and at the 1/1/11...

I've already (all but) given up drinking. I've taken up reading and given up cable. I take mass transit on occasion. I eat healthier (up until the last few days as I indulge before the New Year. I guess I did my resolutions early. I gave up being interesting for 2011.

Be good. Be safe. Don't drink and drive.

Goochout.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Tweet that didn't make it...

It's kind of God's fault for making 12 year old boys so damned attractive.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Tweet that didn't make it...

Remember when an XBox was a girl you used to casually date and an XBox 360 was a girl you used to casually date but kept coming back?

Would have posted it, was afraid of the random nature of my Facebook friends. UPDATE: posted on twitter, deleted simulcast from Facebook. Shoots and scores.

goochout.

Whose house? Run's House.

Forgot to publish this yesterday... not bothering finishing it.

Oh, my God. I have a headache of epic proportions. It's like gremlins are pushing car cigarette lighters into the back of my eye balls. I'm nauseous. The two pieces of pizza did not help at all. Caffeine and food, my solutions to everything have failed me. And so I weep gently to myself. And to anyone reading this site.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy Kwanzaa or, as my Arab friends call it... Saturday.

I glided through a peaceful Christmas filled with friends and family. I wanted to go out tonight but decided, rather, to wash down some Tylenol PM with some Pepsi Max and let the caffeine/sedative mixture battle it out within my gut. Haven't had a drink in five months this Monday. Feels good. I haven't watched the food intake too much because food gives me the only ingestible pleasure I allow myself and I naturally don't eat as much since drinking hasn't caused me to do any late night food benders of 7-11 hot dogs, Burger King triple whoppers, or the entire left side of the Taco Bell drive through menu. "Empanada? What the fuck is that? I'll take five of 'em."

I think I'll actually pay attention to the diet. Leaner meats, no dessert with breakfast, small changes. I think January will see my return to a gym and/or organized exercise.

However, now I sit. I intend on doing nothing tonight. Rather I'm watching network television and making a list of grocery shopping and chores to do. Sort of a "honey do" list for a guy that lives by himself with a cat. Tomorrow I'll wake up and try to get shit done. Some people think I procrastinate but really I'm pulling back the string on a bow with the arrow being my productivity. That's what four straight hours of Netflix is. Me getting ready to get accomplish tasks.

Alright, get back to ignoring your families. Merry Christmas.

goochout.

Strange Brew

Working on a piece of writing longer that four paragraphs. Once again, it's hard for me to wrap my head around the editing. From the cutting room floor:

I referred to the payment a man would receive for anonymously fathering children for unwed women as an "emission commission." 

Find a typographical error in a manuscript prior to publication and you're considered a hero. Find a typographical error in a freshly published and distributed book and you're considered a smart ass.

Off to work after I clean the litterbox. You know, as if this blog didn't satisfy my shit-sifting quota for the day.

peach out.

Gooch.

[Trivia: "Strange Brew has nothing to do with anything, other than it's the song that was playing on the radio as I typed it. "Peach out" was an odd typo that I chose to leave in]

The Magical Douchetery Tour

As a gift of thanks from the couple whose wedding I performed last weekend, I was given the following:

Four 16oz cans of assorted Rockstar Energy Drinks

A Gift Card

A Book: Chuck Klosterman's "IV"

I had indicated to the couple prior to their wedding that I don't read. I mean, I can read. I can read almost anything. Speed signs and nutrition labels are a bit hazy, but other than that I'm a functional reader. The phenomenon of my enormously lopsided writing to reading ratio led me to ponder the possibility of someone able to write but not read. Those types of thoughts keep by mind busy long enough to allow me to fall asleep.

The book was perfect. I'm touched by the thoughtfulness of getting me a book chosen due to my fascination with pop culture and my short attention span. This book appeals to both of my cultural shortcomings. Chuck Klosterman has written for a bunch of different magazines. That's all I know, I haven't googled him yet.

My next essay or book will begin with the following:

"I don't like it when writers open with a spoken quotation," I said to myself, pondering the cliched pretentiousness of the technique.

I just finished my morning Rockstar (provided via the above mentioned gift package) and I want another. That's what Rockstar does: It makes you want more. It's like cocaine but cheaper and sans bad conversation. Maybe not sans bad blogging. Whatever.

I'm so pumped that Howard Stern signed for another five years. I don't listen to terrestrial radio. I listen to satellite radio in my car and now on my Android (HTC Evo) phone. His new contract allows for his channels to be broadcast to devices starting January 1st. This means I can listen to him all day. Or at least for the 20 minutes that my fully charged HTC Evo would let me before the battery dies.

the bigger the headache, the bigger the pillin'.

was going to do a wedding today up on rocky butte in what was expected to be a torrential downpour. the wedding was moved into the couples' apartment. this is good, because the thought of wearing my new suit in the rain before my 'dj' gig tonight did not enthuse me. I would have worn a full clear plastic parka/pant set to keep dry. i would have looked like an Italian family's couch.

off to marry some people.

goochout.

At the 11:11/Steppin' to the AM/Express Yourself

[Dr. Dre:]

Yo, man... There's a lot of brothers out there flakin' and perpetratin

But scared to kick reality.

[Ice Cube:]

Man, you've been doing all this dope producing.

You had a chance to show 'em what time it is...

[Dr. Dre:]

So, what you want me to do?

I'm working simultaneously on putting together music for an upcoming DJ gig (pretty much pushing 'play' on my equipment and letting it ride) and finishing up vows for a wedding. Both events are happening on the same day. This will be wedding number 7 in my officiating career.

I've broken the sixth wall. It's like the fourth wall, but a randomly pulled number of wall simply to explain that I've exposed the website to my Facebook profile. I felt that the bus blog was mainstream appealing enough to put it out there. The "laughing guy" made me feel something. I think you people call it "empathy" and "compassion." I won't bother looking those words up on wikipedia. I think being a pussy for the last couple of months has enabled me to develop... feelings.

Having said that, the video would have been funnier if I just started telling jokes so that the man appeared to be laughing at my material. Maybe my act of compassion would have been to make the man seem normal by giving him an excuse for laughing. Shit, I'm a humanifuckingtarian.

It's 6:53am as I write this. I've googled how to deal with my puffy eyes, pirated a shit ton of music, listened to Howard Stern, and wondered where my next meal will come from. I haven't grocery shopped in a while. I'm hungry, yet... I don't look hungry.

