I supposed to know it wasn't allowed to go outside? It kept yappin' so I figured it wanted to go out and play. Seems like a fair assessment of the situation, no? I'm not used to living in New York City where there's cars everywhere. Jeez, you'd think she'd give me a break.

And I also don't blame her for being mad when I took those pictures of her taking a dump. Oh wait, she wasn't mad cuz she doesn't know about that. Never mind.

But what I can't understand is how when someone wins a contest where they get to pretend that you're their mother, you get mad at them for doing normal kid things. Normal kid things like shitting yourself while lying on a $15,000 couch because you're too lazy to get up and besides, you're watching TV and you don't want to miss anything. Kids shit themselves all the time. If you're going to have a child, don't go and blow 15 grand on a couch. It's just common sense that you should furnish your house in a more kid-friendly manner.

Here I am, trying to watch Access Hollywood and she's yelling at me, saying I ruined her couch and her life. I told her that if she spent less time yelling and more time cleaning me up like someone with decent parenting skills would do, then her couch would still be ruined, but I would feel a whole lot more comfortable. Plus I could finish watching my show.

I guess this struck a nerve with her or something, cuz she totally stopped yelling and sat down on the couch next to me and started sobbing. I wasn't really sure what to do in that situation so I turned the volume up and pretended not to notice. Soon it was no use, as she started hugging me and shit.

"Thank you, thank you so much, Chad Robuckle!" This was probably the last thing I expected her to say to me.

It turns out, she had a lot of guilt about being on the road when her kids were little or something, I wasn't really paying attention. There was definitely something in there about me opening up her eyes about being too materialistic... I don't know, it was all a bunch of garbage.

If this was all just a big trick to get me to leave, it worked. When she went in the kitchen to get us some wine so we could talk some more about her problems, I made a run for it, only realizing once I got to the elevator that I was still wearing the pants I had just soiled myself in, half an hour earlier. But I wasn't gonna go back in there and to be honest, I've done worse things in my life than walk a few blocks in some shit-stained trousers.

So I got home, changed my pants, unplugged the phone and wondered what the hell was up with women, anyways? Here I had been a total dick to this old bag and she was acting like she was in love with me. Go figure.

And if anybody needs any tampons, my whole bedroom closet is filled with them, so just come over and grab a few cases, if you want.

Girlfriend insurance

2006-01-03T19:25:00.000-08:00

You see that picture? That's my hot friend Dizzles and her hot mother, Pati.

That right there is what I like to call "Girlfriend Insurance".

Let me explain: you ever see a hot chick and then meet her mom and her mom is all fat and not hot at all? And you think, "What the fuck? How the hell did that happen?" You might even wonder if your friend is adopted. Either way, you probably don't give it a second thought.

But you should.

Cuz what you're looking at there, my friends, is the future.

Like it or not, chicks turn into their mothers. It happens to all of them. Yes, every single one. I can't explain it, I'm not a scientist or nothing. I didn't go to college and I don't even know how to read or write. I have to dictate these blogs to my helper monkey, Alfonse. I'm an idiot, happy now? Send me bananas.

You're probably thinking, "nah, not my girlfriend!" or maybe you don't give a shit because you're not planning on sticking around more than a few months anyway, but if you ARE and you DO (give a shit), trust me, it's gonna happen.

Perhaps you're not super-shallow like me. Perhaps you think I'm an asshole. You could even be one of those people who thinks the world is flat and the sun revolves around the earth. Maybe you think ice cream grows on trees in the middle of Cotton Candy Forest behind Jellybean Mountain. I don't know.

Look, we're getting off the point here. I'm trying to help you people but all you wanna do is crucify me for thinking it's OK to punch a midget if he's dressed up like a baby. It's like my Nana always said, "You've got pudding pop juice all over your sweater and you're asking Grandma if you can borrow her Jet-Ski? Wake up, boy! The world ain't gonna change your diapers for you unless your poop is made of gold!"

And that old bitch was right.

My friend Dizzles is hot and she is guaranteed to stay hot because her mom is hot. That's called "Girlfriend Insurance". I mean shit, look at them! I honestly can't tell which one is hotter. Don't make me pick. Besides, we're not here to talk about whether or not I've thought about these two making out with each other in a hot tub. Because I have. And I only said "making out" cuz my mom reads this blog and I don't want any boyfriends or fathers kicking my ass.

What the hell was my point? Jesus Christ, I don't even remember. Go Red Sox?

The most offensive thing I have ever seen

2006-01-01T08:14:00.000-08:00

If you're on my myspace page, maybe you noticed a bulletin I posted, entitled, "omg!!! this is AWESOME!!!" which you can read here.

Well, I've gotten a few complaints and mostly people agreeing with my implicit assertion that this is completely moronic, but here I will address the complaints.

I got this forward from my friend's 13 year old daughter, so I'm not gonna fault her for anything, because she probably just thought it was funny. Well it's clear she thought it was "AWESOME!!!"

Adults, however, should know better.

Why do I find this so offensive? Because I do, find it offensive, that is. I'm offended that somebody could write this and think this is a valid point or even a half-way reasonable argument to make. Let me be clear: it is not. It is moronic on so many levels that it boggles the mind that somebody could believe this yet still possess the mental agility to operate a computer, access the internet and spread these lies like a virus.

First of all, the overall message is the usual "Christians are being persecuted for their beliefs" bullshit we're all sick of hearing. I know you'd love nothing more than for the apocalypse to be just around the corner so you can hang out with Jesus and his pals instead of us heathens and Jews, but I've got news for you: you're not being persecuted.

Jesus was persecuted. Christians in the Stalinist Soviet Union were persecuted. People not wanting you to pray or teach about God in public schools is not persecution. You're not dying for your beliefs. Believe me, I wish you were, just as much as you do.

If you want prayer in school, there's a simple solution: GO TO A CHRISTIAN SCHOOL. It's that simple. There's plenty of them and they'd be glad to have you. Usually they are quite affordable and give out financial aid and scholarships to those who qualify.

This persecution complex rears its ugly head most obviously in the fact that this is clearly a fabricated example. There's no "Tommy", there's no "Little Girl" and there's no fucking teacher in the whole country who could get away with teaching a lesson like that.

