The Bowling Bowel

The Pig-Nosed Poke

Nipplelooza

Snapping The Twig

Rabid Doggy Style

Giving Skull

The Crimson Tidal Wave

Waxing The Ear

Muskrat Love

Drilling A New Hole

The Four-Hand Finger Jam

November 25, 2003, 8 AM: I exit my apartment through my abusive door and lug my overstuffed work bag into the hallway.

Just as I approach the elevator, the doors open and a man who is the exact opposite of me steps off. This guy is the epitome of machismo: an unshaven slob who seems to have stains on every article of clothing he’s wearing. Yes, even his underwear.

He smiles at me and says “Hi.”

I muster up half a smile and I say hello, only it’s so mumbled and under-my-breath that it comes out more like this: “huh.” Only not so audible.

So, that’s that. I get into the elevator and I turn to hit the –

“Hellooo.” The manbeast speaks again. He’s just around the corner, out of my line of sight.

Is he talking to me?

His voice gets louder. “I said, Helloooo.”

No, he couldn’t be talking to me.

“Goddamn, people are weird.”

I close the elevator door and I start to think:

Wait a minute. I’m weird because I didn’t say hello? I smiled at him, didn’t I? Besides, I did say hello. He just didn’t hear it. I’M FUCKING SHY, OKAY? Stupid motherfucker. What if I just had a death in the family last night and I was too depressed to say hello? Would that make me weird? Think about what you’re going to say before you say it, you motherfucking beer-swilling-testosterone-spewing ape!

Whoa. “Testosterone-spewing”? Whose ass did I pull that one out of? Goddamn, I’m weird.

We’ve all heard it said before: “Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it.” A figure of speech, right? Apparently not. Here are the steps toward proper self-abuse:

First, go on a shopping spree. Be sure that no matter what you buy, your purchase is placed in one of those large, fancy bags with the rope handles. You must have at least three large, fancy bags for this project.

When you get to your home, keep all the bags in your left hand, then open the door with your right. Now, here’s the important step: In one quick motion, attempt to slip inside your home with the bags and close the door behind you. At least one bag should be left stuck on the other side of the door.

Turn around and assess the situation. You may feel tempted to open the door and remove the bag. Don’t. Instead, give the rope handle a good, hard yank. This should cause the door to come flying back at you. After the door has bounced off your forehead, stand there in a daze for a few moments and ponder how incredibly stupid you are.

I hope that you have as much success in beating yourself up as I did. But before proceeding with this project, it is important to note, it really fucking hurts.

I just finished reading this month’s issue of Esquire, and all I can say is Will Ferrell has some fucked up teeth.

I mean, I thought I was in desperate need of some dental work. But, shit, this guy surpasses me by far. You’d think a big star like Ferrell would go through the pain and agony of getting his teeth fixed. But apparently, this is not the case.

Me, I’m missing three teeth: two on the top, one on the bottom. My sadistic orthodontist had them pulled over fifteen years ago and I never got the bridge work done. So, yeah, when I smile real wide, I look like a fucking jack-o-lantern. But at least my teeth are straight.

Will? That’s another story. His upper teeth seem perfectly fine. But that bottom set? What a nightmare! It’s like Ol’ MacDonald’s Farm in there (here a tooth, there a tooth, everywhere a tooth-tooth). Seriously. They’re not just crooked. There are actually teeth behind teeth. You’d be like, “Hey, Will, you’ve got something in your teeth… Holy shit, it’s more teeth!”

I can only imagine what it’s like to clean teeth like that. Flossing? Forget it. Too dangerous. You’d get lost in there. It’s like a goddamn forest of teeth. Like some ancient ruins in danger of collapsing. Tombstones in an old graveyard. A picket fence after a landslide. You get the picture.

Then again, maybe Will is just the first sign of an advanced race of humans. And two hundred years from now, someone will be writing a rant about how hilarious Citizen #204-45-234X is: “Only one row of teeth!” Will Ferrell. Funny guy. Even funnier teeth.

Walking into my favorite country-style restaurant, sitting down in a booth, turning to speak through the wicker partition.

Smivey: “I like musicals.”

Woman: “Excuse me?”

Smivey: “I’m a heterosexual man, and I like musicals.”

Woman: “That’s nice. Have a good day.”

Smivey: “I’m not talking about that pussy shit by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Or that hack work by Baz Luhrmann. I mean the good stuff.”

Woman: “Uh huh.”

Man: What’s wrong, babe?”

Woman: “I don’t know. This guy won’t stop talking about show tunes.”

Man: “Hey, buddy! Shut up, over there.”

Smivey: “West Side Story. Now, that’s a classic. Great choreography. Brilliant songs. Good storyline…”

Woman: “He’s still talking. Make him stop, Brad.”

Man: “Dude, knock it off.”

Smivey: “You know what my favorite is? My Fair Lady. Based on George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion, this jewel has it all…”

Woman: “Brad, switch seats with me.”

Man: “Motherfucker. I’m gonna kick that fruit’s ass!”

Smivey: “With such hits as Get Me To The Church On Time, The Rain In Spain, and of course, Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.”