Ease back, white bitch. I don't play that.

goochout

I'm on a bus.

Sometimes I ride mass transit. Not a lot of people know this, but in the course of my goings on as a non drinking, book reading, celibate, rose smelling, midlife crises having mothereffer, I sometimes enjoy sitting on the bus for a relaxing hour or so commute to an office or jobsite in the morning.

Normally, these trips are in fact relaxing and uneventful, you know, like mass transit should be. Today, however, was a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Maybe not "epic," but certainly noteworthy.



My delay/shitty start to the day was tempered by the fact that it wouldn't be as bad as this ladies' day.



100 blocks after the crash: Man who wouldn't shut his mouth, off the bus and talking to the cops. He was already late to meet with his parole officer (he'd mentioned that during his rants agains the woman). Asshole.

On the ride into town, our bus stopped. Suddenly, a slam against the back of the bus lurched us forward. We'd been rear ended. After the bus driver completed routine post-accident measures, I walked outside and checked it out. Some lady crashed her van into the bus. How the hell do you hit a parked bus? Fire engines, ambulances, cops, and significant delay were soon to follow. The next bus, packed with its usual riders and delayed by the traffic jam from our bus' incident, arrived. We were seated and made it about 100 blocks before an argument broke out.

It was two unstoppable forces: A black 20-year-old woman and a gay black man. Call me racist, sexist, whatever you want. You know I'm right. It was an unstoppable bitch meets an inanimate shithead (the names could be applied to either of the participants). She yelled at him for sitting too close, he yelled at her for insulting him. Neither one would move or shut the fuck up (despite other riders' repeated requests) until the cops showed up. Most of us on the bus were already 30 minutes delayed already. My fellow riders started yelling at the two that were already yelling. Lots of yelling. Bus stopped, cops arrived. Ultimately, I arrived at my destination an hour late.  

On the way home, on the MAX, a rider boarded. He commenced with a giggling fit that lasted the entire 30 minutes he rode the train. I feel bad posting this because he probably had tourettes. Or some shit. However, I'll pretend that he was drug addicted or something. There, I feel better.



On a side note, if I ever did stand up I'd give this guy free passes for life. I mean, he's a comedian's wet dream. Again, it's not nice to make fun of someone's affliction. It's okay to make fun of someone's addiction.

This is the word the Gooch.

Thanks be to Gallucci.*

Tri Met: See Where it Takes You... indeed.
goochout


*I'm going to hell.

gooch: the podcast #6 [repost]

[By request, and because the 'search' function on Blogger is, shall we say, fucked? (spoiler alert: yes, we shall): Here's a repost of the #6 podcast.]

Gooch plays three separate clips of his drunken phone calls/audio posts. Included are: Drunken morning after voice mail from Vegas, the morning after the Wedding in Silverton, Oregon, and the "Cunnilingus Interview" involving two strippers in a strip club dressing room.

Wedding Stuff

Pics/Blog from the last wedding I did. I'm referred to as 'Goochie' in the blog.  Its something that Nikki calls me. Not something that you call me. Click HERE

"The Bridal Ultimatum" on the marquee was my idea. I can co opt anything in pop culture and use it for some other purpose. It's a gift. It's called being creative[asterisk]. Really though: fantastic pictures, photographer is very talented.


I would write more, but I hate typing on the netbook. I should podcast again. However, sobriety has caused me to realize that most of my published thoughts that are what you people call "private" and unwilling to broadcast. or podcast. whatever. Suddenly, my masturbatory habits have become uncomfortable to discuss? Jesus, I used to be interesting. I could start writing about how cute it is that my cat, Missy, is playing with a stuffed soccer ball I impulse purchased from IKEA. But that would be boring and make even more people question my sexuality.

goochie:out

Roger Ebert's Photo in Need of a Caption

My submission: "Every Blow Job's Worse Nightmare."

 

Roger Ebert's twitter feed occasionally posts photos "in need of a caption." I've submitted one so far and this is the second. I just want Ebert, a hero of mine, to acknowledge me. Here's the original blog/photo/submission page: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/photos-in-need-of-a-caption/121-photo-in-need-of-a-caption.html

 

Unlike the parking garages in down town Portland, I take validation anywhere I can.

 

goochout.

Moment of Clarifications...

Some people misconstrued the following (poorly written) sentence:

However, I've imagined what it would be like to date one of my female friends.

I didn't mean a specific female friend.I didn't mean to imply that I'd taken someone and inappropriately moved them from the friend zone to the spank bank. It was simply a hypothetical female friend.

Another big fucking clarification:

When you leave your Facebook account open on someone else's computer, it's almost their duty to fuck with you. If you pass out first at a party, expect to get ink on your face. If you leave your Facebook open, expect some horrendous shit written as if you'd done it. Here's what happened to me Sunday:

What's worse, is that someone believed that shit and I had to explain to them what happened. I had to convince a chick that I wasn't gay. If you're a dude and you have to spend more than three minutes explaining your straightness to someone, you should rethink your orientation. I hit the convinced mark at 2mins/47secs. Close, mothereffers. Close.

Back to the lab. Peace.

goochout.

Paging Dr. Schadenfreude

When you've had a bad day, or things just didn't go your way, peep this.

goochout.

She's out of your league.

You know those movies where the really nice but slightly unattractive guy has a really hot female best friend who always dates jerks and then at the end of the movie finds that the really nice but slightly unattractive guy was the one she was looking to be with the entire time?

That's most of my friendships. Not that I'm trying to date any of my female friends. Their friends, maybe. I do think that if you have a female friend that is attractive, it's natural to have platonic feelings switch over to something else. I think there's a much finer line between platonic and romantic love than some people realize. Alcohol is great at diminishing that line.

However, I've imagined what it would be like to date one of my female friends. I created an honest simulation in my brain (the petri dish of social engineering) that yielded results that reinforced the notion that it's a bad idea. First off, I treat my female friends like guy friends. They know pretty much everything about my disgusting relationship past. In most cases, I know theirs. So, if you intimated to a chick friend about the time in Thailand you got a rim job from a girl at a Bangkok brothel only to find out she was actually a fifteen-year-old boy. Believe me, that will come up in a fight if you actually get into a relationship with said friend. I mean, think of all the things you and any female friend have told each other. Are those things you would ever want a significant other to know? They say that honesty is the best policy in relationships. They are wrong. "They" are often very wrong. I, however, am usually dead-the-fuck-on.

