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.

Nobody wants my hate!

It's been a week and I haven't gotten a single response to my craigslist ad.  Maybe I should have been more specific about my terms.  Of course anonymous sex can be used as a form of payment!

Tamiya - douchey nostalgia

I really love shit from my childhood.  The toys, the cars,  my parents fighting while I watched cartoons. So many good memories.  It's probably why I still have a poster of Samantha Fox on the hood of a Corvette over my bed.  Lately, I have been looking at Tamiya remote control cars with a bit of nostalgia.  Back in the day, I had quite the collection.  While other kids were playing outside, I was in my room getting high on tri-flow. I had to make sure the differential was properly lubed!

I just came across this video and it made me miss the good old days.  Nah, not really.  I dare you to watch the video and not laugh.  It is 100% authentic, yet it feels like it was made as a propaganda movie by white people.  This is what I was told Asian people sound and look like. I swear Godzilla runs across the track a minute in.

 

Job Hunt

Lately I have been doing a lot of soul searching.  Walks on the beach, pensive thinking, that kind of shit.  Mostly the kind of activities that get you in trouble for "alleged" cruising.  The point is,  I've been trying to figure out what my next career move should be. You don't build a resume like mine by not thinking things through.  I am one strategic move away from screaming checkmate or Yatzy.   I'm lazy, never finish anything, and most importantly hate everyone, but does that mean I don't deserve to make three figures?  Exactly.  That's why I've decided to play up my strengths.  I placed the following ad on craigslist today:

My Ad

I should be rich by the weekend.  

Get me a coffin, honky

A little while ago I wrote a post about how George Jefferson had passed on to the great dry cleaner in the sky.  I think he fell into a giant washing machine or something like that.  It was a sad time for our nation.  After months of grieving, I still have a hard time dropping my shirts to be pressed.  Many people might not know this, but George was only buried two weeks ago.  Apparently there was a fight over his $50,000 estate which included his remains.  Yes you read that right, $50,000.  His half brother and some lady he lived with were fighting over the body like the $50,000 was inside it like a giant black pinata.  Thankfully it has all been settled now, and George has been laid to rest and is finally able to rejoin Weezie in the hereafter.

I'm not trying to be a racist*, but I do wonder, why when a famous black person dies, does their family always fight over the body?  James Brown, Michael Jackson, George Jefferson, Larry Hagman, all these famous black people end up sitting in a refrigerator somewhere while their families argue over the corpse.  Am I missing something?  Toss the body in the closest dumpster and clear out the back account with an ATM card.  I mean if it's good enough for my parents it's good enough for Bernie Mac.

*Seriously, not a racist.

Douchebag Advertising

I think in polite society it is best to meet a person face to face before you hate them.  Fine, I'm lying.  I can hate someone just by the shirt they're wearing.  With that in mind, why do people make it so easy for me to show my true feelings.  In the course of a morning, I passed the following idiots:

 

Until I figure out a way to fit NAZI HUNTER on a plate, I just don't see the point.

Rat does cheese

I have vivid memories of my youth.  My parents were deeply in love, New Jersey winters never got below 60 degrees, and Chuck E Cheese next to Bradlees in Hackensack was the shit.  I remember insisting on having my birthday there, year after year, even the year my birthday fell on Yom Kippur (Oct 6th, 1984). I'm Reform so it's ok.

Everything about my childhood might be a lie but this is how I remember it.  Chuck E Cheese was this dark cavernous place that had miles of video games (Zaxon, Star Wars), and a ball pit 8 feet deep.  It was a place where my ADHD was embraced.  Sure, I was yelled at for punching an animatronic rat in the face and for jumping out of a helicopter ride when it was five feet off the ground, but that doesn't mean it wasn't awesome.  It was a time when hand sanitizing consisted of wiping pizza grease on your dad's leg while trying to avoid being ashed on.  Yup, you could smoke there.  There were no bracelets, to identify whose kid was whose.  Hell, if your parents came home with the same group of kids they brought, the party was considered lame.  It was a simpler time.  A time when buying weed off a twelve year old was normal.

With all that in mind, you can see why I would be happy when my three year old asked me to go to Chuck E Cheese the other day.  I finally could settle that score I had with Jasper T. Jowls, while my daughter  learned to swim in a ball pit that surely hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan administration.  Sadly though, neither dream could be realized.  The rabid rat has become nothing more than timid mouse.  Where once stood Donkey Kong lies Mario Cart.  Where once was a ball pit, there is a slide. Where once was a greasy Italian making fresh pizza is a microwave serving stouffer's.  Where there once was darkness, there are lightbulbs.  Sure the animatronic rat is still there, but my daughter felt a wave was better than punch.  What has the world come to?  They stamped our hands when we walked in and asked my daughter who I was when we left to ensure I wasn't stealing her. Come on people, we were the only white ones there.

This really is making me rethink where to have my 38th birthday.



*I just realized, it might have been Showbiz Pizza where I had all my birthdays growing up.  I can't remember anything correctly.

House Keeping

No turndown service.  No mint on your pillow.   Just a couple of quick notes before the real house keeper comes and starts to question why your toothbrush is in my ass.

Due to my lack of posting,  I thought about closing shop, firing all the employees and starting anew in Argentina.  Then of course I remembered, no employees, no shop, hell I'm not even wearing pants. And don't get me started on Argentina.  If for some reason you are still reading, may God have mercy on your soul.

If you really do care, I will let you know a couple of things:

1. I plan to blog more. (lies)
2. Mitt Romney won the popular vote. (no clue)
3. I plan to combine this blog with Barry Ride part douche.  (maybe)
4. Due to the above this blog is going to become even douchier. (true)
5. Steak-umms are amazing. (definitely)