A large man, wearing a shirt two sizes too small for him, approaches me from the booth next door. And, of course, I begin to sing.

Smivey: “All I want is a room somewhere/ Far away from the cold night air/ With one enormous chair/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly…”

Man: Dude, are you fuckin’ mental?

Smivey: “Lots of chocolate for me to eat/ Lots of coal makin’ lots of heat…”

He grabs me by the shirt and yanks me up out of the booth.

Man: “For the last fuckin’ time. Shut the fuck up or I’m gonna punch yer goddam lights out!”

Smivey: “Warm face, warm hands, warm feet/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverlyyy–!”

That’s all I remember. I woke up about thirty minutes later, strapped to a gurney, with an I.V. in my arm. For three days after that, the only thing I could smell was dried blood. I don’t know why I keep doing these confessionals.

I was out enjoying my morning commute the other day, when I hit some gridlock on the main road. As I waited patiently for the traffic to clear, I listened to NPR and caught up on the current events. In local news, the public transportation workers had ended their strike. Apparently, the mechanics union had come to an agreement and the MTA busses would be back on the streets soon. “Good news,” I thought to myself as I stared at the brake lights ahead of me. After all, that meant fewer cars on the road. And less traffic. Fifteen minutes later, I discovered the cause of all the delays: A stalled MTA bus blocking the right lane, its rear hood open, exposing its useless engine. Hey, good to have you back, guys! I don’t know what we did without ya!

Maybe I’m too old, but I just don’t get the popularity of Ashton Kutcher. I’ve watched his films. I’ve seen his hit TV shows. And frankly, I’m not that impressed. For instance, on the last episode of Punked, Ashton was proudly sporting an engineer cap. That really got me thinking:

I myself used to wear an engineer cap. When I was nine. I also had a tiny N-Scale train set to go with it. I’d stand at the controls and pretended I was hauling passengers off to far away lands, like Los Angeles, Bakersfield and Ohio. Along the way, I’d announce points of interest, while the ladies sipped tea and nibbled on scones (okay, I made that part up). Yes, it was a beautiful day for a train ride. Until tragedy struck. Suddenly, my mighty locomotive caught the edge of a Styrofoam tunnel and the passengers screamed for their lives! I must’ve dragged that tunnel for five miles (N-Scale) before the train derailed into a forest of fake plastic trees.

So does that make me cool? Or is it just cool to look like a dork and not actually be one? Why is Ashton Kutcher so popular? Is he really that attractive? Or is it just because he’s shtuping Demi Moore? The whole Ashton Kutcher thing. I just don’t get it.

The producers of Everything Sucks are proud to announce a whole new season of wacky hi-jinx. What will the title of this all-new side-splitting blog be? Nobody knows for sure. Seriously. We have no idea. But soon you’ll be able to look forward to such gems as this:

I can’t believe it. It finally worked. All those letters I wrote. All those calls I made. They weren’t in vain after all. I thought perhaps Hugh had lost it when he agreed to do some TV commercials for a local hamburger joint. But I was so wrong. The man is a genius. Girls of The Big Ten? Yawn. Gimme something really hot. Something every guy fantasizes about: White trash! Oh baby! Break me off a piece of that! I guess I can stop getting my petition signed now and devote all my energy to my new campaign: Saggy But Sexy: Women Over 80. What really goes on in those nursing homes after dark? Turn to page 38 to see Grandmas Getting It On. Baby, I’ll rub ointment on your bed sores any day of the week.

In L.A., we have this chain of mattress “super” stores whose big slogan is: “We’ll beat any advertised price or your mattress is FREEEEEEEEEE!” On the word “free,” the man raises his voice about three octaves so he sounds like Ned Beatty SQUEEEALLLINGGG like a pig.

Do people really believe these guys are handing out free mattresses? They never mention how much they’ll beat the price by. Is it $100? $20? Heck, it could even be a penny. Doesn’t matter. The campaign seems to be working. New stores keep popping up throughout the Southland. I guess there are a lot more idiots living in Southern California than I thought. Stupid Successful Slogans suck. (Enough S’s for ya, dvl?)

Yesterday, I had a rather disturbing experience. I had just finished spraying the walls of the urinal and was heading over to wash up when something caught my eye: a bandage lying on the counter right next to the sink. It was one of those finger bandages and it was still in excellent shape, as if someone slipped it off like a wedding band to soap up and then forgot to slide it back on.

Usually, in the case of a wedding band, I would alert the Human Resources department and then they would send out a mass email letting everyone know about the ring and where it was found. But that didn’t seem appropriate for a bandage. I mean, what would it say?

BANDAGE FOUND IN 6TH FLOOR MEN’S RESTROOM
PLEASE CONTACT JACKIE AT EXT 342 TO CLAIM.

Then, when you’d call, it’d be like:

“This is Jackie.”

“Jackie? You got my bandage?”

“We might. Can you describe it?”

“Well, it’s pink, with a small piece of gauze set in the center.”

“Okay, any other distinguishing marks?”

“Uh, there might be some blood on it.”

“Good enough for me. You can come pick it up at my desk.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! I’ve been worried sick over this.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I lost a bunion pad once.”

Bandage Abandoners suck.