Sobriety (and gallons upon gallons of taurine infused energy drinks) has given me a new sense of clarity. The first effect that alcohol has on the brain is decision making. That's why it seems like a great idea to drive a sports car that you can barely walk to in a bar parking lot at 2am. The preceding should not be seen as an admonishment of drinking. Or alcoholism for that matter. If I get laid, it's 90% likely that it's a result of someone else's bad decision.

I've put the Christmas tree up. It's finally the season. Happy Holidays.

goochout.

[some song lyric or a name someone called me]

(Anatomy of a Post)

[random provocative/hot chick picture here]

[salutation involving whatever noun pops in my head. "minions," "followers," "rebels," etc.]

[half assed attempt at content that will be generally interesting to people that don't know me. Ideas that are too foul for social media are relegated to this blog. I think people that know me have moved from this to Facebook and Twitter for my personal goings on. Which is great, because I feel like I can rub out masturbation jokes without worrying about family members peeping in.

Get it? "rub out?"

This is the basement. Whatever coherent thought about anything that comes to mind gets put in semi-long form on this page. Like my cock: average sized and not life changing.

Posts at 11:11 am/pm are amazingly irrelevant. A good rule of thumb: The hotter the chick, the weaker the content.]

[ending quote, usually Ice Cube or Dr. Dre. Or me. Because I'm gangster.]

[signature: usually "goochout," or a derivative]



Really? a cock joke? [if I think I wrote something stupid or a joke that wasn't funny, I sometimes don't delete it. Instead, I address it here with a character called "self hating/berating self." I do it with smaller type. It's a comedic device sometimes referred to as a "call back."]

I'm Mr. Brightside

Clamjammers:

slowly gearing up for a spectacular fat/carb/sodium filled thanksgiving. If charities can feed the homeless for $.69 a day, why the fuck can't I find a decent lunch in town for under $10? I'm going to hit up the missions with a couple buckskies... fuck, $5 should let me cater the office xmas party. The soup kitchens need to market themselves better.

Hey, look, it's Christina Hendrick's ass. Because, every seven years a fat chick comes around and reminds us that we, well, like big asses. Kate Winslet, Tyra Banks, Raquel Welch, Barbara Bush... all sex symbols that make tapping a big ass somehow some sort of paradigm shift. Oh, and yeah, that's an animated gif.

I decided that I'm going to go into an actual music store. I won't buy anything, but geez, what happens in a music store anymore? Are there just terminals attached to iTunes? I mean, half a million Beatles albums sold on iTunes so far. I would think that anyone that gave a shit about the Beatles would already own or have pirated Beatles albums. Are people too lazy/unaware that you can rip CDs to iTunes?

The bigger the headache, the bigger the pillin'.

goochout

By the power vested in me... by the internet...

As some of you know, I got internet ordained a while back and have performed a few weddings over the last eight years or so.

Last night, two of my best friends got married and I was given the honor of officiating their wedding. I had a feeling that I might have to give a speech, or at least be given the opportunity to give one. I wanted to be prepared. So, in addition to the vows, I wrote a speech that I ended up delivering last night. Since it's the most time I spent on writing something in a while, I'll post it here. There's some references you might not get. Like the bridesmaid speech she gave at Robin's wedding was actually a speech I wrote for her (from her point of view and in her voice) at her request four hours before the wedding because she had only written five words. You had to be there. Anyways...

Here's the speech:

I want to start off by saying “Nikki, you’re right.” This speech is not going to be nearly as good as your bridesmaid speech at Robin’s wedding.


Despite not being related in any way whatsoever, Nikki and I have formed a sibling type of relationship. Like a brother and sister, although Nikki would joke “sister and sister.” A while back, Nikki and I were at the movies and we saw the trailer for a movie called “Made of Honor” where the male best friend was to serve as a bride to be’s maid of honor. I turned to Nikki and told her not to even think about it. Nikki wasn’t interested in the novelty or the sentiment of having me stand by her at the altar. She thought it would be terrific opportunity to emasculate me. You may think I’m joking, but I’ll bet you that before the trailer was over, she’d already picked out a dress for me.

Like real siblings, Nikki and I have picked on each other for the last 17 years or so. The ferocity with which we attack each other resembles a UFC fight without the sportsmanship. We match up in verbal sparring sessions using words that I’m afraid to say. At least in front of Erich’s side of the family.

Since we’ve known each other all of our adult lives. Nikki and I have been friends when most of life’s important decisions are made. Relationships, career, education - every important crossroad in life – we’ve watched each other both succeed triumphantly and fail miserably at them over the years. Like good friends should: We’ve helped each other celebrate victories, and been there for each other during some sad times.

Of her successes, my proudest of Nikki are her beautiful and gifted daughter, her pursuit and achievement of her dental hygienist career, and her meeting and marrying a great guy. Probably the most genuine thing I’ll say all year is that I couldn’t be happier about who my best friend chose to marry. Erich’s the kind of guy that you would want to marry your sister. And today I feel like he did. Erich and Nikki, I love you both very much. May your lives be filled with love and happiness and me, occasionally, crashed on your couch.

I'm a dick

I'm really trying to be a better person. Trying to be positive. Trying not to go through life burdened with negativity and the notion that the world hates me/thinking I need to earn peoples' approval.

 

That said, am I a bad person for enjoying the fact that Eva Longoria got cheated on by her husband? I need to look into why I hate Eva Longoria so, so much. It's not because she's a hot chick, it's that she knows she's a hot chick, but then overly acts like she doesn't know she's a hot chick, but then she hasn't appeared at an awards show in anything resembling pants, so she knows she's hot but really wants attention and does it in a rather unclassy way, can you believe I'm writing this? Are you still reading this?

 

Have to keep the matrimonial disdain in check for a bit. Officiating another wedding this weekend. Number six, I believe. Thank god I look good in a suit. And by "look good" I mean like the supervillain "Kingpin." But with hair and a zit on my forehead. I need to exercise more. And wash my face with an astringent.

 

Peace Out.

 

gooch: um, out.

 

Word to the motherfuckin' streets.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

And at the 3:52...

...And minus the spell check. Dipshit.

 

I can't update from the office computer. So this absolutely worthless post that I would relegate to the 11:11 is now rerelegated to whenever this actually smtps to the blogger servers. And your hearts!

