This blog may get a little long, but read on. It’s pretty fucking insane.

I was enjoying my Sunday morning, watching TV, when suddenly there was a knock at my door. I glanced through the peep hole and saw a frail looking older woman standing there. Was the volume of my TV too high? I muted the TV and answered the door.

An older man in a jogging suit was standing next to her. He started the sales pitch: Apparently, this woman who looked familiar, lived in my building on the other side. She was trying to get a job with the L.A. Times and needed some neighbors to sign up for the Sunday delivery for a few weeks to help her out.

As the man was talking, it suddenly dawned on me. I’d seen these people before. Not in my building. But several years ago in a condominium complex I was living in almost thirty miles away. They were giving me a similar pitch, only that time the woman was a recent widow. I didn’t fall for the scam then, either. Was this a coincidence that the same woman chose to live exactly where I live now? I didn’t think so. I declined their offer and shut the door.

Of course, I could’ve just let that go. But I didn’t. I was pretty pissed off that they were pulling this scam, so I decided to hunt them down and confront them. When I caught up with them, they were just leaving another resident’s door. They apparently scored there.

I walked right up to them, ready to let them have it, and I did. Only it didn’t come out the way I wanted it to. You see, my body was filled with adrenaline at the time, and I kind of have a problem with anxiety. My voice cracked as I told them I remember them from my old residence. The man denied it. Now he was claiming to live across the street. Despite my body wanting me to flee, I persisted. I told them to get the fuck out of the building. And it would’ve been pretty cool, except with the cracking voice, it sounded more like Peter Brady telling them.

Finally, they started to leave, but not before the man in the jogging suit managed to ruin my day. He turned to me and he looked me in the eye and said, “I know where you live.” I said, “So, fucking what! Get the fuck out of here!” But my mind was saying, “Oh, fuck. I am so fucking dead. This guy probably has mob ties. I’ll probably wake up tonight with the barrel of a shotgun shoved down my throat.”

Anyhow, they eventually left. I managed keep my legs from falling out from under me and get back to my apartment. Then I called the police. After waiting on hold for several minutes, it was explained to me that the “I know where you live” statement could not be considered a threat. Basically, I’m fucked. So, if you don’t see any entries on this blogger site next week, you’ll know why. It’s kind of hard to write when your brains are splattered all over the wall. Fucking Solicitors suck.

Time for a topical blog. Wouldn’t you know it, just as we’re all busy keeping our eyes on Iraq and Korea, China goes and drops a bomb on us. This new strand of pneumonia in China has people over there dropping like flies. One cough or one sneeze from the right person could mean lights out for you and your family. What’s worse, thanks to the miracle of air travel, those wonderful little microorganisms have decided to take a little vacation to the U.S. (infecting everyone on the plane along the way, of course). Now I’m sneezing, I have a cough and I feel congested. I don’t know if I just have a cold or if I’m on my deathbed. Chinese Pneumonia totally fucking sucks.

As if dating wasn’t stressful enough, I have recently discovered “The List.” Guys, if you don’t know about this thing, you’re in for a major shock. The latest trend for women is to create a list of things they’re looking for in a mate. As soon as they meet you, women are thinking about that list. Does he like the outdoors? Is he okay with cats? Does he like to dance? What seems like an innocent conversation is actually an interview. After the date, they head straight for that list. If you don’t get enough checkmarks on The List, you’re screwed…actually, you won’t get even close to getting screwed. Why? Because to women, The List is sacred. There is no disputing The List. Therefore, The List must be destroyed. The List sucks.

A couple of years ago, I was desperate for work. In my desperation, I turned to a recruiting agency. For those of you who aren’t familiar with recruiters, in the sea of the job hunting market, recruiters are like the brine shrimp. Recruiters don’t care about seeing what you’ve done in the past, or matching you with the ideal employer. They only care about making massive amounts of cash. How do they do it? Quanity, not quality. After signing up, you’ll be bombarded with emails, emails that have nothing to do with your skills. Do I know an Interior Designer willing to pay their way to Canada? What about an Ice Sculptor who speaks Cantonese? A Horse Trainer who knows sign language? Of course I don’t. And even if I did, I doubt they’d be willing to accept the twenty-dollar-an-hour rate you’re willing to pay. Maybe my analogy was a little off. Recruiters aren’t like harmless brine shrimp. They’re like leeches. They always suck.

It might just be my bad luck, but the only two times I’ve loaned books to women, they’ve been returned in less-than-pristine condition. I’m not talking about the inevitable broken spine, here. I’m talking about water-stained and generally fucked up. What’s worse is these people don’t even try to make an excuse. They just hand it back to you as if nothing was wrong. As if the book was like that when they got it. As if maybe I should be apologizing to them for making them read such a fucked up book.