Why's that, you ask?

Because the example cited in this letter is ILLEGAL. That's right. As illegal as it is for a teacher to teach about God in a public school, that goes both ways. The teacher can't say if God is real and the teacher can't say if God is not real. That's up for each individual child's family to decide and teach in their own time.

And you better believe that if one of these little bastards came home and told their parents, "Mommy, teacher said there's no God!", they would make a big fucking deal about it. And they should. Because it's not the teacher's place. There would be protests and lawsuits and action would be taken. In the make-believe world of this letter, however, only the brave little girl, with her faith in God, has the strength to stand up to the horrors of Atheism.

Ugh, that in itself is another lie. Implicitly, if you don't want prayer and God in public schools it's because you're an atheist. Of course, most reasonable religious people understand that public schools are a place for learning about things like math and science and English. They know that God is something that should be taught in church, or Sunday school or in the home. Like music or art. Or gym.

And it's not just because some people are Jewish and some people are Muslim and some people don't believe in God and you have to cater to their whims. Even if every single person was Christian and believed the exact same thing (again, completely made up), school is not the place to teach these beliefs. You go to school to learn how to be a productive member of society and not merely a stereotype for the whole rest of the world to laugh at and hate.

My other big point is the obvious flaw in the logic of the little girl's argument. I feel silly even addressing this, so I will be brief. Simply put, if the little girl were to split open the teacher's head, either literally or by using a CT Scan or MRI machine (what? science? that's the devil!), she and Tommy and the rest of the non-existant, make-believe class would be able to SEE the teacher's brain. Of course, it is not yet possible to split open the clouds and see God, but maybe one day, with advances in Bible Science being the way they are, we might get to that point.

OK, I'm sick of thinking about this but if I still haven't convinced you, then good luck with your job at the cracker factory. Because, seriously, ha ha, this is all really funny and maybe I'm getting worked up about nothing, but this kind of thinking breeds ignorance and ignorance leads to hate.

Maybe you've clicked on the other link I put up. You see, that's a real example. That's not made up, like this stupid letter. But they have a lot in common. They both have the message that if you don't believe in God, you are against "us". You are trying to hurt "us". It's hatred and it's ugly and it substitutes something disgusting for the love of God.

So don't be a fucking moron. I'd rather read a hundred surveys or unfunny jokes wrongly attributed to Mark Twain or Andy Rooney than this crap. Happy New Year.

Clueless Movie Review - King Kong

2005-12-31T10:37:00.000-08:00

(0 Stars) Let me just say that this movie SUCKED BALLS.

Let me also say that I haven't seen it yet, but that's hardly important. I made a vow that I wouldn't go and see it unless the monkey lives at the end. I heard he doesn't. So I know at least one filthy Australian who won't be getting my 9 bucks: Jesse Jackson.

As much as I enjoyed the Lord of the Rings and his other movie the Chronicle (What? LOL) of Narnia, I am giving a big thumbs down to King Kong. Look, I saw the original and that thing sucked too. Those special effects were awful, they looked like they were straight out of the 1930's or something. And black and white? That's so over-played. "Hey, I've got some artsy fartsy movie about the Holocaust or Frankenstein and I think it'll make it more interesting if I do it in black and white." WRONG.

Parlor tricks and film-school pretensions do not a blockbuster make. From what I've seen in the previews, this movie is just a big ripoff of the Steve Spielberg classic, "Jurassic Parks 1 and 2". Dinosaurs? Please, didn't Barney take the wind out of the "T-Rex as evil-doer" convention once and for all? Plus I could totally see the zipper for the guy's monkey suit.

The one bright spot of this movie, humor-wise, seems to be the hilarious savages who inhabit Monkey Island. I laughed my ass off at these coconut heads. Ooga booga, indeed!

Sure, I'll probably break down and RENT this movie sometime next year, because I've never been one to keep up my promises or follow-through on my convictions but I'm only going to see it because I'm sure that Tenacious D must do a song in it, at some point cuz I saw that their lead singer is in this. I'd just love to see those guys do a nifty, swingin' jazz number with flappers and men in fur coats proclaiming "23 skidoo!" as they fall to their death on the Chrysler Building.

And speaking of "Rent", that movie looks great! I saw a preview of that too where some puppets sing a song about AIDS and it looked pretty good, you could barely see the strings.

On a personal note, I want to wish everyone an early Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all my Jew friends.

If a bear shits in the woods...

2005-12-30T19:52:00.000-08:00

I'm not really sure how to end that. Anyway, have you seen these fucking commercials? Anybody? Anybody? It's a family of animated bears hawking Charmin toilet paper.

I know taking a dump is a delicate issue in this country and the commercials need to dance around the fact that they're advertising paper you wipe on your ass to clean up fecal matter, but let's fucking grow up here.

IT'S POOP. EVERYBODY DOES IT. THERE'S EVEN A BOOK THAT ATTESTS TO THAT FACT.

Yet they still feel the need to call it "toilet tissue" as if your ass is sneezing or something. What the fuck?

So you get these commercials where cartoon characters with no genitals or even an ass crack talk about shitting in the woods. Apparently it's ok (even cute) if animals do it.

The result is (to normal people) much, much worse than the truth. You get a teenage bear gleefully pulling on a roll of tp with reckless abandon saying "I'm gonna need all this!"

Am I the only one who thinks that's gross? In case you missed it, the bear is saying, "I'm gonna take an enormous shit!" And don't bears take like 15 pound poops? How is this better than someone coming out and being honest and saying "our toilet paper feels soft when you're wiping your ass?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not all for the awful, gory details. I'm glad the liquid they use in tampon commercial demonstrations is blue. I don't want to see people actually taking a dump but I also don't want to see cartoon bears doing it either. Toilet paper is all basically the same anyway. Why do they need to advertise for this?

And continuing my trend of throwing in random thoughts that don't have anything to do with the main point of my blog, next time you're bitching about paying 14 bucks for a ticket at the Arclight, think of me, sitting in the dark in a shitty theater in Florida trying to watch Harry Potter while some spoiled dipshit keeps kicking the back of my chair and some old geezer has the whole movie explained to him by his 400 year old wife in a normal speaking voice. Uh oh, my kid has to go to the bathroom, better announce it loudly to the rest of the theater, after all, Eric COULD ALMOST HEAR THE FUCKING MOVIE FOR THREE SECONDS.