 

Yesterday was the 11/11, as opposed to the 11:11 (which happens twice a day year round). For her birthday, I took Mom to Ground Kontrol where she obliterated the high score on Q*Bert. And Frogger. She dominates those games.

 

I've had pizza for the last three meals. Dinner, breakfast (leftovers), and now lunch. They say "you are what you eat," so I guess I'm a crusty, greasy motherfucker that smells like cheese. Yep, sounds right.

 

You know what I love more than the lemonade Rock Star beverages? That's right... nothing! I so enjoy the lemony goodness with the added bonus of shit ton levels of caffeine (wouldn't it be sweet if "shit ton" was actually a unit of measure and you could look it up inside of a Pee Chee? I think so). I'm so fucking wired at this point (two Rock Stars and instant coffees) that I haven't blinked in 45 minutes.

 

I gave up on my Fight Night: Lights Out video game purchase quest and ordered it off of Amazon. I've waited so long for that fucking game. I'll let the fates determine when I get to play it. And by "fates," I mean the Amazon won't get it to me until Christmas. I have a sense about these things.

 

Too black... too strong.

 

goochout

Douchebook Bingo/Drinking Game

"It's embarrassing. Who cares? If you wouldn't say it during a phone conversation, don't write it out." - Whitney Cummings

Friends:

I read Facebook, but not for the same reasons you do. I like to plunge into the depths in which some people will go to reach some sort of douchebag euphoria. I mean, the narcissism involved in assuming that all 600 of your friends might be interested in what you cooked for dinner, or what you're eating/drinking at the moment. I feel like I'm witnessing the douchebagging of America with the proliferation of reality television and social media creating a perfect storm.

And I'm a guy that's had a blog since 1999. That's right... I believed that shit I had to say was important to the masses. I actually started it when the college paper for which I wrote did not publish a piece that I'd written that I thought was pretty good (there were a few real shit-bombs that they did publish) and I felt it needed to be published. In 1999, it was a bit of an endeavor. I invented this while Harvard freshmen invented Facebook. Fuck me.

I'm a douchebag pioneer. A doucheneer, if you will. And you will.

And now, full self disclosure has reared its mass appeal head in the form of the latter of the two aforementioned internet phenomenons. I've noticed a theme, from which I wanted to make a drinking game or a bingo game. I call this the Facebook Status Update BINGO or Drinking Game.

Grab a bottle, twist the cap, and get your drink on with this fun filled game:

• Listing what they made/had for dinner. (2 shots)
• Promoting a multi-level marketing scheme in which they're involved. (3 shots)
• Writing a "wall to wall" message (other than a birthday) because the trivial conversation between them and a friend must be interesting to others.
• Copying and pasting a joke as if it was their own. (3 shots)
• Copying and pasting one of my jokes as if it was your own (put your head into a gas oven and just let go. Oh, while I take 3 shots).
• Posting a self taken picture of his or her self (2 shots)
• Posting a self taken picture of his or her self taken in a mirror (3 shots)
• Posting a self taken picture of themselves doing the "duck face" (4 shots)
• Any evidence of someone playing Farmville/Mafia or reading a fortune cookie (1 shot)
• Someone doing the horrific practice of changing their relationship status to "It's Complicated." (3 shots)
• Posting a status update that is clearly meant to bait people into asking "what's wrong?" or "what's going on?" (2 shots)

I think I'm procrastinating going to the gym. I think the volume of what I've written lately is directly related to my not wanting to work out. I've got to work on that.

Later.

goochout

In the land of the blind, the man with one eye is king...

...But in a 3D movie, the man with one eye is fucked.

 

I wrote that last bit a long time ago. I'm pretty sure I wrote it back when "twittering" meant etching things into small rocks and throwing them at people. However, I thought of it yesterday:

 

I was eating a sandwich while wiping barbecue sauce all over a USA Today. The USA Today that my Father, sitting next to me, had purchased only moments earlier. He hates it when I soil newsprint that he hasn't read yet. We share a newspaper at lunch because we both enjoy reading the news and avoiding conversation.

 

While reading, I came across a sentence so unnecessary and so stupid (it's big and bold at the bottom of the passage) that I broke the golden silence to share with Father. Now I share with you. Because I haven't done a lot of updates lately and this post can be a copy and paste rich environment.

 

Coming soon to a mall near you: 3-D glasses you can buy.

Manufacturer Oakley this week will release two pairs of 3-D glasses, in white and black, at $120 a pop. Marchon will follow with Calvin Klein 3-D glasses in December. Xpand's 3-D glasses are available for presale on Amazon.

"What we've invented gives a better experience," says Colin Baden, CEO of Oakley.

Marchon's Calvin Klein glasses are even more expensive, at $180 a pair. However, they double as photochromic sunglasses for inside or outside. (Real life will continue to be in 2-D, however.)

Real life is always in 3-D.

 

Full article: http://www.buzzbox.com/top/default/preview/3-d-glasses-coming-soon-from-oakley-marchon-and-xpand/?clusterId=2376335&id=12791271&topic=glasses%3Aoakley

 

 

goochout

It's Monday morning and the Rock Star isn't gonna pour itself...

Good Morning, my collective rays of sunshine.

I'm not a man of rituals. Hell, I'm barely a man. However, I've developed habit... patterns that I've started to notice.

I don't work nine to five. As I write this, I'm finishing up a computer from which I've exorcised the most ingrained of viral infections. Some people would have given up and simply backed up, formatted the hard drive and installed a fresh operating system installation. This, however, is my video game. Googling for solutions, trying out different tools, making notes of what works and what doesn't. I've got the final scan running on a machine at this very moment. If the scan comes up clean, my work is done. Damn, I could do this all day.

Oh yeah. I do.

Back to rituals. Monday mornings are about the same from week to week. I go out to dinner on Sunday, so Monday's breakfasts usually consist of leftovers. This morning's offering was a medley of Wu's Chinese (Sunday lunch) and El Sombrero Mexican (Sunday dinner). For a beverage: 16 oz. Rock Star energy drink out of the can. I like the Rock Star Recovery, a lemonade flavored product with a shit-ton full of caffeine.This morning I'm drinking the standard Rock Star sugar free. I really should not consume so much of the sugar free. Why I insist on putting chemicals as opposed to sugar into my system is a mystery, but I'm sure that diabetes can't come from aspartame. Or can it? I have no idea... I'm a doctor, not a computer tech.