The only problems is, I take care of my books. I try not to open them too wide while I read them. And no matter how intriguing the story is, I put the book down before I step into the shower, or whatever it is these women were doing while reading my book (I can only guess). So I know it’s not my fault. I don’t fuck up my books. And if I ever did, I’d never loan it out to anyone in that condition. I’d be too embarassed.

So now I feel like maybe I should fuck up one of their books. You know, maybe read it while I enjoy a piece of chocolate cake without a fork. Or perhaps set it on the toilet seat while I take a nice, long hot shower, until the steam darkens the pages to a brownish yellow. I don’t know. I’m new to this whole sabotage thing. If you’ve got any suggestions, I’d really appreciate it. Bad Book Borrowers suck.

You know what gets on my nerves? These speech givers who use stupid hand gestures while they talk: The finger pointing. The karate chops at the air. The pounding the fist into the open hand. Yes, some professionals actually know how to use these hand gestures to make a point. But most don’t. They go through a random arsenal of moronic motions as if they were pre-programmed before they reached the podium. Well, I’ve got news for you people: You can’t be transformed into a great public speaker by attending a three-hour seminar. Maybe if you spent less time creating your stupid Powerpoint slides and more time working on the actual delivery of your speech, you wouldn’t look so stiff and robotic up there. Loosen up. Move around a bit. And, yes, you can even use your hands. Sparingly. Handy Talkers really suck.

I’m in the market for a new place, so I check the real estate ads regularly. I want a nice place, in a good neighborhood for the right price. So why do all of these real estate agents insist on including their stupid picture in the ad? Is the attractiveness of real estate agents somehow connected to their ability to find me a house? It must be. Because those little pricks put it on everything they hand you. Notepads, potholders. Hell, they even slap their photo on their fucking business cards. Name another profession where they put their picture on their fucking business cards. Vain motherfuckers. I couldn’t give less of a shit what my real estate agent looks like. Just find me a fucking home. I’m tired of living in Hollywood. Real Estate ads suck.

The nice thing about being a freelancer is the variety of work you get. You’re hired to do a job. You finish it. And you move on. You don’t have to sign any giant birthday cards or attend those company-wide meetings. You’re the freelance guy. You’ll be gone in a few weeks. Most people don’t even bother to learn your name.

Another nice thing is all that time you get off between jobs. You don’t have to wait until the weekend to run your errands. You just do them whenever you feel like it. While others were slaving away at their computers, you might be relaxing in an empty movie theater catching a matinee.

Yes, it’s great working as a freelancer. When you are working, that is. But when things slow down in the middle of the year (like they did last year), you’re fucked. You take on small jobs that you’d normally pass up and then have to wait months before receiving payment for your services. At one point, you start to wonder if you’ll ever work again.

And then the year 2003 rolls around. Suddenly, your services are needed again. But after months of being free, it’s hard getting back into the swing of things. You have to get up early and commute for almost an hour. You’re given assignments that are due yesterday, and you’re expected to deliver award-winning work. Pressure, pressure, pressure. By the time you get home, you just want to crawl into bed. Sure, your bank account is inflating every two weeks, but you have no time to enjoy the cash. So, what’s the alternative? Death? No thanks. I’ll take the freelance work. Death sounds so boring. And permanent.

Every day, I have a choice: Either climb up three flights of stairs. Or face the horrors that await me in the thirty-second gas chamber. Disguised as a mild-mannered elevator, the gas chamber always manages to have something new to attack my nasal passages. The odor of a rain-soaked dog. The aroma of an overly-zealous aftershave application. The scent of perspiration. The smell of intestinal gas. Menthol cigarettes. Bad breath. French fries. Because of the gas chamber, I have mastered the art of mouth breathing. Yes, it is certainly a wonderful means of transportation. But despite the convenience it affords me, the thirty-second gas chamber still sucks.

The World Wide Web has contributed so much since its introduction. We can now research a topic in a matter of minutes, meet new people from distant lands and chat with them in real time. But the most significant contribution, of course, is free porn. But with that free porn comes a multitude of disturbing images. Visions that you never wanted to see, but because of some email titled “Check This Out” you may never be able to look at a farm animals the same way again.

I’m not talking about the semi-tame spanking pics or the less-than-normal up-skirt shots. I’m referring to those deeply disturbing photographs of women partaking in the delights of human waste. The Germans fondly refer to this category of pornography as “scheisse,” and if one of your buddies has ever sent you something like this, you will never be able to forget it. Who thought up this one, and more importantly, where did they find women who wanted to do it? Even more importantly, why am I so hung up on pee and feces this week? I need to get out of the house more often. Internet Perversions completely suck (speaking of which, have you seen this Bukkake stuff?).