Ok, I'm done.

Worst band ever - the Barenaked Ladies

2005-12-30T09:55:00.000-08:00

Seriously, they suck. You might not even realize it because you probably haven't even thought about them in seven years or so, but they do. I haven't even heard that much of their music but what I have heard is so god-awful, that even if the rest was on par with the Beatles, it still wouldn't cancel out all the horrible musical energy these douchebags have created.

Now I'm not one to back up my wild accusations with "facts" or "reasonable arguments" but consider this:

The Barenaked Ladies are from Canada.

Yeah, that's right. APOLOGY ACCEPTED. Has Canada ever put out any good music? To answer this question with anything but "No" immediately labels you as a retard.

"But what about Celine Dion?" - if you're anyone but someone's 50 year old mother, you're either 600 pounds or Harvey Firestein.

"Rush is good, though" - you are 35 and live at home with your parents (and not because you had heart surgery).

"Are you kidding? Bryan Adams is awesom--- OW, THAT HURTS, WHY ARE YOU BEATING ME ABOUT THE HEAD, NECK, FACE AND CHEST???"

And that's it. There is no other Canadian music. Since I have proven that all Canadian music is horrible, beyond a reasonable doubt, the Barenaked Ladies must also be horrible.

Oh sure, I could point out that the only people who like the Barenaked Ladies are usually women who are less than "asthetically pleasing". I guess they think, "hey, that lead singer is kinda fat too, I bet he wouldn't mind this water park innertube I call a mid-section." But I'm not gonna do that.

I'm also not going to point out that they're the only people in the world who don't realize they're in a joke band. I saw an interview with these clowns where they were talking about how they want to be taken as serious musicians. They had written a song about one of their friends who died or something and they started getting choked up. I couldn't believe it. If I had been interviewing these goons, I would have slapped them and said, "Hey dickbags, you're one step down from Dr. Demento. Weird Al has more street cred than you. Now shut the hell up and go be the opening act for Carrot Top."

This is off-topic, but I also realized why women go back and sleep with their loser ex-boyfriends: It's so they can have sex without raising their total number of people they've slept with! I'm so proud of myself for figuring that out I just had to add it into this blog even thought it has nothing to do with the Barenaked Ladies, who suck.

So in summation, the Barenaked Ladies are the worst band ever and if you like them, there's something wrong with you and you should probably get a lobotomy or something like that. I know that mainstream psychiatry doesn't really do those anymore but I'm sure you could find some back alley abortionist or crack addict who would.

And hockey sucks too.

Homeless people should give me money

2005-12-29T18:24:00.000-08:00

Today I found out I most likely won't be getting any more disability. I was counting on this money to support me while I got re-settled back in LA but the doctor who decided I was fine to go back to work before he even examined me decided that wasn't in the cards.

So now here is where I stand:

No job.
No income.
No place to live.
$250,000 in medical debt (yes, that's after insurance)

250 grand. That's how much I owe. And it's probably 240,000 dollars more than my entire net worth.

I am looking forward to getting back to LA because there are no homeless people in Florida. At least not in my parent's development. Why, you ask? Cuz I can't wait to zing one of them. I've got it all planned out.

Homeless guy: Give me some money.

Me: No, you give ME some money.

Homeless guy: Why should I give you money, fancy pants? I'm homeless.

Me: Yeah, you're at zero.

Homeless guy: Your point?

Me: I'm $250,000 in debt. I need 250 grand to be at zero.

Homeless guy: Yeah, but you should be thankful you're alive and you have friends and family who love you and support you.

Me: Shut up and let me feel sorry for myself.

The worst thing that happened in 2005

2005-12-27T14:45:00.000-08:00

Looking back at 2005, I see a lot of hardships but I have a lot to be thankful for. You would probably think I would list "aortic arch reconstruction surgery" as the worst thing that happened to me this year, but you would be wrong.

Ironically, the worst thing that happened to me in 2005 occurred at Disneyworld. You might recall I referred to Disneyworld as "self-actualization" camp, but even I didn't know how prophetic that would be. I thought I was going there to merely live my dreams. Little did I know, I would be forced to re-examine my whole life and endure a painful process of rebirth and reinvention that would ultimately culminate in a whole new Eric Filipkowski.

The incident I speak of that sparked all this soul-searching took place at EPCOT. A theme park unlike any other. Where the future meets the cultures of the world at a giant Christmas tree underneath a gleaming monorail.

I was on day seven of my journey. I had spent 3 or 4 days at EPCOT already at this point and had seen pretty much everything. I said pretty much. Remember that, it will be important.

So anyway, I was there with Bordo, Violet and Yury and we were all pretty tired at that point. I remember the exact time. It was 6:58 pm on Sunday, December 18. We had been around to most of the countries and Yury and Bordo had ridden Mission: Space. They had gotten a Fastpass ticket to return to Test Track at 8:05 pm so we were killing time in Future World so they could ride that, right at their allotted time and then we could all run over to Japan for our 8:45 dinner reservation at the Teppanyaki Dining Room.

Anyway, we were outside the Imagination Pavilion and I thought, "Great, let's all go watch 'Honey, I Shrunk the Audience' before Test Track." Seemed like a good plan, no? Well, my "friends" decided they would take a "smoke break" before we watched the movie, in what would ultimately prove to be a fatal error.

You see, most of the pavilions in Future World close at 7 pm. I think you see where this is going. They keep the big rides open til closing but "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience" is no longer quite as popular as it used to be. So while my nicotine-addict friends were getting their "fix", I strolled up to the entrance and was informed that the ride was now closed. If they had been with me, the guy would have snuck us in for the very last viewing, but of course, they were hundreds of feet away at the designated smoking area in front of the Land.

Now I know what you're thinking, I could have gone in alone. But I didn't go to self-actualization camp to ride all the rides by myself. Well, actually I did, but that all took place on Cartmanland Wednesday. Sunday was a time for friends to hang out together and experience things as a group. Apparently the only group they had in mind was the one where you all get lung cancer.

