Awkward times with the house keeper

My friend Bruce went out of town and he asked me to check in on his dogs if I had time. Yes, I really have a friend named Bruce. He was born in 1951 so I think it's an acceptable name, but what do I know, I have a friend born in 1951. Bruce really didn't care if I checked in on his dogs since his house keeper Elma would be staying there, but I used the excuse to get out of my own home, eat someone else's food and poop in a strange place. I was really planning on it being a relaxing afternoon.

I got there around noon and there was no sign of Elma. I figured this was a good thing as she might take offense to me rummaging through Bruce's family heirlooms. What I didn't realize was Elma probably hadn't been there in days. The dogs were sitting on piss covered mats in their crates. After coming to their rescue and cleaning them up I decided to take a piss myself and get out of there. I walk into the bathroom and that's when my brain exploded. Elma's things were spread out all over the counter. Shampoo, Conditioner, nail clipper, vibrator with a remote so large it might as well have been made by Futaba. That's right, vibrator, just laying on the counter. It wasn't even on a napkin. I now know how she cleans! I am still kicking myself for not taking a picture. I looked it over closely, laughing, thinking this is much worse than my house keeper seeing my dick a few months ago. I emailed Bruce to let him know what was going on. He seemed disinterested in the vibrator portion of my story and was just concerned with the dogs. Then again his name is Bruce so who knows.

Best day ever!

The action never stops

When I was 15, my mother gave my brother the keys to the Corolla to take me and Jake to Action Park for a little Hep C water park fun.  I will never forget seeing a kid being taken out on a stretcher with his parents following in tears.  My brother looked at the kid who clearly had a twisted testicle and just broke out in the theme song for the park:

The action never stops, at Action Park!

Best day ever!!


The Most Insane Amusement Park Ever - Part 1 of 2 by insane-amusement-park

What's my niche?

So last Friday was my big shot at the majors.  WWTDD.com called me in for a "meeting." I love using quotes.  There was no discussion of what the meeting was about so I assumed it was for me to take over one of their many titty sites.

When I arrived I was a bit shocked.  Instead of being some pretty office where girls posed for photos that would be instantly uploaded to the site,  I found a room that was more out of the movie Boiler Room.  It stunk of sweat, and there were a bunch of dudes at computer tables that had no chairs.  I sat in the kitchen for a bit watching people drink Red Bulls and eat gummy worms while I waited for the head of Editorial to meet with me.  It felt like hours (it was two minutes) before I was called in by Colin, the big cheese.  We bantered back and forth a bit while he tossed a football in the air.  I prayed to God he wouldn't throw it to me as I'm Jewish.  We touched upon some great stuff.  For one,  I should have done my homework as WWTDD.com is just one of many sites owned my Spin Media.  The Superficial is another.  Talk about my shot at greatness.  We discussed my speciality.  I said mockery.  He asked my dreams and aspirations.  I said to write on a sitcom.  He told me I was too old and white and would never be hired.  After that we talked a bit about nothing and he then told me he has 10,000 writers for celebrity mockery.  He needs me to have a niche.  I told him I could write obituaries.  What is my niche?  I talk out my ass half the time and would hardly call me an expert on anything.

At this point I just have to wait for one of the 10,000 current writers to die.  Then I get my chance in the sun.

My version of air quotes.  Only funny to two people.  One I stole it from.

MANDOM

Before Brad Pitt advertised vending machines that sold used women's panties in Japan. And before Bill Murray was Lost and Translation.  There was a real American actor giving the Asian people what they wanted.  What they needed! I salute you Mr Bronson, for breaking new ground.  The world is a better place for you having made this.

Tom Sizemore would have made a great Batman!

There is nothing bat shit crazier than a die hard comic book fan.  Picture a 36 year old male, living at home with thousands of comics and toys covered in semen at the foot of his race car bed.  Spiderman sheets only changed when mom is allowed in the room on bath day.  And don't get me started on the cosplay.  Anyone know what it even is?   I assume it involves wearing underuse and getting kicked in the nuts.

Knowing these people are borderline homicidal, why would you fuck with the one thing that matters most to them?  Kill off a key character or hire a guy with downs to play Batman and you better watch your back.  I'm of course talking about the decision to have Ben Affleck toss on some Adam West left over sweaty tights.  It makes no sense.  I don't mind Ben Affleck.  He seems like a decent enough guy who was just dealt a bad hand in life.  Poor bastard can't outrun Jennifer Garner's flapping ears if he tried.  I mean I guess Argo was decent, but one good movie does not prepare oneself to be the dark knight detective.  Not since George Clooney stroked his nipples in the batman suit has there been such injustice to nerds everywhere.  I expect there to be riots in Gotham by nightfall.