Because I've shunned pay television in favor of internet delivered video, I don't have HBO or Showtime. My guilty pleasures (I call them that because if tried for media piracy, I'll be found guilty) consist of downloading Dexter and Boardwalk Empire, two shows I follow like a bon bon eating housewife watching All My Children. Or Oprah. Whatever the broads like. Because both shows air Sunday night, I wake up early Monday to download them and crawl back into bed. An app on my phone monitors the downloads remotely. Once they've downloaded, I watch each one from bed (except for today when I'm watching Boardwalk Empire on the left monitor while I type this on the right one).

Shit, it's getting late. The scan on the computer I'm working on finished. No viruses found. My work is done.

Time to go to work.

At the 11:11

I've been waiting forever for the PS3 Move game "The Fight: Lights Out" to come out. They kept pushing the release date out but November 9 seems to be the drop date. Yo.

I hope it's worth the wait, I've spent close to $90 in accessories in anticipation of the game's arrival (a second move controller and charging stand). The game is probably $60. Normally I wouldn't bother mentioning anything of the above as it makes me look really fucking nerdy. However, I seldom wait for any piece of media to be released and this was noteworthy.

Check out the IGN page.

Out

Happy Shalloween...

gremlins and gremlets:

I missed Halloween this year. Except for one Werthers and Snickers bender, I didn't do anything Halloweenesque. I didn't drink, didn't dress up, didn't ogle chicks dressed like the whores they wish they could dress like the other 365 days a year (fuck you... every year should be a leap year). I didn't hand out candy (I ate it like the fat fuck I am). I didn't watch a scary movie (I was going to watch the Kathy Bates/Jack Nicholson hot tub scene over and over again to get in the spirit, but I forgot which movie included that morsel of boner-be-gone).

Ogle, I believe, is Latin for "eye-fuck."

You're welcome.

Tune in next time when I go into a mall and wonder out loud about how the stores are putting Christmas decorations up earlier and earlier every year.

out

Shit that Pops into My Head

Whenever I'm at a restaurant, in my dojo, or on a bus, I wonder if attractive girls that I exchange glances with is thinking:

a: She wants me
b: I remind her of her Father.

Or, if she's a stripper:

c: All of the above.

Happy Halloween, shitheads.

goochout.

Rebel Without Applause

Stormtroopers:

 

I wish I'd thought of some shit like that Death Star Blowing Up Alderaan pumpkin carving genius (see above). I went to a friend's house high on four cups of "Hair Bender" coffee and carved a pumpkin that makes Corky look like a MENSA candidate.

 

Where did I get all of the "makes your piss smell like a Starbucks" strength coffee? I was at a wedding reception. Prior to the reception I sat in my car, too anxious to go in. Social anxiety had reared its ugly head. Once inside I needed something to drink and since I don't hit the sauce, coffee was my next option. Because yeah, when you're nervous, a shit ton full of coffee is just what the doctor ordered. If your doctor is Kevorkian.

 

The reception: A beautiful reminder that love is possible, that I hate going to things by myself (but always do), and that I always err on the side of casual when deciding how I should dress for an event. I seem to bring business casual to formal dinners wherever I go.

 

I buddied up with a girl who also showed up solo to the event. We seemed to be able to talk forever. Partly because we got along and partly because we were relieved at not having to stand around by ourselves. People assumed we'd showed up together and might even be in a relationship somehow. Such a social connection, such a bond forged in such a short amount of time. We went over to a table together to visit with some mutual friends. I excused myself to the restroom and when I came back she'd pretty much bolted from the party.

 

Most of my social interactions are awkward, it would seem. 

 

Anyways, after the party I went to carve pumpkins and quickly churned out the most retarded looking pumpkin ever. Then I went home and woke up with a coffee hangover. Then I watched the UFC fights that I'd downloaded the night before.

 

End Brain Dump: Now

 

goochout

 

 

Weakend Edition

Crustaceans:

 

I've been aggressive in my effort to desensitize my desensitization, not drink, be more positive/less cynical, get healthy, and essentially drag the needle over the spinning record that is this website.

 

It's hard to write about being a designated driver. It's hard to describe the situations that come from no longer self medicating my social-phobia. Or, I should say, the lack of situations that come from no longer self medicating my social-phobia. Writing about your own drunken escapades is so much easier that writing about observing others' antics.

 

MMA classes, the extra fitness endeavor financed by my extinct bar tabs, are interesting. Having your head and shoulder pinned between a dude's legs and giving him adjustment pointers until you start losing consciousness from lack of blood to your brain ("okay, push the top of my head over so that the sharp part of my shoulder goes into my carotid artereeeee... [tap tap]) is certainly an interesting hobby. I have a lot of appreciation now for those UFC fights and the skill/endurance that goes into it. At age 36 I've also, I believe, finally learned how to throw a punch. Who knew that you were supposed to make a fist first? Not me.

 

Off to lunch. Have a good weekend.

 

goochout

 

 

Waiting to Exhale

Goochalos:

I bought one of those e-cigarettes Friday after work. I don't smoke, although I've tried to start many times. I'm just fascinated by the fact that an electronic alternative to smoking has not only been invented (they've been around a while, my friend Mike Henry has been "vaping" for a while now) but is available at convenience stores for under $20. You inhale on the hard plastic simulated cigarette and the end glows red - brighter depending on the velocity of your "drag." In the course of this process, an element heats up and liquid nicotine is vaporized and that is what you inhale. Should the simulated lit end start to flash, you unscrew the cigarette from the nicotine cartridge end and screw it into a USB adapter to charge. It's fucking genius.

http://www.xhaleo2.com/

In other news, I feel myself getting sick. The stuffed head, the fatigue, headaches, dizziness. I don't like being sick and missing work is an option for people with compensated sick time. I'm getting pissy about this because I'm missing workouts and I need to get into some sort of shape. Usually, if I rest, I don't get full blown AIDS and squeak by with just a cold.

Honestly, I'm just waiting for my torrents to download. Pirated Dexter and Boardwalk Empire episodes are trickling over my internet pipes. I'll probably pass out before they hit the media server. I guess it's one reason for me to wake up. Finally, a reason to wake up. [starts to weep, takes a cigarette and tries to burn himself in a self mutilating/masochistic endeavor with it but realizes that it's a fake electronic cigarette and says "duh, I just wrote about this thing" then turns around and crawls into bed.]

goochout

The Reno Column: Recycled

Since I'm in Reno, I thought I'd write something. Since I'm down here with my Father and not drinking, my best chance at a decent story is if I hit a jackpot. Or a hooker. Otherwise, here's an 11 year old piece of writing. Damn, I'm getting old.