I walked away, dejected and ran into my friends. "Let's go watch the movie!" they said. I kept walking, right past them.

"Where are you going?" they asked, confused.

"Forget it, it's too late." I said.

They called after me and I was forced to explain the situation to them. I had missed "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience". I was devastated. I knew at that moment how alone I truly was in the world. How alone we all are. I thought I could count on my friends but they had let me down. Apparently my dreams weren't important to them. Not as important as getting cancer, anyway.

There are a million what-ifs that run through my brain as I try, in vain, to fall asleep each night. I attempt to comfort myself with the thought that I can go watch "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience" at Disneyland when I get back to California, but it's not the same. It doesn't have the terrible ten minute Kodak Commerical/Pre-show featuring those awful kids singing "True Colors" by Cindy Lauper.

And sure, I could just have gone to see it the next day or go with my family when I return to Disneyworld in January, but that's not really the point, is it? The point is I went to Disneyworld to realize my true self. And sadly, I did.

My true self is not the carefree, swingin' free spirit, beloved by all. Generous of spirit, sound of body and mind. I know this is how you all see me, but it's a charade.

I am a sad, lonely, broken man who has come to realize that life is meaningless and that we are all alone in this world and that even at the Greatest Place on Earth, we can be betrayed by the ones we trust the most. Sold out for some simple pleasures of the lining of the lungs.

Well guess what, world? You win. Fuck you. I give up. I'll get my three-piece suit and my 9 to 5 job on Wall Street. The house, the wife, the kids. The entry-level European luxury sports sedan with x-Drive and On Star standard for the first 3 years.

Are you happy now? Cuz I don't even know what that word means anymore.

I'm broken and this time the best surgeons in the world couln't rip open my chest and fix me again.

I hate the music industry

2005-12-26T20:51:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone had a good christmas and whatnot. I haven't blogged in a while so here's a half-assed entry.

Read this. It makes me irate.

Isn't that the worst? What a bunch of fucking jerks. Seriously, they can suck it. I wish people were still downloading music illegally so that these assholes would get put out of business forever.

I mean, come on, how much money do these pricks need? Six figures for some stupid song to play for five seconds in a goddam tv show? What the hell is that? This is why I didn't buy a cd for three years. As it is, I only buy music on itunes now. I don't know if this really helps anything but even if I'm just stiffing the record companies out of a few bucks, even if it's only in my own mind, then I'll do it.

Dear music industry: I hope you get cancer and your dick falls off.

OK, I'm done.

My report from self-actualization camp

2005-12-17T10:57:00.000-08:00

Hi everybody, I'm having fun at camp. it's raining today, so I'm online. pickles just left, bordo, violet and yury should be here soon. just three days left. so far everything has been great, I've been on every ride (I can ride) at least once. had some great dinners all over the resort. saw the fireworks from the top of the contemporary resort hotel. me and pickles rented mini speedboats and took those out. I even got to ride in the front of the monorail and got a special co-pilots' license. I am seriously thinking about changing my career path. anyway, I have some pictures up on my disney blog, so check them out if you get a chance.

So long, jerkass!

2005-12-11T09:15:00.000-08:00

In case you're at work and you're wondering why I haven't been constantly harassing you via instant messenger, it's because I'm not home. I'm at self-actualization camp. You may know it by its alternate name, "Disneyworld". For the uninitiated, this is the one in Florida.

Finally, after a year of being held down by the world and punched in the nuts, I am grabbing life by the horns and living my dreams. I will be at Disneyworld for a week, staying at the Port Orleans Riverside Resort.

During this time, I will be visited by several of my friends. I'll be going up to Orlando on Monday with my mom. Then Fresh Pickles will arrive on Thursday morning. That night, we'll attend Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. That should be fun, they have free cocoa.

Saturday, Pickles leaves and is replaced by my friends, Bordo, Violet and my Russian Jew Lawyer, Yury.

Tuesday is when I check out of the hotel, but I won't be going to the parks, I'll be going somewhere else on Monday. Maybe home. We'll see.

So all in all, it should be a fun time. My only concern is that it will be crowded. If you've ever seen the South Park called "Cartmanland" then you pretty much know my opinion on long lines.

So anyway, I'll be back online December 20th, at the latest, so chillax. I know you miss me but daddy has to do this. It's not that he doesn't love you very much, but mommy is fat and ugly and daddy needs to be with some women who are hot. So shut the hell up.

Why can't you be happy for me? I'm living my dreams!

I'm so lazy

2005-12-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

I don't know if I'll ever write another short story again. Ever since I've discovered I'm a super talented artist, all I want to do is draw cartoons.

In case you haven't checked it out yet, I have a new website, www.imnottalented.com. And yes, that title is meant to be ironic, but you'll soon see that for yourself.

Writing is hard work. It sometimes takes me upwards of 45 minutes to an hour to write a short story. That's a lot of typing. And thinking.

Cartoons, on the other hand, are easy. A monkey could do this shit, it's so simple. At least when you're artistic like me. Maybe they're hard for other people but I'm really good. I hate to use the term 'genius' but if the "really talented at art" shoe fits...

I know people make a big deal about comic books and shit like that but seriously, this is kid's stuff. I should know, I'm the best.

God, this is what I mean, writing is hard. How many times do I have to state that I am quite simply, the best artist who ever lived in the world ever before you stupid, untalented people will get it through your thick, unartistic skulls?

You make me sick, but unfortunately you're not even fit to clean up my puke. You just wouldn't "get it".

R.I.P.

2005-12-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

Why I'm not in LA yet

2005-12-08T00:49:00.000-08:00

This one is a repost from my new cartoon site, I'm Not Talented, dedicated to my friend, Lindsay Stidham.

Click to enlarge. Comments please!

By (un)popular demand...

2005-12-07T22:02:00.000-08:00

Here's my second web cartoon. This one is about my friend Lauren Ashpole.

Click to enlarge! Comments are welcome, as always.

Ms. Pacman Speaks Out Against Abortion

2005-12-05T08:30:00.000-08:00

PACLAND – Former 80’s video game icon and Born Again Christian, Ms. Pacman, has come out in favor of a constitutional ban on abortion.

“I think it’s murder, plain and simple,” she said to a small gathering of reporters outside her home in suburban Pacland.

