Where Venereal Disease Doth Dwell...

For a few hours early last evening I gave up hope. I threw in the towel. I planted myself in my $20 recliner and did my damndest to quit breathing, which is not an easy feat.

Why, you may ask? The answer is quite simple. I unknowingly walked in on my wife watching one of the most insipid, grotesque, and down right hurtful reality shows ever to grace the air waves. I am of course talking about Tila Tequila's breakout television performance. Apparently the premise of the show is her search for love among a throng of meatheads entirely devoid of intelligence, along with a smattering of lesbians/bisexuals equally lacking in the self-esteem department.

Between the gauntlet of other such reality shows and an innumerable slew of game shows, it is a wonder the suicide rate in this country hasn't ballooned to Hindenburg proportions. Incidentally, whats the deal with washed up comedians getting gigs as gameshow hosts? Is there some sort of crazy drought in the fast-food department? (Sorry Drew Carey)

Anyway, luckily I recievecd my collection of Scrubs DVD's back from a family member. I was at least able to regain some vestige of normalcy. However, my wife will ultimately be punished. Maybe I will take away her America's Next Top Model priveleges. No....how about burning all of her precious TV gameshow turned board games.

Fun With a Camera

The Human Mouth and You: Ways to Combat dental Gross Incompetence.

As was inevitable, my wife has decided to subject to copious amounts of pain. Its true, my yearly round of dentists appointments has begun. My day started with a brusk, hick-esque "doctor" wailing on my already damaged chompers. Apparently he was trying for some sort of speed record because any sense of gentleness and nuance were tossed aside long before he entered my room. My teeth recieved less punishment in a drug induced fit of teeth grinding.
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But the cherry on top was the socially and professionally inept 'assistant' who couldn't seem to master the use of the suckee-thingy. It wasn't enough for her to leave bottomless pools of blood collecting in the bottom of my mouth, she found it necessary try and vacuum out the hangy-down thing occupying the back of my throat. It was all I could do to refrain from projectile vomiting all over the front of her Grey's Anatomy hand-me-down scrubs. But what the hell, its not every day I get the pleasure of being able to pay someone to inflict pain, right?

Equally frustrating is the fact that all dentists feel it necessary to verbally berate you for taking crappy care of your teeth. Surely they must realize that lazy, sardonic bastards, such as mysellf, are solely responsible for allowing them to earn a living. And a fairly nice one at that. When asked between spending $1700 dollars on a root canal and something called a crown, ((be assured this word conjured uo memories of countlees memories spent in the shadow of the burger King himself.), and spending $150 dollars on the reomoval of said tooth, even though it totally negates the tooth directly above it, seemed like a no brainer to me.

While the the fact that the dentist spends nine-tenths of the time humming bubble gum, glitter-glam Eighties hair rock at least prevented him from asking the insatiably banal questions most dental doctors feel necessary to ask, this pro was soon outweighed by the psychological trauma I endured, my face being smashed quite forcefully against what I can only assume was the genital region; a punisment no man should be subjected to. Okay, maybe Rosie O'Donnell.

I guess its not really the pain. I like to think I could handle the pain. The really bad parts are the tastes and smells that take over during an appointment. The grotesuquely dry latex taste of those glove. The rancid menthol taste of the pre-numbing jelly applied liberally to my gums. And worst of all the burnt, smoky taste and smell that permeates my mouth; the taste and smell of my teeth being obliterated into a fine white powder. A powder that I am not altogether unsure that I could sell to my older brother and some of his fellow compatriots.

Though the only person to blame is myself. Years of drinking soda and coffee, not to mention substtituting the practice of teeth brushing for chewing gum of the winterfresh variety, has left my teeth in a state not unlike that of Chernobyl. Hopefully they won't take on an iradescent gloww.

My only consolation is that everday my wife has to wake up and suffer a penalty much worse than a hockey game; preparing young pre-pubescent minds for their future. I guess I feel vindicated. At least a little.

Rumble to Ready

I recently read a blog post by my friend Jonathan who eloquently, though with a self-proclaimed long-windedness that would be hard to match in the blogosphere, professed that electronic means of communication enable a person to be virtually anyone he/she wants to be. Profound I know. Some of you readers probably didn't know that I was involved with smart people. Ultimately this got me thinking...I have been pulling my punches. Guarding peoples uber-sensitive electronic feelings and it is just not fair. So here goes, Jonathan, any hate mail will most definitely be forwarded to you.