The Reno Column (1999)

gooch:out

I Like the White Girls that the Black Guys Like.

DHCP Clients:

 

Not drinking for two months has made me A: Very self conscious about my weight and B: alarmed at the diminuative size of my arms. These are odd things to focus on, especially for a super hero like myself. However, this is what my non-chemical soaked brain has led me to worry about. Alcohol told me that I was "big boned" and that my arms were big. Alcohol lied. Alcohol always lies. I should consider myself lucky: Alcohol has never told me that some dude was actually a chick.

 

The confidence... God, do I miss the self confidence. And the Charisma. I seem to command more of an audience when I'm drunk. When I'm sober, I've only a few seconds of getting a thought out before my friends start talking to each other about something else. This is why I'm good at Twitter: I've been forced to reduce my communications down to 140 characters in real life for most of my adult life.

 

But back to the physical deficiencies. These issues should be solved eventually as the lack of hangovers has allowed me to not miss so many workouts at the gym. I've also joined a MMA training program. It's the stuff that you see in UFC fights, but I don't kick or hit actual people, just the pads that people are holding. So if I'm walking down a dark alley and an Everlast punching bag tries to take my wallet; I'm pretty sure I'm safe from the forces of foam padded evil.

 

Peace.

 

goochout.

 

 

 

 

At the 11:11: True Gooch Stories...

I was driving up West Burnside today when I noticed a girl walking on the sidewalk. More dangerous than talking on the phone or texting, I engaged in a task that I probably do five or six times a day (I drive a lot): I stared at her.

I'm driving west, she's on the right hand sidewalk walking the opposite direction. As my eyes follow her, they run into a few obstacles. a street sign, the Range Rover rolling alongside me in the lane to my right, the head of the driver in the Range Rover to my right. I noticed the driver fidgeted a bit... it was odd enough that in my peripheral vision he got my attention. It was then that I noticed that my eyefucking of a random girl wound up turning into my eyefucking of 90s alt-rock icon Art Alexakis, a Portland resident. At the next stop light, I noticed that he stopped a few car lengths back, I assumed as to stay out of my stalkers' gaze.

I felt like a total tool. My mid-commute slow motion daydream ended up being a socially awkward nightmare.

Picture of Art Alexakis

 

[Picture of girl walking down street not available]

At the 11:11

Interesting fun fact about me: I swing a bat left handed, I swing a golf club right handed, I kick right footed, I skateboard regular stance (right foot pushes), I bowl right handed, I throw darts left handed, I write on paper left handed, I right on chalk boards/vertical surfaces right handed, I dribble a basketball right handed, shoot a basketball left handed, shoot a gun left handed. The J.O.? Right handed.

None of the above activities am I actually good at, just an odd lack of favoritism among the left and right hemispheres of my brain. My ambidexterity means I'm mediocre at everything... with either hand/foot.

Get to sleep.

goochout

Forget Height/Weight ratio, BMI, Calipers, Etc...

...If you're holding the camera 7 inches above your head to take a picture, you've got a weight problem.

But who holds your camera?

Before you call me a dick, I'll have you know that I commission satellite photographers to take my Facebook pictures. It's the only way I can eliminate my double chin.

See what I did there? I made fun of myself to negate the dickness of my putdown. I'm not a pioneer in that art, just a genius at it.

gooch:out

You're going to call me a dick anyways, aren't you?

Damn I'm such a G... it's pathetic.

Minions.

I spent most of yesterday, one of the last beautiful and sunny days here in Portland, cleaning the house and playing video games. I was going to go for a run or at least a bike ride but put it off until today because it too was supposed to be nice.

Fail.

So now I'm inside, appreciating my cleaning from the day before. Being careful not to do anything productive. I'm watching the movie "Very Bad Things" because that's what I do when a bachelor party and/or Vegas in particular enters my sites. You know, the sites mounted on the rifle that is my average-on-a-good-day penis. Does anyone else think Cameron Diaz is the quintessential butterface? It's an issue I've grappled with for a while. Is killing a hooker a rite of passage? Is the reason I feel perpetually emasculated because I have yet to bury a dead stripper in a, well, anywhere? No, it has to be something darker than that.

Very Bad Things: Ari Gold is about to accidentally kill the hooker in the bathroom. I shouldn't be watching this. I should be watching "I Need That Record!" - a documentary on the impact of downloads and piracy on the independent record stores. Heh, me watching that movie would be like Hitler watching a documentary on the Holocaust.

GoochOut

A Rollerskating Jam Named Saturday.

There's free admission to an "Air Museum" in Vancouver somewhere. I anticipate it being related to aviation, but had thoughts of showing up to a room filled with tightly closed mason jars. Inside the jars would be trapped air from different eras of history. "This air was trapped near the Hindenburg explosion in 1937, there's some hydrogen mixed with the air. Not that you can tell.

I could have gone on with that, but I got bored just thinking about it.

Bethany Storro, the latest religious white woman in America to do something fucked up and then blame it on a black person, is due in court next Wednesday. I hope the judge arraigns her with "Hey pretty girl, you want to plea to this?" I'm wondering if she will come out with a spiritually inspired self help book entitled "Liquid Drain Cleaner for the Soul." She's now saying that she was trying to kill herself by applying the stuff to her face. Yes, she used gloves and a towel to apply drain cleaner to her face in an act of suicide. A face that she had a cosmetic prodedure done to only a week earlier. She is truly full of shit. At least bullshit defenses make for good gavel to gavel news coverage.

I love playing PS3 Move's table tennis in its "Sports Champions" suite of games. Ping Pong is the one sport where an Asian intimidates me more than a black dude. Unless you consider math a sport. Then there's two sports. I guess.

I'm having a spectuacular day doing a little something I like to call "whatever the fuck I want." I ate Taco Bell for breakfast, played PS3, vacuumed the house. Going to clean the truck next. Maybe work out then a nap.

goochout

I hate Katy Perry

Katy Perry: "How can I stay relevant/important without my tits hanging out? I mean, sure it's a kids' show but dammit my tits are the curtain and my talent is a little old man hiding behind the curtains running the smoke and mirrors."

 

Picture caption: "One of these two is only entertaining when a hand is inserted into them. The other is Elmo."