Ms. Pacman made headlines in the eighties with her outrageous behavior and numerous run-ins with the law. She split from longtime companion, Pacman, and was rumored to have been pregnant with his child at some point in time. There was even speculation that her termination of the pregnancy was a contributing factor in the split. Ms. Pacman confirmed these rumors, admitting that she did have an abortion.

“It’s true, I’m a baby-killer,” an emotional Ms. Pacman stated, “but I, with help from the Love of Jesus, have come to see the error of my ways. Millions of innocent children are being butchered each year and I intend to put a stop to it. I urge this administration not to cave to the pressures of the liberal, Jewish-controlled media and stand up for what they and the majority of decent, God-fearing Americans believe: that abortion is wrong!”

When reached for comment, Pacman seemed to dismiss Ms. Pacman’s statements as just another ploy for attention. “S—t, that b—ch is crazy. Yeah, I knocked her up. Then she found out I was cheating on her with Winky the Ghost and to “get back at me”, she goes and has an abortion. Where was her Jesus then? My guess is she’s probably looking for money.”

This is not the first time Ms. Pacman and abortion have made the news. In the early 90’s, Ms. Pacman came forward with allegation that the ghosts she made millions of dollars devouring in front of her adoring fans were actually the lost souls of aborted fetuses, though, at the time, she was highly in favor of this practice.

Now Ms. Pacman seemed particularly repentant about her earlier actions. “Killing babies is wrong, but eating their souls is even worse. That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. I only hope those poor little devils are at peace, somewhere inside my stomach or intestinal region. Or if they’ve been pooped out, hopefully they are swimming freely with the dolphins in the ocean. But if they aren’t—“

Ms. Pacman was then urged to stop speaking by her lawyer.

The White House had no comment on her statements.

Give me a dollar

2005-11-30T07:08:00.000-08:00

I've invented a new salutation.

"Give me a dollar".

Instead of saying "hi" or "what's up?" when you greet your chum, just say "give me a dollar".

That's what I do. I think now that it's the go-go 80's and everybody is obsessed with money and greed, what better way to keep your finger on the pulse of the zeitgeist than by cutting right to the chase and telling your friends what you really want from them?

If you're like me, you're too busy Jazzercising and doing coke to waste time with pleasantries. I want to make my first million before I'm 31 and I've gotta get my ass into some Dockers, get down to the office and start trading junk bonds on my Apple IIe.

That means speed, efficiency and bluntness. "Give me a dollar". So elegant in its simplicity, yet free from the coarseness and vulgarity of "Get out of my way, bitch".

Man, I feel so alive! I just wanna write a novel or help starving children in Africa or re-arrange my whole tape collection. Something, you know?

Bah! This is wasted on you people. You're not even alive. You don't know what I know. You don't see what I see. You're fucking pawns in some pathetic game. It's like a sick joke.

I'm like fucking Jesus Christ here. I try and help you, set you free and how do you repay me? You nail me to a fucking cross. It's the same story throughout history, repeated ad nauseum: Caesar, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr. They try and take people to a whole different level and it blows peoples' minds. The weak get scared when you take them out of their comfort zone.

Fuck it. Enjoy mediocrity, dicks. Like Elton said, "You can't plant me in your penthouse / I'm going back to my plough". But I'll go back, knowing that, at least for a little while, I tried. I took a shot.

Goddamit, will someone shut that fucking baby up?

Jimbo hates the Olive Garden

2005-11-29T14:49:00.000-08:00

"Oh yeah. It's an Olive Garden gift certificate! Great!" Jimbo Stevens feigned a mixture of delight and surprise. For the fifth year in a row, his Aunt Clara had given him a gift certificate to his least favorite restaurant in the world. It's not that Jimbo didn't like the Olive Garden; rather he detested it. He tried not to look too annoyed as he opened his other presents. As he sat with his family, eating birthday cake, his anger grew. Not only had his hands been soiled by that cursed coupon, but his parents had forgotten to get him a pinata again.

After everyone had left, Jimbo went up to his room and fumed. He locked the door, opened a window and lit a cigarette. He was only nine, but his hatred of the Olive Garden had caused him to start many a bad habit, of which smoking was but one. As he puffed on his unfiltered cancer stick, he pulled out a collage from under his bed. In the collage, he had attempted to embody his feelings about the Olive Garden through pictures and words. The remains of four ripped-up Olive Garden gift certificates were scattered throughout. His fifth would help fill in the large unused portion of the upper right corner.

He admired his handiwork. The main theme was Hitler and the devil leading a procession of fat people into a large meat grinder which sat on top of an Olive Garden restaurant. There were also several pictures of his least favorite Aunt in compromising positions with Hitler. He had no way to prove any of his theories, but he knew in his gut the collage spoke the truth.

There was a time when he didn't hate his aunt, in fact he liked her. The same could not be said for the Olive Garden. His parents had taken him there when he was five years old. At first, the idea of limitless salad and breadsticks had been very appealing to him, but soon he saw this for what it was: a ploy to get people filled up so they wouldn't eat their entrees. That night he lay in his race car bed, pondering why a restaurant wouldn't want its customers to eat all their food.

The answer was so simple he kicked himself for not realizing it sooner. The recycling craze that had swept the country in the early 90's had simply followed a natural progression into the food service industry. The Olive Garden was recycling its unused food! It dawned on Jimbo that you would never be able to tell your pasta wasn't fresh under all that heavy cream sauce. He gagged at the thought of paying $7.95 for someone else's leftovers. Still, something troubled him. It seemed problematic that he would be the only person to stumble onto the truth. Surely, greater minds than his had dined at this house of lies and free lemonade refills. He realized the Olive Garden couldn’t be re-serving its food to its regular customers, and the true diabolical motives of the scheme came to light.

