You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

The Ocean

I was watching this show on the Discovery Channel and they were saying that besides humans, dolphins are the only other animal on the planet that have sex for pleasure so I started thinking that if I could somehow pull off fucking a dolphin, it might just be the best sex anyone or thing could ever achieve. But it's really bumming me out because the logistics seem too hard to overcome. When you think about it, there are a lot of obstacles: For example; Have you ever tried to swim in the ocean with a boner? It looks way easier than it actually is. Your dick just drags you straight down. And if you get stung by a jellyfish, just how the hell are you supposed to pee on your own dick? That means, you gotta find a really good friend to pee on your penis but not for pleasure. Ya know, just to save your life. Then there's also the issue of leverage. Dolphins seem pretty slippery and I'm sure I could drown really easily. And another thing, I'm not completely confident that I know exactly where a dolphin's vagina is located. I don't think they have pubes, which by the way is super hot, but I think they would significantly help me locate it. Plus knowing dolphins the way I do, they would probably set me up with a gay one and I would probably only find out after he blew me. I guess there's also the fact that I'm barely turned on by dolphins. Speaking of the sea, who the Hell came up with the idea of a mermaid? I know, let's have a totally hot chick, get her topless and make her impossible to fuck. It was probably some obnoxious dude's obnoxious wife's idea. I guess I kinda like the fact that you can't hear her complaining underwater. Gregory, I am sick and tired of handjobs. Gregory, why don't you leave me alone and find a nice girl. Gregory, you can try all you want, but I don't even have an asshole. But all you hear is "bbbbbllllluuuurrrrrbbbbbbbbb". Wait, do mermaids have assholes? They hafta right? Or else they would totally get fat and no one would ever want to fuck them but not be able to.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Novel Concept

So, I'm working on a book. Here's an excerpt. If you like it, tell a friend. If not, you are John Banks.

It’s 5:59. I grab my report and head to the conference room. Can I just say that I am not making this shit up? It’s 5:59. In the AM! And I am supposed to present my personal “5-year Business Plan of Success” in front of the entire team, Frank, and his boss, Emile. Fucking french motherfucking fucker that requested an exit interview upon passing through his Mama’s vagina when he was born. Not to mention, he’s the guy that looks 25 and is 52. Perfect abs, arms, v-shape, you actually kinda gotta hand it to him really.

Trevor catches me along the way, “Yo Andy, you ready for this?”

“Yeah, I guess...”, I start.

“Jesus! What the hell happened to your face?”

“Is it really that noticeable?” Unnerved and sarcastic.


“Do you have any Vicodin?” I'm jonesing.

“I really think it’s a good look for you,” he chortles.

“I was too beat to go to the ER last night.”

“Did your nose actually get bigger too? I didn’t even think that was possible?”

“C’mon man, I know you at least have some Xanax,” I plead.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that your body just provides extra skin when you need it? Like when you get swollen, your skin’s all sqwoooosh! ‘Here I am.’ You’re whole face is fucked...”

“Asshole, I have to give my report in thirty seconds. Make with some pharmaceuticals!”

Trevor reaches into his messenger bag and pull out 4 George W. Bush pez dispensers, “Here take the blue one, I’m pretty sure it’s Percodan.”

I snap W’s head back, grab one and whince as I swallow, “Fucker! This is blueberry.”

“I hope you learned a lesson here Andy,” he sneers.

“What, that you’re a dick? I already knew that.”

“No that blueberry is delicious.”

“Thanks Trevor,” as I nut punch him. We make our way through our bullpen (grey carpet, grey cubicles, grey drop tile ceiling). He tries to punch me back but I tagged him pretty good and he can’t follow through as hard as he would like to. I keep my head down as we make our way past Jorge, Dennis and Lucas.

“Can I ask you a serious question?” Trevor whispers as we enter our 1970s style boardroom. Complete with wood paneled walls, shag green carpeting, and high-back leather swivel chairs that surround a 6 inch thick, 5’ by 16’ table constructed out of Genuine Honduran Mahogany that easily robbed the rainforest of half an acre (but it was well worth looks amazing!).


“How are you speaking without a lisp?”

“I’m Canadian dummy.”

“That’s your answer to everything.”

