NEW SH*T

Look at that! I made it to my 50th blog post! Hooray! 

Additionally, I recommend viewing some of my past ones. Basically, everything on here is writing I'm proud of. The videos of me doing stand-up on here are cool too.

Snippets of this may or may not become stand-up material, if I feel like it or deem it somewhere or anywhere close to good enough. I suppose we'll just see and all. Oh, and some of the jokes get weird and stuff, if you're into that sort of thing. Just saying.

• If I like chicken breast a lot, does that make me cock hungry?

• Beauty products are often more like make-not-hideous products; beauty is a strong word.

• This isn't really a joke but drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth tastes intense as shit. Steer clear, dawg.

• Don't even get me started on gay phone sex! A guy told me about this one line called the man-hole. I can't help but feel like that's a lame moniker for a gay phone sex line. I, myself, would go with “Hol-e Moly.”

• Fictional joke-- sadly not tremendously Fictional-- but Fictional nonetheless:

I have two female contacts in my cell phone. One of the two female contact numbers stored in my cellphone is labeled “grandma...” … because it is my grandma... the other female contact is phone sex.

• As a person that doesn't drive, I hate being asked for directions. A guy always pulls over next to me by the side of the road and asks me “Hey... where's Starbucks?” And I always have to say “Not a clue,” and they drive away and at the last second say “Thanks a million,” and when they say that it never sounds sarcastic but it always certainly feels it. The worst part is when they pulled up to me they had little or no expectation of who I was and yet by the end of the situation I always manage to disappoint them. Yuck.

• Yo, there are as many people with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder as there are people diagnosed with asthma. That's a lot. I mean technically it's 2% of the country but that's not nothing. Which is an interesting thought: for people with asthma you just have to give them one inhaler and they're set; for people with OCD it's a little trickier. I think with the OCD people it just comes down to telling them that things are going to be okay. And then repeating it 11 times while washing your hands and just making sure your key hasn't left your pocket since the last time you check, because “where is it?” and that stuff can be a real pain in the tuchas.

• I found out there's this neat British dessert called Angel Delight. It's a great dessert and has a great name. Angel Delight, however is not to be confused with Angel Dust. Angel Delight is a powdered custard dessert product produced in the United Kingdom. Angel dust is a common name for the drug PCP and Angel Delight is a dessert; not a hallucinogenic with neurotoxic effects and also some people in some places (funny thing; interesting thing) call PCP-- they call it rocket fuel. Funny thing; some people called PCP rocket fuel. Which is also a shame because I used to call coca-cola rocket fuel (that's what's extreme for me) and then I found out I was being super ridiculous; that most people consider coca-cola a lesser rung of inebriant than... fucking PCP.

• I don't know how it got there but there's a chocolate bar sitting in my family's fridge that has a special name: It's called a Sea Salt Soiree chocolate bar. That's the name of the snack. It's like a super regular chocolate bar only it's got chunks of sea salt inside it. You know, so it takes what's normally a dull snack food and it turns it into a party. Normally I like parties to be places where I make connections-- and after all connection is what gives meaning to life-- and finally...at parties of all places, at last leave overthinking behind but, by jingo, now it's as simple as...all I need is this chocolate bar as it turns out to have a party; watching Charlie's Angels with half the bar smeared across my face wearing awkward fucking gym shorts... can now becomes a soiree. With those gym shorts my dick gets twisted up like a badge-hungry boy scout's coil of rope but don't let that chide you from accepting... once the chocolate's out.. I'm having a soiree. Indulging in a soiree.

A weird-assed, left-brain-thought kind of comedy bit, if you're not the faint of heart:

• Sometimes I like to use my imagination and think up ideas for tv shows and stuff while I'm eating. Like, the other day I was eating Spagetti and Meatballs. All of the meatballs were perfectly arranged in a satisfying, neat cluster on my plate except for this one meatball that was rolling around and sitting on the edge of my plate. But that's the thing and the thought I had: a meatball on the edge is a perfectly normal and fine thing. But a human on the edge is a thing that's very different from a meatball on the edge. Like if that meatball on the edge of my plate were a person it would be a 40 year old man with clinical depression that still sleeps with a stuffed animal and has trust issues-- but don't worry, his life isn't that sad because he has his passions-- like WWE wrestling-- his favorite wrestler is Chris Jericho because Chris Jericho has the best entrance music for when he's going into the ring to fight (the entrance song is “Nothing But a Good Time,” by Poison) but that's kind of his escape from all of the trauma. Like if this meatball on the edge were a person that was a 40 year old man with clinical depression that liked WWE – let's call this hypothetical man Zecharia, just because-- he would have a notable amount of trauma, like his best friend as a young child was a dog he had named “Buster,” that he lost that to a car and for every other year of his life he had to move and be the new kid in school because his parents had a complex, nasty divorce that took a toll on the mother-father relationship and as psychoanalyst Erik Erikson points out development of basic trust is the first state psychosocial development occurring, or failing, during the first years of life. Success results in feelings of security, trust, and optimism, while failure leads towards a lifelong feeling of insecurity and mistrust. Furthermore Zecharia's Dad, Charles, had this weird quirky behavior: Zecharia always wanted to call his father “Poppa, as a young child (as a sign of affection, to show some love and all) but Zecharia's Dad, Charles, always insisted on being called “benevolent master,” instead. Ya know, like during every day interactions like “Pass the salt, benevolent master,” or “Hey, benevolent master, you see my copy of 'Native Son,' anywhere? Because I looked in the closet-- I could swear it was in the closet-- but I checked the whole closet and no it's not in any of the closet. I need it for a project, Mrs. Cupples insists.” The kicker is that “Zecharia,” is a name full of symbolism and saturated-- permeated with meaning. Zecharia is hebrew for “G-d has remembered,” which Zecharia felt was terribly ironic because to Zecharia-- in his life-- he felt as though had G-d had completely forgotten about him. So yeah dude, I like Spagetti and Meatballs and stuff. I don't know.