The first post of the newly restructured Room for Rant is in memoriam of my professor's late testicles. Enjoying a bowl of the finest Omaha pipe tobacco before class this week, I happened across a most disheartening occurrence. Chef Q (names have been changed to protect his un-emasculated children) pulled up driving a silver PT Cruiser. In male circles around the globe, the consensus seems to be that only aging, blue-haired women (with or without facial hair, on the lip or otherwise) should be allowed to drive a PT Cruiser.

So imagine my surprise when Chef Q, a man I have gotten to know and respect, came pulling up in a Cruiser, bobbing and shaking his head to what I can now only assume was a pirated recording of the recent Hannah Montana concert in Omaha. Quickly recovering from shock, I sprang into action. Most of you probably don't know that I recently earned my M.D. in homoerotic and female induced emasculation diseases. (In the interest of full disclosure, I have contracted a number of these diseases myself.) After groping about my coat pocket for a Rx pad, I hastily scribbled out a prescription for backboneacillin, to be taken orally three times a day WITH the strongest beer available; and a spare set of testes, for those days when his wife insists on carrying his God-given pair along in her purse while picking out new sheets. (Egyptian cotton of course, somewhere between 600 and 600000000000000000 thread count.)

He thanked me, of course, and I promised to abide by all doctor/patient confidentiality. ( notice the cliche' insertion of Q in his name please) Hopefully we can move past this phase in his life and focus on his incessant need to sing those annoying bubble-gum pop songs the Beatles felt necessary to produce in order to indulge American women.

Note: should any of my close friends own a PT Cruiser, I sincerely apologize for this blog, though not really. Contact me for your Rx dosage.

P.S. Did I use the word blogosphere above? "Honey, can you pass me that bottle of GAYBEGONE, no no, not that one, the orangecranappletini flavored one!

What the Hell?

I have officially been hit on by a transvestite. Last week an enormous hispanic she-man. batted his/her eyes at me and asked for directions to Illinois. If you need a mental picture, think a Latin American Andre the Giant dressed in a mini-skirt and tube top (with amole abdominal rollage) finished off with stilletto heels. Yuck. Sadly, having never driven to Ill., I was unable to point him.her in the right direction. SOme of you will be glad to know that I was able to contain my snickers to a minimum, you know, in order to protect his/her obviously very fragile feelings. I just thank the Good Lord that it wasn't able to menstruate.
Phil

P.S. I wonder what it would have looked like had it contracted the always tragic, yet ultimately funny disease, you guessed it, Uncontrollable Falling Down?

Molding young alchoholics one cheesy after-shool special at atime!

Recently I saw a billboard in St. Joe reading...
"From Binge To Blackout: An Inspirational Story about Teenage Drinking"
Question: Should we really be inspiring our children to become binge drinkers...why the hell not?

The infection is spreading. Send antibiotics.

No Raj, this is not my six word masterpiece. This is probably the most serious blog I have ever had to write. The incredibly infectious disease known simply as Missourri has finally taken over my poor father's brain. Today was my day off so my brother and I stopped by to see if my father wanted to play some ping-pong. Boy was I in for a surprise when he all to happily showed us the fruits of his mornings labor. A home-made bolo tie. It is literally physically painful for me to type this. My father made his own bolo tie...and was proud of it. If you don't know what a bolo tie is, imagine a piece of string held together at the throat with a broach. He claimed that it was solely for use in a comunity melo-drama (an entirely different issue altogether) but I am pretty sure its just denial. Soon he will start the bargaining stage. Please, just someone send help. I almost wore a neckerchief the other day. Its spreading...

About a week ago I was almost forced to commit murder. I know, shocking right? It really wasn't my fault. I guess the main culprit would have been alchohol. No, I wasn't drunk, Raj, but this incident almost drove me drinking. Alchohol was the catalyst that drove a scantily clad mid fifties hillbilly, sporting an incorrigable mullet and a handlebar mustache, to sing, nay scream Devo songs at the top of his lungs in the middle of a gas station. (apparently the No shirt No shoes policy is obsolete in Missourri)
Don't get me wrong, I like Devo as much as the next guy but not particularly slurred at 200 decibels. And as if this wasn't enough, the inebriated serenader decided to throw an original song into the mix. The following are the lyrics as best as I can remember.

My baby's got a front butt
Its better than her back butt
My friends say I'm crazy nuts...

at this point I can no longer continue. If you get the gist of the song with these three lines then you can grasp where it goes from there. If you don't get it then thank the good Lord tonight at bedtime tonight.

Moral of the story? Drunk people stay the Hell away from me, and from anyone else for that matter. No one likes you.

P.S. Short people. Stop asking me to get things down for you. It is incredibly annoying and not at all flattering. I don't ask you to pick things up off the ground do I?