WWTDD

So the other night I get an email from WWTDD.com asking what I was wearing.  It was a bit odd, but I went with it.  I was of course wearing a hefty lawn bag duct taped around my neck and penis.  It's the best way to lose water weight.  Next, Mr. WWTDD asked if there was any chance I was in New York or Los Angeles.  I said Los Angeles and got a a one word response of "Shit."  When I asked if that was the wrong answer, I was then requested to come into the LA office Friday.

There has been no explanation of why I've been summoned, but I naturally assume it's so they can strip me naked and circle my fat with sharpies just like mom used to do.  I can't wait!!

Fast as shit

I'm not really sure where the expression fast as shit came from.  I would think that everyone shits at their own pace.  Some slow and methodical, some quick with a lot of crying.   I guess what I'm getting at is my new MacBook Air is fast as shit after a night of eating rotten indian food and binge drinking.  I love it so! I may get it a case made of naan.

Long in the tooth/balls

Today I bent over and heard the sound of the stitching to my shorts give out.  At first I was very confused.  You see, I have a rare condition where I am completely lacking an ass.  I have a crack mid way up my back that shoots out farts, but an actual buttocks I know nothing of.  So clearly having a fat ass couldn't have split my knickers.  I then noticed my shorts came apart right below where my balls are.  Could it be that they are hanging so low that they put pressure on the seam?  I'm about to turn 38.  This isn't a good sign.

Not seeing the resemblance

Does anyone remember the Shmoo?  I'm not a WW2 vet so I certainly don't.  From my vast research I was able to deduce that it is some sort of cartoon character that was popular in the '40s. Maybe things were different when the world was black and white, but in today's day an age I don't think you can draw an albino cock and balls and call it art.  I'm mentioning this because someone recently told me I have a similarly shaped face.  So I got a dick face. What are you going to do about it.

This is from the official Shmoo site:
The SHMOO first appeared in "Li'l Abner" in August 1948. They were a seeming miracle. The lovable creature laid eggs, gave milk and died of sheer ecstasy when looked at with hunger. The Shmoo loved to be eaten by humans and tasted like any food desired.

Anyone want to guess what kind of food it tasted like?

Fan Mail

Like an angry old Jewish lady I felt it was time to write my local congressman a strong worded letter regarding my displeasure that Bamberger's was closed on Sundays.  While I was at it I also wrote the people who run WWTDD.com to let them know how much I loved their post on Amber Alerts.

It went something like this:

Hi,

Normally I come to your site to look at a tit, or maybe get a link to look at another tit, but a few days ago,  I took the time to read your Amber Alert post and I have to say it was some of the funniest shit I've ever seen.  I'm not sure why but I loved the idea of you standing on your porch looking for a blue box on wheels.  It was pure genius.  Anyway enough pole smoking.  I love the site and if there is ever an opportunity for someone else to write for it when you're dead or busy jerking off,  I would love a chance to be an intern.  Yeah, I'm 37 but I'm not above being an intern.  I have a blog.  www.barryrides.com, if you want to see the pile of shit I write when I'm not busy napping.  

Either way, you have taken it up a notch and I love it.  Also a favorite was the James Gandofini post before he died, regarding being a father. 

Keep up the good work and keep me in mind.

Barry

I did hear back from Mr.WWTDD.  He thanked me for my fan mail, praised my site, and promptly informed me there were no internships at his fine establishment.  I think he might of been mocking me though because he gave me the link to the career section of his parent company and guess what the first job to appear was?  That's right it was an internship for WWTDD.  For shame.  Of course I applied anyway.  I think I have a good shot!

WWTDD Amber Alert 

It shipped!

I just got a confirmation email from Apple that my new Macbook Air shipped.  It feels like yesterday that I guilted my mom into buying my current Macbook.  It was actually seven years ago I stole her credit card and told her she owed it to me for killing my father.  Time flies when you're masterbating.  So many good memories. Now I have to decide what to do with the old girl.

Part of me wants to blow her up with Chinese fire crackers I bought off a Mexican.  The other part wants to donate her to a child in need.  If one under privileged 14 year old boy wearing gloves is able to enjoy internet porn because of me, and I take two klonopins, I might sleep better at night. Decisions, decisions.