 

Wow, that practically wrote itself. And by that, I mean I'm sure I didn't originate such filthy puppet humor.

 

As I write this, I'm in an office where small electronics are fixed. One of the customers in here at the moment is a lesbian with a laptop first came to the shop with a vibrator in hand. The shop owner refused to fix it. True story. I bet if she was hot, it would have gotten fixed.

 

 

 

 

My pee smells like coffee.

My Mother, someone who knows nothing of this site due to my tendency to be unabashedly candid and offensive, is in the hospital. She has spinal meningitis. Ultimately, it's an infection in her spinal fluid that developed and moved into her brain, rendering her into a coma-ish state. Not sure if it fit the definition of a coma, but I've always marveled at the frustration one could feel about seeing a loved one who just won't, you know, wake up. I got a taste of that feeling Friday when I saw her in the intensive care unit. I went back to the hospital Saturday and she was awake and smiling, but didn't know quite what was going on. Her brain was still shell shocked from the infection but she was responsive. Her speaking consisted of incomplete sentences - all subjects no predicates - but I felt a mixed blessing that she knew who I was and where she was at, but that we had to ask her and the chance she wouldn't know the answer to those questions saddened me greatly.

The hospital rooms where she's staying have wide chairs with hide-a-beds that fold out. The springs are so noisy that I defy anyone to sleep in one without making enough noise to wake up the patient/loved one in whose room you're staying. Mom is waking up fairly easy and last night I guess I kept her up a bit, so I'm staying home tonight after I visit her this afternoon. It's a good thing, the hide a bed is atrocity in the world of sleep. How did someone develop a bed that is so uncomfortable that the user cannot sleep and so noisy that anyone around them can't sleep either?

I'm sure if I proofread this, I will find errors and some nonsense. I am, however, to tired to care. (but not too tired to use parenthetical comma-separated phrases apparently). I'm awake simply because of a medically frowned upon amount of caffeine consumption. I must sleep tonight.

goochout.

Gooch:ThePodcast

Return from another hiatus with a new tool to combat long bouts of podcastlessness: a voice recorder. This post is somewhat lacking focus, but the dawn of every new era lacks focus, right? [walks away, hoping no one noticed that what he just said didn't make sense. Eats an Oreo cakester. Smiles.]

snooze button

Please check out the tweets when I lag on updating the blog. I thought my Discovery Channel ones were funny as fuck, but little response was received.

And Lucy Pinder is resting below.

Oh, if only that was the case.

goochout.

super bore me: bore me forever

Sluts:

I'm still obnoxious when I'm out in public and sober. The difference being is that I don't have any excuse for being obnoxious when I'm not drinking.

Heading to the Festa Italiana this afternoon for a bit. Or as the non Italians call it, GuineaFest. Hell, that's what I call it. Every race seems to need a festival or gathering to celebrate their heritage. Italians have this. The Irish have St. Patrick's day. Mexicans have border crossings. Canadians, um, I have no idea.



I'm working a door up top at the Festa Italiana today at Pioneer Courthouse Square from 2 to 5pm. Come say hi and watch me drink copious amounts of Pellegrino.

goochout.

super bore me

i'm typing this on my netbook, so forget any use of the shift keys. you see, when it comes to typing, i comes correct. The thalydimide baby underdeveloped shift keys inherent with a netbook are not meaty enough for my pinkies to hit.

Not drinking has put me in my old school "steady mobbing" state of being. going from place to place. seeking adventure. Out until the break of dawn. I can drive without fear of an alcohol related incident. at least not in which i'm at fault. I've also lost the hangover as an excuse to not go to the gym. I want to get my arms big again. not because they'll look intimidating and impressive, but because they'll make the rest of my body look smaller by comparison.

My new glasses have made me look like a video game character:

This is a bit of genius, as he not only looks like me, but 80% of all IT people employed and unemployed today. I only wear my body armor at home, and even then only after I've picked out a safe word.

My friend Gregster in 2009 on the left and Katie Price on the right. I call this compilation: Three Big Boobs.

 Ha!

 me gotta go.

goochout

Super-Bore Me Pt. 3

I don't have time for an update, but here I am. Typing away. I was going to post a picture of a hot chick, but I've decided to debut my new eyeglasses. I'm happy I can see and drive safely at night and look nerdy doing it. Seriously: I look like "sexy librarian look" gone wrong.

 

Here's an actual excerpt of an email I sent this morning:

 

I apologize for not responding to this email [sent at 7:46am this morning] in a timely fashion. Thanks for the followup phone call seven minutes after you sent it.

 

Dr. Laura off the air? Her detractors don't want to actually listen to what she said and she has every right to say what she wants to say but should have known that the n word is one that yes, black people are able to say in any context and white people are not able to say in any context. It's just the way it is. These special interest race groups just clamor for any incident high profile enough to associate themselves to. She made the tired argument that blacks are able to say that word and whites can't. And so advertisers pulled out of her show. She didn't call anyone the n word. She just pointed out that it gets used a lot.

 

But fairness aside, I don't use that word under any circumstance, because it's really not necessary under any circumstance. The rules are vague, they don't make sense, and it's best not to fuck with it.

 

I love my bitches, but where's my crackers?

 

gooch:out

 

Super Bore Me Pt. 2

From Facebook:

 

Found out another one of my friends was molested when we were younger. It's so sad and I'm glad he was able to move past it and have a normal/successful adult life. Again, I'm glad that child molesters weren't partial to overweight kids. Now I don't even feel like I have a weight problem as an adult. I think of it more as leftover ass insurance.

 

My Crackas:

 

Approaching week three of my vegetarian/non-alcoholic life. Here's something you might not know about vegetarianism: It sucks.

 

I've gone to a barbecue and had salad and beans - overlooking the catered fresh cut brisket and barbecue chicken. Gardenburgers? I have yet to find anything redeeming about a bunch of rice and vegetables held together with god-knows-what, cut into round disks, and frozen. Fucking yum.

 

I've lost a little bit of weight. I've got to lose 24 pounds asap. I'm so turned off by myself it's getting hard to rub one out.

 

This excited me: Deleted scene from Return of the Jedi:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdJ0E7HbTKc

 

Peace.