Jimbo wasn't sure how it all worked, exactly, but he surmised that the Olive Garden took the uneaten food and sold it to a less discerning clientele: the homeless. "But the homeless haven't got any money, why would the Olive Garden target such an unappealing demographic?" It was true, the homeless didn't have lots of money, but perhaps they paid for their food through different means. The indentured servitude of an army of bagmen was something quite distasteful to Jimbo. He could only guess what multi-national corporations had partaken of the Olive Garden's unkempt workforce. Wherever there was manual labor to be done and no large illegal immigrant population to exploit, the Olive Garden would be there, supplying the country with ditch diggers, toilet cleaners and hazardous waste processors. Jimbo looked around his room and wondered if his own house had been built by secret slave labor. He scoffed at this idea, since his house would have surely collapsed years ago due to the shoddy masonry work he knew the homeless to be famous for.

Jimbo put his collage away and tried to focus on happier thoughts. Tomorrow was his big date. This brought a smile to his face. For months he had tried to win the heart of a special young lady and she had finally agreed to go out with him. He had known her since the first grade but had never dared to share his feelings with her. Now he was an upper-classman, full of confidence in who he was, not only as a fourth-grader, but as a man. Though she was older, he knew she could see past their age difference. She wasn't like the other girls. She was special. He saw it in the way she taught gym class. The care she took with her students. The way she kept her hair short; she wasn't a slave to her vanity, like so many other women. She was unmarried and it pleased him that she wasn't in a rush to find a man, that she had waited for the right guy. She had waited for him.

When she agreed to their date, she had tried to stress to Jimbo that they were only friends, but he knew she was just being coy. She wanted him to respect her and he loved her for this. Between the anti-Olive Garden fervor he had worked himself into and thoughts of his romantic encounter, Jimbo barely slept at all that night. The next day he walked through his school in a daze. He didn't even think about the Olive Garden once! He got home and rushed upstairs to shower and shave. He put on his finest pair of short pants and his mom helped him with his bow tie. There was the customary picture taking and much doting by his mom and his sisters.

Finally, Miss Sappho arrived at his door. She was wearing a nylon tracksuit and sneakers. He tingled with lust; she had worn a brand-new tracksuit just for him! He escorted her to her car and fastened his seat belt. As she started up her 1985 Toyota Corolla, she asked if he had any ideas about where they should go to eat. He told her he didn't care where they went, just as long as they were together. She smiled uncomfortably and pulled her car into traffic. "I was thinking we could go to the Olive Garden, they have free salad and breadsticks. Do you like Italian?"

He begin coughing and choking violently. She patted him on the back and asked if he was all right. After a moment, he composed himself and answered that he was fine. Of course, this was far from the truth. They drove in silence. He couldn't believe the filth that had come out of her mouth. He wanted to vomit. All this time he had thought she was special, that she was different, but she was just like the rest of them! They didn't care if Hitler got rich trading second-hand chicken parmesan to common street people. They didn't care about anything as long as they got their damn salad and breadsticks.

As Miss Sappho maneuvered into a parking spot, Jimbo could hold in his feelings no longer. "How can you eat here? What kind of monster are you?" he shrieked. Miss Sappho just looked at him, shocked and confused. "I really thought I loved you, I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you, and this is how you return my affection?" He had become quite animated. He flailed his arms around as he ranted about the foundation of the whole country being built on a lie. His unfortunate date looked on in horror as this nine year old boy wove together an elaborate story of Nazi restaurateurs utilizing a battalion of homeless workers in a secret plot to take over the world. Clearly he was delusional, if not psychotic. Miss Sappho began to feel genuinely afraid, and in her rush to flee the car, struck her head on the automatic seat belt release, slumping back into her chair, unconscious.

Jimbo tried to revive her, but it was no use. He cursed his misfortune! He looked at her lifeless body and couldn’t help but feel compassion for this beautiful creature. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge her. Surely, over time, she would have come to see the error of her ways. But now it was too late for any of that. With a heavy heart, he lifted her out of the car and dragged her limp body towards the back door of the restaurant. He knocked several times before a timid busboy opened the door. The busboy was shocked to see a nine year old boy dressed up like a fancy lad standing next to an unconscious lesbian in a tracksuit propped up against a dumpster. "Hey man, is she all right?" asked the busboy.

"No, she's not all right. She's dead," replied Jimbo, "and I killed her. But that's not important right now. I need to speak with your manager, quickly. There's no time to explain, just tell him I know all about his little operation here and I don't feel like spending the rest of my life in jail."

"What?" the busboy had only been half-listening. Jimbo rolled his eyes as a man in a short-sleeve shirt and a tie appeared behind the busboy.

"Victor, what's going on out here? Why didn't you clear table seven like I asked?" The manager surveyed the scene before him. "Holy shit. Kid, what's wrong with her?"

Jimbo tried to compose himself. He took a deep breath, paused and spoke in an overly-mannered voice. "Sir, unfortunately, this woman is dead. I am partly to blame for her death. She hit her head after I startled her. However, due to the sensitive nature of the circumstances at hand, I am not in any position to let the system of justice in this country determine my fate. So I come to you now to ask that you have one of your employees help me dispose of the body however you see fit." He peered into the kitchen. "I don't know exactly what goes on here, frankly, it sickens me, but I trust you're well-equipped to handle such a request."

"You want one of my employees to dispose of her body? Kid, are you insane?" asked the manager.

"Hey, it's not gonna be me," said Victor.

"No no, you don't understand. I know what really goes on here,” he winked at the manager in a knowing fashion, “I don't mean your employees in there. I mean the ones out here. Look, there's a bum over there by the liquor store, couldn't you get him to do it?"

"Kid, what the fuck are you talking about? Have you been sniffing the glue? I saw that on Hard Copy. Sniffing? Or snuffing? No wait, huffing? Anyway, I'm gonna go call 911, Victor you stay here."

Miss Sappho had started to come to and was beginning to moan and rub her head. At first, Jimbo was relieved, but he realized too much had already been said, they would have to see this one through.

He would never forget the horrified look in her eyes as he lifted the cinder block over his head. He thought of it often as he looked out the window of his small room. He had lots of time to think now. The two men from the Olive Garden had easily overpowered him when they saw what he was about to do. He never got the chance to dash poor Miss Sappho's brains out. Maybe it was all for the best. His doctor had spent much time trying to disprove his beliefs about the Olive Garden. Sometimes Jimbo found himself believing him, other times he seemed just another cog in a giant wheel of conspiracy. Either way, Jimbo knew one thing for sure: he wasn't going to eat the Jello.