Exciting times

As all three of you might have noticed, I've revived the blog from the dead.  I felt that even though the posts are boring, and my grammar is atrocious, I owed it to the people that are bigger losers than me that read this crap.  Speaking of terrible grammar, I just found out that Kristen Stewart is taking an English As A Second Language class at UCLA this coming semester.  I will also be at UCLA this fall to revive another dead part of my life, screen writing.  Gotta put that new computer to use!  Do you think I will pass Kristen in the halls?  I assume she will be taking all of her classes at night above the Westwood Blvd Quiznos just like me.  If nothing else, I plan to coat myself in glitter and throw my script about bathing her with a toilet brush and dish soap in her face when we cross paths.  I call it Panic Room 2.

Should've bought a flare gun

So I got a new job writing reviews on various products that are sent to me by the manufacturers.  Well that is what I assume I'm doing since I just opened a box of ladies underwear addressed to my neighbor.  For my first review I've decided to talk watches while I stuff said underwear in my mouth.

There are many signs a person is a d bag.  Snow cap in Los Angeles anytime of year, d bag.  Toms shoes, d bag.  V Neck shirt, d bag.  Tribal tattoo, d bag who thinks it's 1994.  I could go on and on, but for now let's focus on the quintessential d bag accessory, the watch.  The bigger, more expensive, the better.  How will I know you are rich unless you have a flavor flav size gold plated clock on your wrist.

Knowing this, I give you my review of the new Breitling Emergency II watch.  Breitling makes a watch for a very special type of idiot.  It has a knob that when unscrewed sends out a distress call for 24 hours.  Who is getting the distress call is beyond me, but is that even important?  The watch costs $19,000. In terms you might better understand,  that is at least ten Macbook Airs or a railroad car of starving kids not to feed.

My guess is the only place the owner might send out the distress call is in a bar when they run out of Parliaments.  Obviously this review is written out of pure jealousy.  One day I wish to be rich enough to own this watch.  I will purposely not keep a second roll of toilet paper in my bathroom just to see how long it takes the Coast Guard to respond.  Hopefully they carry two ply in the chopper.

If you are stupid enough to buy this watch, I pray to God your friends set off the distress call as a joke.  The fine is $50,000.

Making a difference

For a buck and a quarter a day, roughly forty dollars a month, I could sponsor a child living in extreme poverty; or and this is just an idea, for approximately $3.13 a day, or $94 a month, I could have a new Macbook Air.  Now this isn't a decision I take lightly.  On the one bloated hand, for less money, I could really make a difference in some kid's life, in some country that is pronounced by me making clicking sounds with my tongue.  On the other distended hand, I could have better battery life for when I'm jerking off.  Did I mention the new Macbook Air weighs less than some of these starving kids?  You really don't get more impressive than that.  I think I have my answer.

If I was meant to help people, Apple wouldn't have 18 month zero percent financing.  Just sayin.

Black Ninja

I don't know why all the good summer shows are on Sunday.  I basically blow my load watching them all in one night and end up having nothing to do the rest of the week.  Case in point, Saturday night I was so bored I was forced to rent G.I.Joe Retaliation.  Now we can discuss what a pile of shit this movie is until we're blue in the face and there is a good argument that it was about time that I gave up thinking "knowing is half the battle", but really we should address the bigger problem at hand.

That problem is black ninjas.  I'm not talking about ninjas in black outfits.  I'm talking about black people playing ninjas, specifically RZA of the Wu Tang Clan.  For those of you who were smart enough not to pay $4.99 to rent this shit show, RZA plays a Japanese ninja master.  Not once in this movie do they mention the how or the why a ninja master living on mountain in Japan is black. I'm all for suspension of disbelief, but this just takes it a step too far.  They might as well had an ostridge holding a sword squawking Japanese at Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes.  It really ruined it for me.  When the movie was over, I pulled my pants up, and thought to myself my night really can't get any worse.  Oh how I was wrong.  While channel surfing I came across The Man with Iron Fists.  Once again RZA was on my TV screen performing all sorts of hong kong phooey as a black slave who escapes to Japan.  Still not as believable as a ostridge teaching me the way of the samurai, but thank you RZA for at least giving some back story.

Now either RZA is the most powerful man in Hollywood or he has been typecast because no one wants to hire Asians.  It reminds me of when boys would play the parts of girls in Shakespeare.  Personally I only like to see black people holding swords sideways in rap videos, but the times they are a changing.

*Update*

I picked the picture of Forest Whitaker from Ghost Dog as a joke.  Jake just informed me that RZA played a ninja in that movie too.  I figured he was mistaken since to most white people all ninjas look alike, but he's right!  Black Ninja for life!