P.S.S At church this week a man stood so close to me that I am almost certain his genitals were on my leg. Gross.

Fighting White Trash ONe Street Race at a Time

This morning on my way to work I had the oppurtunity to witness one of the premier displays of white-trash masculinity known to man. At a stop light on the Belt HIghway, two patchy bearded rednecks pulled up behind me side to side, sporting mid-90's just rusting Ford Mustangs. After a brief stare down, the revving of the engines began, enough to jumpstart each perspective libido. At this point the rage I try so hard to keep locked deep down in the pits of my body began to creep to the surface. I fought hard not to roll my window down and scream obscenities at them. I must say I was also horribly confused. Did they think they were going to be able to race with cars in front of each of them? I looked over into the pick-up truck next to me only to find a farmer grinning ear to ear like a racoon munching on his own fesces. He gave me a knowing nod and at the turn of the green light he proceeded to accelerate to a blistering 13 mph. Picking up the hint, we proceed to crawl our way through the next four stoplights, much to the chagrin of our white trash Mario Andretti's. After the fourth stoplight such a line had formed behind us we felt is prudent to speed along so with a synchronized head nod I sped along toward Burger King and he headed off to those things that farmers do. Phil and the Farmer 1 White Trash Machismo 0

Odor Gaffes are Gross

Yesterday at a work meeting, one of the managers actually brought up the fact that we shoud be showering everyday, which made me wonder if there are still people out there not bathing? If you are not a bather and are reading this, please spray some perfume before you leave my blog, I have a horribly sensitive nose. Also, deodorant is fairly inexpensive, maybe next time instead of buying an entire carton of Pall Malls and a case of BEER brand beer you can purchase a few sticks of the smell good stuff.

Fashion Faux Pas? Not This Time, Guy!

Last night, while waiting for my brother to get off work, a gentleman came into the gas station and entirely changed my life.

Standing about 5'5", he was sporting a Far-Side t-shirt, shorty-short athletic shorts(blue) and a pair of brown dress shoes...minus the socks.

Well I say well done sir! In this era of one hundred dollar jeans and 300 dollar shoes, it is refreshing to see someone stare haute' coutoure' right square in the eyes and say "Eat my !$%# (insert preferred expletive here) Haughtily dressed fashionistas be damned!

I must confess that the item that pulled it all together was the caterpillar molestache draped elegantly acrossed his upper lip. A man will look long and hard to find its rival.

We salute you mustachioed shorty-short dress shoe man! Keep up the good work! America's counting on it!
Bahil


(Bahil: pron. Baaa --eeel origin; Daniel-ippino)

Of brothers, raves and deer.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to attend a rave located in some small midwestern town? I sure thought so! Well don't worry, I've taken the liberty of doing so for you. My very own brother recently hosted a 'rave themed' birthday party for one of his apperently very close friends.(Thats right, turns out adults can have theme parties too.) Chock full of bright young faces, the proverbial farmers daughter, the mayors kid, the local trailer-dweller and the pastors son, all brought together by the primal instict to drop X and gesticulate wildly to the incessant ungh-tis, ungh-tis, ungh-tis of generic techno music.
I for one applaud the bravery of these young kids, casting aside the hillbilly-esque stigma of small town teens and fighting to be taking seriously in the electronic dance scene.
But this rave went above and beyond those piddly big city raves. While big-time ravers use warehouses and clubs. these kids really brought a down-home, rustic feel to their party. Maybe it was the fire-in-a-barrell, or the field littered with broke down semi trucks and tractor skeletons. Whatever it was, I felt at home amongst these make-believe beatniks.

After a quick chat with the token black guy, apparently named 'Steve', I sadly shook my brothers hand and headed for the door. On my way home my brothers parting words echoed in my brain. Amidst the blaring techno, flailing arms and comatose stares, he pulled me aside and said..."Careful on your way home bro...there's a 14 point buck kicking around the woods, just waining to wreck your car."

"What a nice young man," I think on the drive home. As the beats fade into the background I imagine that fourteen point buck, a glowstick draped around its neck, and its hooves tapping quietly in tune with the music, and smile.
Bahil

I have arrived! After painstaking deliberation with my most trusted of advisors, I now have my own little corner of the world wide web. Being just short of computer illiterate, it is something of a miracle I have gotten this far in the whole blog process. (For the record, a friend of mind just informed me that 'blog' is not a phallical euphomism.) I have created this blog solely for my own personal amusement, so if something in here offends you, then it was probably meant to. If not, then I will certainly try harder next time.
This being my first post, I have vowed to keep it short, with a promise of much more to come.
Bahil