Roger Stubbins: American Patriot

2005-11-27T12:23:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, my family had a pet lion named Roger Stubbins. Roger was a full grown, African male lion and he was very tame and playful. For some reason, people just couldn’t accept the fact that a wild animal like that could be tame and pose no threat to anyone. For fuck’s sake, we’ve got pictures of him carrying me around as a baby in his mouth.

Anyway, people started to complain about Roger and they even went so far as to concoct vicious lies that our lion, who would roam freely throughout the neighborhood, had even killed some old people and a few homeless drifters who had gone missing. Now, this was preposterous, but even if it wasn’t, who the hell cares? How is that a crime? That’s just simply “natural selection” in my book.

So every time Roger would go and maul someone to death, it was the responsibility of my brother and me to go clean out their house of valuables and try and cover up the crime and make it seem like a suicide or something. The plan worked perfectly for a while but as we got to the point where we had done it maybe twenty times or so, we got cocky. We figured we were never gonna get caught and we got sloppy. Plain and simple.

So the cops found some forensic evidence and came to get Roger Stubbins but the joke was on them, as we had already driven him to the state park a few towns over and let him loose. He ran off into the woods without so much as a look back and we never heard from our old pal again but once in a blue moon a hunter would go missing and we just knew it was our buddy Roger, up to his old tricks.

Well that’s not really the point, I’m trying to make here, it’s just a little backstory. The real story was that one time when my brother and I were cleaning out this old lady’s house whom Roger had eaten, I came across a velvet bag taped to the underside of one of her dresser drawers.

The bag said, “Magic Beans” on the side but I figured that was just to throw off robbers.

“Jackpot!” I thought. I turned it over, spilling out the contents into my greedy palm, but instead of the diamonds and rubies I was expecting, some actual beans were all that was inside!

“That fucking bitch!” I exclaimed, drawing upon my third grader’s vocabulary to express my anger. If I could have brought her back to life and killed her again, I would have, such was the rage I felt. I was ready to chuck her precious “magic beans” in the toilet but something in my mind held me back from doing so.

“Why would she go to such lengths to hide them if they weren’t real?” I pondered. At first I just assumed she was a crazy old bat, I mean she must have been if she was stupid enough to get mauled by a ferocious lion roaming freely in a suburban Connecticut neighborhood. Something just wasn’t right though, how could a crazy old lady be intelligent enough to be a professor at a prestigious university for all those years, not to mention, matriarch to a powerfully-connected political family who loved her very much and missed her so when she mysteriously disappeared without a trace?

I pocketed the beanbag and finished washing everything down with the powerful commercial lye we used to eradicate any traces of Roger’s crimes and was on my way.

I completely forgot about those stupid beans until I was emptying my pockets out on laundry day. There was the bag, taunting me: “magic beans”. Suddenly, I felt extremely stupid. If any of my brothers had caught me holding on to such an immature and foolish keepsake, they would have beaten me senseless, not just for being a dim-witted prat, but also for jeopardizing our little money-making operation. This was, after all, material evidence in a murder investigation, not just some stupid magic beans.

I took the beans out of their pouch and threw them out the window. I was so upset with myself, I decided to get drunk and drown my sorrows in some corn liquor. Well, I passed out for nearly 18 hours and when I awoke with the sun the next morning, I hobbled over to the window to draw the shades, my head pounding.

Well I had to rub my eyes because I was sure they were playing tricks on me. Just outside my window was an enormous beanstalk, probably 20 feet wide at its base. I stuck my head out the window and craned my head upwards to see how tall it had gotten but it’s top was lost from sight, far up in the clouds.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. My first thought was to chop it down in case any immigrants tried to climb down it and sully our fair nation’s hollowed soil with their dirty monkey feet, but then I had an even better idea. I would climb up the beanstalk and poison their water supply before they even had the chance!

I grabbed some Draino and my mountain-climbing gear and a few Power Bars and started the long journey up the beanstalk. I later realized the Power Bars were extraneous, as I could just peel off a strip of the beanstalk for nutrition. It kinda tasted like celery, which normally I hate, but in this case, it was ok. There’s something rewarding about picking vegetation in the wild and using it for sustenance.

So maybe 20 minutes into my journey, I traveled through the clouds and reached the top of the beanstalk. I’m a fast climber. As I looked around, I was surprised to find not the dirty megalopolis I had expected to see teeming with filthy, thieving immigrants, but rather a rustic farmland, brimming with stalks of corn the size of buses and tomatoes as big as your house and carrots that were normal-sized for some reason.

I started to explore and came upon a large barn, the biggest I had ever seen. The handle on the door alone was probably 3 feet long. I shimmied up the side and into the barn, a barn unlike one I had ever seen before. It was gigantic in proportion and had crown molding. Who the hell puts crown molding in a barn?

In the corner was a giant goose and below the goose, I shit you not, was a giant golden egg! I couldn’t believe my luck. A giant egg, made of gold! But then I got to thinking, the egg itself probably wasn’t gold, at best it was gold-plated. As I thought this over, I noticed there was a giant sack of money behind the goose. Score!

I grabbed the sack, kicked the goose in the balls and ran for it. I was almost back at the beanstalk when I heard the ground shaking, like in Jurassic Park, but instead of a dinosaur, I was being chased by the gayest giant I had ever seen in my life. He had a pink bandana around his neck the size of a sail. A sail from a boat owned by homosexuals, no doubt.

Why was he chasing me? How could he have known I had stolen anything? All the money was secured away in my rucksack, hidden from sight. Did he just have a problem with trespassers? No, it was clear: he meant to have sexual relations with me.

Well I was having none of that so I scrambled down the beanstalk as fast I could. Again, I felt the urge to chop down the beanstalk so I could prevent that giant from ever coming down to America and violating my heretofore pristine anal region while I slept. But then I thought, this beanstalk is 20 feet in diameter, it would take years to chop that shit down, that’s a stupid idea, so I just put up a sign that said “Welcome To Texas” at the base of it and I haven’t seen any giants since.

Well not fifty years later, that beanstalk was covered in limestone bricks and became what is now known as the Washington Monument. So next time you’re sight-seeing in our nation’s capital, think of my good friend, Roger Stubbins and smile, because if not for that brutal killer and his murderous rampage, all those years ago, this country wouldn’t have invented the world’s first skyscraper.