In my expert medical opinion...

Today I sent a picture of myself giving the finger while taking a shit to my surgeon friend.  Don't worry, there was no nudity or poop in the shot.  It was just my face and bloated handed contorted in such a way that you could see I was flipping "the bird." Sure, I'm an adult and my friend is a world renowned hand surgeon, but that doesn't mean I can't express myself when need be.

What I wasn't prepared for was the response I got.  You see, this friend is an internet friend (so not a doctor and probably four dudes living in a studio apartment in Pittsburg) and has never seen my Mickey Mouse hands in person.  This was our conversation:

Doctor John: What a fat finger!
Doctor John: WTF
Doctor John: You have rheumatoid arthritis.
Barry: That's an ongoing joke among my friends (I don't have friends)
Barry: Mickey Mouse hands
Doctor John: It's freaky.
Doctor John: And I see 5,000 hands a year.

This reminds me of when I noticed how big my dad's fingers were.  He was on his death bed and I was holding his hand when I noticed that each of his fingers could have stared in a '70s porn movie.  They were hairy and more importantly had the girth of a Vlasic pickle.  He died too soon.  So much wasted potential.

One day, you might live your father's dream.  One day.

Gym Membership Revoked

Recently Maria Sharapova joined my gym, which means I belong to a really upscale establishment. I'm of course kidding.  Most people refer to my gym as "The Dump."  I assume Maria mistakenly thought the tarred over parking lot was some sort of special clay tennis court.  That or she is really trying to save her rubles in case she ever has to abort Enrique Iglesias's baby.

I digress.  The point of my story is, every day at around 9:34am, Maria begins her intensive training with some Asian dude that isn't Jimmy Connors, while I sit on an exercise ball on the other side of the room eating an original Power bar (the kind that broke teeth and required a gallon of water to choke down).  I sit and chew slowly, making sure my lips slap as the fifteen year old ingredients covers my receding gums.  I occasionally grunt while Maria runs some sort of drills that I used to do in fourth grade gym class.  I see her looking at me thinking, who's the guy that works out at the same time as me?  He clearly sets his own hours because he's an important business man.  Yeah, that's me.  I'm the important business man pretending to type on my phone while really just trying to get a picture of the 6'2 blonde girl.  Was there a point to this story? Nope.  Will I be kicked out of my gym when Maria googles herself tonight and sees this picture?  I can only hope.  I can only hope.

Anything for a friend

Recently my friend Dave (looks like a poor man's Joe Rogan) asked me to introduce him to a former colleague of  mine in the hopes that she could help him with a job at her company.  Being that I really am a good guy I sent the following email:

Alex,


My friend Dave has run out of girls to date on match.com and is now doing a full court press on LinkdIn. He noticed we were connected and was hoping for an intro. I said sure. He's mostly into anal and never calling a girl back so this should work out perfectly.

In all seriousness (at least for me) Dave did ask me today if I knew you from XXXXX not realizing we shared a cube for years. Anyway he saw a posting for a job in your NYC office and was hoping for an intro. He's good people and would do a much better job than I ever would. Try to help him out if you can. I would appreciate it. At the very least post a picture of yourself spitting on his résumé on Instagram.
Dave,
The balls in your court.

For some reason Dave didn't get the job.  Maybe next time.

I'm out of practice picking pictures that represent the essence of my posts!

Time to reevaluate my life

Today I got a ticket for making an illegal u-turn. You might be wondering what was so important that I needed to cross a double yellow, to spin around in a Trader Joe's parking lot, just missing a bunch of old ladies with their shopping carts. Was I in a rush to get to the doctor to get my child medicine? Nope. Was I in a rush to get to work? Sadly no. Was I on my way to a job interview? Come on, we already made a work joke! I was on my way to the comic store to buy a couple of Batman comics that I planned to read before taking a nap. I wish I was making this up. We are in some dark times.

Not sure how this picture is relevant.  

Stupidest Interview Question to Date

I had a phone interview the other day that for the most part was nothing special. I was asked about my background, all the lies on my resume, etc, etc. I thought it was a slam dunk for me to reject the job until the final question: If you were going to open a restaurant what are the steps you would take to do so? Let's pretend for a second that this wasn't a job for a business analyst position in the web department of a financial company, but it was actually relevant to the job at hand. I gotta say I nailed it. I pulled out every douchey line you could think of. I discussed picking the perfect location based on demographics and ideal clientele, to having a soft opening so locals could taste the delicious food. Hell, I even discussed figuring out how to make a profit when the food industry is so fickle. It was amazing how insane yet spot on my answers were for someone who clearly would be shut down by the health department day two. Anyway, when I was done giving my full description of how I would open Barry's House of Cheese, the recruiter said to me that I was spot on with my critical thinking which is what they wanted to see. She then informed that she was mistaken and there were no open positions with the company. She thanked me for my time. I didn't want to work at their financial company anyway. So there!