 

gooch

Super-Bore Me Pt. 1

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

It was the Best of Gooch, It was the Worst of Gooch

Every now and then the universe treats us to a little social commentary fodder. In 1997 when Princess Diana died in a car wreck, she became the most celebrated corpse in the history of the deceased. I mean, she did a lot of stuff for the less fortunate around the world. Between kickass parties and getting cheated on and living a wicked awesome lifestyle, Princess Di did some good stuff and the World couldn't bestow enough glory and praise.

 

Then, shortly after Princess Di died, The ultimate in humanitarians passed away. A woman who probably never had a chauffeur to drink and drive her around, Someone who dedicated her life - every second of it - to helping people around the world died. Mother Teresa, a freaking nun died and everyone had to stop and feel like total fucking dicks for not bestowing the same amount of praise to, you know, a real humanitarian. Mother Teresa didn't end up on Entertainment Tonight every time she spoon fed an orphan. She just did nice things and died.

 

So in the wake of Kyron Horman missing for a couple of months, another child has gone missing. While Kyron Horman disappeared from a decent neighborhood school and has those Jonathon Meego/kid from Jerry Maguire cute looks, the missing camper kid in Florence is a ginger kid. As in a major sufferer of gingervitus.

 

 - - - - - - -

 

UPDATE: The red headed camper kid was found shortly after I paused writing this post. Then I forgot about the post as it sat in the "drafts" folder of my Gmail. They say he ended up lost and not abducted. I offer that perhaps he was abducted, then promptly returned because of his read headedness and obvious proclivity for ADD.

 

******

 

In other news, I've been challenged to stop drinking and to eat vegetarian by one of my Muslim coworkers for a month. He and the other Arabs I work with will be observing Ramadan soon. Ramadan is when the decent Muslims go for a month with "nothing passing through their lips" from sunrise to sunset. I love Ramadan because when the smartest people I know are trying to work with a blood sugar level of 12, I begin to seem smart by comparison.

 

Me not drinking or eating meat for a month? I should make a movie about it called "Super-Bore Me."

 

Gooch:Out

Too Gooch. Too Strong.

Fluffers:

 

I hate that "Entourage" has put a porn star into the storyline this season. Mainstreaming porn is a late 90s/early 2000s last ditch effort to give "edge" to shows that are slipping in viewer interest. It started with Traci Lords doing some scenes in television in the 90s, then Ron Jeremy's fat ass couldn't make enough cameo appearances in television, radio, rap videos, craft store grand openings, bar mitzvahs. Whatever. It's old school, tired and cheesy.

 

I love porn. Porn stars, porn films, porn spoofs (The Sopornos and Shaving Private Ryan for example), high budget feature porn (Pirates and Pirates 2: Stagnetti's Revenge), and porn production companies (Diabolic, Anabolic, Private, Vivid, BangBros) and any periphery industry/company that has resulted from the porn industry's existence. For some reason, I HATE when porno infiltrates my mainstream media choices. I want them separate. Sure, on my two monitors at the home office I may have watched a Family Ties rerun on one screen while watchine "The Violation of Hilary Scott" on the other. That's fine; that's separate. What would piss me off is if I was watching a "very special" Family Ties where Alex P. Keaton hooks up with 80s porn sensation Hyapatia Lee, Nina Hartley, Ashlyn Gere or, well, Peter North.

 

You get my point? Good. Neither do I.

 

goochout. 

 

Last Words... Indeed.

Passengers:

I was going over the trascripts of the Voice Data Recorder from doomed flight Colgan Air Flight 3407 that crashed February 2009. I found this in the transcript:

08:02.3 HOT-2 the other Colgan's there right now. and they're trying to turn him and we may have to sit and wait for them to turn him.

08:07.4 HOT-1 yeah.

08:08.4 HOT-2 that's what she said.

Really? The poor fucker's last attempt at humor before his and a bunch of passengers' fiery unfathomable death was "that's what she said?" A self set up TWSS joke no less (the worse kind).

Full transcript HERE

 

I saw Inception last night. I don't agree with the $17.25+processing fee prices for IMAX movies, but it was a great movie. I don't like Ellen Page, as an acress though. Her emotional range has two modes: very mildly amused and  perplexed. Her entire performance could be summed up by one of those Cisco ads in which she stars.

 

The film did inspire me to start filming my own flick: "Conception." My budget expenses consists mostly of a bare mattress, a camcorder and a stripper pole. Most of which will be covered by outside venture capital (read: local drug dealer).
 
gooch:out

The Twilight Saga: Gooch

Mel Gibson Fans:

I moved my workbench into the home office. I read in Macworld (my first mistake) about people working at desks while standing up in an effort to burn calories of some shit. Some people even have treadmills so they can walk a mile an hour while working. I left the workbench in its stand up configuration. My verdict?

Fuck that. You see, I'm all about nonverbal overreactions. I wear glasses less for seeing and more for the ability to pull my glasses off in a dramatic fashion in response to something someone says or does. Check it out:

"If you're here, and I'm here, then who's flying the plane?"

Now with glasses:

"If you're here, and I'm here, [whips off eyeglasses with one swiping movement of his hand across his face] then who's flying the plane?"

Oh my God! Did you see the drama? Did you see the difference?

My point: standing at my desk has robbed me of my ability to lean back into my highback leather chair and yell out "fuck." When something pisses me off via my computer, what can I do while standing up? Jump up and down? Breakdance? I need the lean back motion as a part of my overreactionary repertoire.

Also, standing up at the computer completely ruins the fundamental ergonomics required for internet porn.

"Oh no he Di-ent"

"Robin Quivers' [vagina] is like the first 10 minutes of a movie: It's never been seen by a black man." - Lisa Lampanelli

The Sorceror's Gooch

Predicates:

I know we're between my birthday and Jesus' birthday. However, if someone could get me this shirt, I will wear it and fly to wherever to attend multiple services at that church that Mel Gibson owns.

Not since "We Are the World" and "Give Peace a Chance" has a mantra moved a nation. A planet, if you will.And you will, because I'm writing this shit.

I'm out.

gooch.

Dynamite Vests: One Size Fits Allah

This is why the terrorists hate us. Mega burgers and Miley Cyrus are the reason the taliban are at Men's Wearhouse Afghanistan getting fitted for dynamite vests and dropping out of flight school before they get to the chapter on landing.

Seriously, MSN is going to have one of their pictorials titled "shitty burger ideas" and lead it with this and the Double Decker.

Having said all of this, I'm sure my next drunken 2am foodquest will have me in a parking lot leaning against a dumpster wondering just how to eat this thing (answer: quickly, before I pass out).