Check out my new blog

2005-11-26T20:57:00.000-08:00

Check it out, people! It's at goingtodworld.blogspot.com and it's awesome! Right now it's basically just a notice looking for people to join me on my trip to Disneyworld but I'll put up pictures and stuff there from the trip afterwards, so come on, check it out. I had heart surgery!!!

This is why the world hates us

2005-11-25T09:14:00.000-08:00

One word: "scrapbooking".

CONCORD, New Hampshire (AP) -- Wendy Armstrong won't confess how much money she used to spend on scrapbooking supplies, but she does admit nearly kicking her daughter out of her nursery to make more room for the piles of paper and decorative doodads.

This is a joke, right? I didn't even know what the hell this was til a few years ago, but apparently it's become somewhat of a sensation.

The baby kept her room, but "believe me, it was a very hard decision," jokes Armstrong, a stay-at-home mom who lives near Portland, Oregon.

LOL! What a surprise, "stay-at-home mom", I never would have guessed. You see, I was thinking this was a productive member of society who was out busy working and doing something constructive.

Now, before you give me a load of shit about how being a mom is a full-time job, let me point out that if it's such a full-time job, how come this stupid bitch had all this free time to work on her goddam scrapbooks?

In case you're shaking your head going, "what the fuck is a scrapbook?", let me explain. Bored housewives who are too fat and ugly to cheat on their husbands go out and spend hundreds of dollars on these stupid books, basically scrapbooks, only they create "colorful layouts" and put their pictures in them with "creative captions" and "horrible poetry". The article I'm quoting is about how there's a "revolution" in the "scrapbooking community" because now all of this can be done on computers.

If they're just figuring out now that you could do all this bullshit on a computer, it just proves my point of how fucking stupid this is.

Armstrong, 43, now creates all of her scrapbook pages entirely on her computer. No more physical cutting and pasting, no more agonizing over a layout to the point of paralysis.

Paralysis?? This is an insult to all the people out there who are actually paralyzed. Imagine, you're some kid in a wheelchair and you read this? I'd want to run my wheels over that whore's throat.

"I had two kids, a backlog of a gazillion photos, and I was just getting to the point where I'd literally have layouts that sat on my desk for months just not quite finished," she said.

A gazillion photos? Photos of what? You doing your scrapbooking? Your kids crying because you haven't fed them in weeks because you're too busy cutting out construction paper? I'm pretty sure you can't take a picture of the passage of time as you waste your life on pointless busy work, so it can't be that.

But luckily, digital scrapbooking came along and turned this broad's dangerous obsession into a merely harmful hobby.

"All of a sudden I didn't totally panic about finishing my layouts like I did with paper scrapping because I never really had to finish," said Armstrong, who has completed 240 pages in just more than a year. "It just created so much more freedom than paper scrapping."

What a relief! 240 pages! Totally panic about what? Are you fucking kidding me? Who are they making this shit for? I bet nobody's even allowed to touch this crap once they're done. I bet these are the same people who put plastic on their furniture.

In case you think I'm just blowing steam, that this really isn't a big deal, according to this article, "digital scrapbooking is a fast-growing offshoot of the $2.5 billion scrapbooking industry."

2.5 billion dollars. How much cancer could you cure with that kind of cash? Or AIDS? Or tear down the Statue of Liberty and replace it with a golden George Bush telling immigrants to take a hike?

"I think scrappers are becoming savvy. They know their programs and they're starting to explore it as an art," she said. "It's not only about preserving memories."

"Scrappers"??? "Art"??? Does anyone else have blood shooting out of their eyes right now or is it just me?

Apparently some of these "scrappers" even make their own designs to sell. Surprisingly, they don't seem to be getting rich doing it.

"You're just happy getting any money for doing what you love to do," she said. "I enjoy the creative process ... and there's no mess. You can leave it at any moment and come back to it later, and no one's messed with it."

Let me explain something. This is not creative. This is a huge waste of time and money. There are children starving in Africa or China or someplace. There is a war in Iraq and whatnot. I'm not saying this is why 9/11 happened but this attitude that we can live these meaningless lives of extreme leisure and mental atrophy isn't helping things.

Time to retire

2005-11-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

Well I'm down here in Florida. You might have noticed I haven't posted in a few days, though I did send out a mass email letting everyone know that I got published again on the Phat Phree website.

I may have come across a problem, folks. I don't want to work. I want to be retired. True, I'm only 30 and I've got like 23 cents in savings, but I don't care. I'm ready to pack it in and move down to Florida for good.

In short, I love it here. I got off the plane and it was 80 degrees. When I left it was 40. That means it's twice as good here. Do the math.

I wake up, take a shower. My mom makes me some breakfast. I go for a bike ride, I swim in the pool. I relax in the hottub. I watch digital cable on my dad's 36" Sony Wega. I surf the internet on our Comcast high-speed connection from the comfort of my bed thanks to our wireless router. I play with the cat on the lanai.

Sounds pretty sweet, huh?

What the hell would I want to work for? Cuz it's "rewarding"? HAHAHAHAHA. Please. I had heart surgery. I didn't almost die just so I could punch the time clock after working eight hours at the cracker factory. Who am I, Kirk Van Houten?

Now, let me set you straight: work is for suckers. All those rich people you see walking around during the middle of the day? They're better than you and me. They are superior in every way. If they weren't, they wouldn't be rich.

I don't care how you get your money, that's not my concern. White slavery, drug trafficking, murder-for-hire, whatever. Just get your money and then retire. Don't be one of these people who gets some money but still works 80 hours a week because they want more of it. Just get like 2 or 3 million in the bank, buy a nice, modest house or condo and live off the interest for the rest of your life.

That's the life. Trust me. I've tasted it. I've taken a little bite, now I want the whole pie.

Am I saying I'm gonna have my parents take out a big insurance policy and then murder them and make it look like an accident? Yes. Yes, I am. From their ashes will rise a new Eric. One who is rich and doesn't have to work.

Goodbye to the old Eric Filipkowski! Say hello to the new Enrique Filipkowskistein.

OK, so the name isn't important.