The posts are coming!

Bastard!

Last week I sold one of my Land Rovers.  I went back and forth in my head about selling.  Do I sell it, do I keep it.  Do I sell it, etc, etc.  Finally I threw a number at the buyer that I figured there was no way that would meet and of course then said fine.  I was pissed, but what can you do?  My brother said the whole situation reminded him of a great exchange in the movie Heaven Can Wait.

Former owner: He got my team. The son of a bitch got my team. 
Advisor to former owner: What kind of pressure did he use, Milt? 
Former owner: All I asked was sixty-seven million, and he said "okay." 
Advisor to former owner: Ruthless bastard. 

Bastard indeed!

You will be missed!

How to make money at Toys R Us

I've decided to take a crack at my memoirs, tentatively titled,  Fuck You, Portnoy.  It's about time I shared my story with the world.  Here is an excerpt:

When I turned seven, my mother decided a good way to earn some extra cash was to throw me a birthday party.  The con went something like this;

• Invite a bunch of kids over for a "birthday" party.  
• Make sure no one is allowed in the house without giving me some sort of a gift. The bigger the box the better.  Bonds will not be accepted.  
• Stick one old Hannukah candle in a Entenmann's cookie.  
• Have me blow the candle out ten minutes into the party.  
• Tell all the guests my brother has diarrhea so they will leave.
• Throw all the gifts in the trunk of the Corolla.  Leave the drum that some neighbor gave as a present in the house.
• Drive to the Toys R Us on Route 4 in Paramus.  
• Ask to speak to the manager.  Tell said manager that you bought all the items the day before, but you lost your receipt and you have to have cash back.  A store credit is unacceptable.  
• Count your earnings as you walk out of the store.
• Regift the drum to Jake on his birthday because you're mad his mom is a Shiksa and she stole a good Jewish man.  The beat of the drum will teach her.

Actual video of my mom robbing the store.

Stay tuned for more dysfunctional stories.

My cleaning lady saw my dick

Sadly this isn't the first line to a Dear Penthouse letter.  I was getting ready to go to the gym earlier today when my relationship with Rosy (Mexican last name) was changed forever.  It all started when I decided it was time to get my pump on.  In order to get my pump on, I needed to put on my gym costume.  In order to put on my gym costume, I really should have closed the door.

It went down like this.  I could hear Rosy in the other room cleaning and what not (pots banging, vacuum running, etc) so I figured closing the door was pointless.   I took off my pajama shirt.  Yes, I sleep in pajamas.  I put on my sleeveless gym shirt.  Sleeveless so I can see my biceps working as I curl for an hour straight.  It's also for all the moms at the gym.  After I had my gym shirt on, I proceeded to take my pajama pants off.  This is when the horror happened.  I had my pajama pants and underwear off and before I could get my gym underwear and pants on, Rosy walked in.  She basically saw me standing there in a shirt that was just long enough for her to see the head of my dick hanging out like a turtle coming out for sun.  She immediately walked out of the room.  I eventually got my pants on and did a workout, but the entire time I couldn't stop thinking about the moment we shared.

I just got home and asked Rosy if she was done cleaning the table.  I told her I needed space so I could put my computer down and get to blogging about her seeing my dick.  She wouldn't even look in my direction as she responded by saying "What's a blog?"

She will never smile like this again.

My life could have been so different.

All the failed dates, the botched job interviews, that one funeral, it all could have played out so differently.  I'm of course talking about my non stop farting.  There are only so many dogs that I can blame for what clearly has my name and smell written all over it.  Sure one could say, the fact that I lean slightly over and lift a butt cheek when I fart really is the cause of my misery but I disagree.  Anyway, the point is, yesterday I discovered Shreddies.  It is some new magical underwear that has filters for farts built right in.  I've been too lazy to read any of the scientific data on the product so all I can tell you is they have some sort of carbon filter that eats farts.  I have to say, they're not half bad looking either.  Here you will see a picture of them for ladies.  I refuse to attach a picture of a man in his underwear because I'm not gay!!

As far as I can tell they are not available in thong form yet.  I will have to check to see if they make a pair that has a built in silencer.  I am ordering them now! My life is about to hit an upswing.