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

If Don Draper was zapped to 2011, here’s some shit he would NEVER do:

Carry around a bottle of spring water.
Listen to Nickleback.
Wear a helmet under any circumstance.
Be self-deprecating.
Text. Unless while driving.
Not, not have a lot sex.
Chew Nicorette.
Line dance.
Reconsider objectifying women.
Drive a Kia Sportage.
Wear a Tommy Bahama’s shirt.
Sport a beanie.
Apply Axe Body Spray.
Pull out (fuck you, you’re preggo).
Comprehend why he got arrested for driving with a blood-alcohol level of 0.18

Thursday, November 10, 2011


If chickens were smart they would eat big ass sticks of dynamite and as Farmer John's axe dropped and lopped off their heads it would detonate in his face and kill him and his dog Roscoe in a poultricide so vile and hellbent, it would serve as a warning to all the heartless, selfish meaters from Atlanta to San Diego and make them think twice before they assume that they are top of the food chain. But chickens are stupid so the explosion would probably just make them taste even more delicious.

Friday, July 22, 2011

This is what happens in the locker room.

To be read with an English accent.

Jordan: Indeed sir. Well it’s nice to make your acquaintance kind bedfellow.

Garrett: Likewise, yes indeed, indeed again, yes indeed. Why I have never, if I may be so bold, I say, I have never engaged in this fine activity know as, how does one say? Indeed, I believe it to be referred to as, ASSPLAY.

Jordan: Really, my oh my, okay, let’s get started.

Garrett: Oh my word. I never could have imagined. Wow, fine young man. That is a tough position you have put me in.

Jordan: Well, that does appear to be the object my good man. If perhaps, Mr. Man, I can get you to hold still a moment longer, I will “wash my hands as it were.”

Garrett: Oh, indeed I hope this doesn’t offend, but the pleasure/pain threshold is being compromised at this very moment, good sir.

Jordan: What’s my name BITCH???

Garrett: I’m sorry kind sir, can you please repeat?

Jordan: Oh, the apology is all mine good neighbor, I’m afraid I broke character for a brief moment.

Garrett: Quite alright. Indeed, I understand. You found yourself in a position of power. Who could blame you in this circumstance?

Jordan: Quite, quite.

Garrett: May I interrupt for the briefest of moments?

Jordan: Naturally.

Garrett: Is it normal to be losing this much blood? I hate to appear selfish, but I must insist that we cease all activity, for I feel light headed and nauseous.

Jordan: I can assure you kind sir, that all you’re feeling will go away in a moment, once I, as one does in this particular circumstance, I believe it is known by some as, um, “drop the hammer”.

Garrett: Okay then good chap, proceed forthrightly with all good intentions.

Jordan: Just one moment kind sir, for this cannot be rushed by any means or I may be obliged to start the entire ritual from the start.

Garrett: My sincerest apologies.

Jordan: Not at all. Do not give it another thought.

Garrett: Well, you were the one making a whole big thing of it.

Jordan: My sincerest apologies. Oh NO!

Garrett: What, may I ask, happened?

Jordan: I seemed to have ejaculated prematurely. Now it is I who must apologize.

Garrett: FUCK YOU JORDAN! That is gross!

Jordan: Now onto the salad tossing.

Garrett: Fine.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Probably should not say when you get pulled over by The Police:

-How rude of me. Would you like a cold beer too?

-So how does that zipper work there fella?

-Remember that scene from Fargo when Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare got pulled? Did not end well…just sayin’.

-What’s that big stick on your belt for?

-You didn’t happen to find that crack rock I dropped out a sec ago did ya?

-Now I bet you’re gonna tell me that there’s a law against masturbating in front of high schools. Really. Oh.

-I bet your mom is a really good kisser.

-Of course I’ve been drinking. If alcohol impairs your judgment, how should I know any better than not to drive?!

-Is this going to take a while? I gotta let that kid in my basement out of his cage for a potty break.

-Can you give me a police escort? I gotta get home for Bob’s Burgers!

-You’d be swerving too if you had a car full of sado masochistic midgets smoking hash while a cop was following you.

-So…you are not gonna give me back my pot then?

-I really think it’s a bad idea for me to open my trunk especially given the judgmental disposition you’ve displayed thus far.

-Can you make change for a ten? There’s no way I bribing you more than 5 bucks.

-The thing about my license is that I left it in my other pants…that are on the floor in your daughter’s room. You want me to call her really quick?

-Open container? My bad *GULP*, more like empty container. Happy now?

-Don’t tell me I left my kid in his car seat on the roof again. That’s twice in one week!

Friday, July 15, 2011


I’m in a perpetual state of panic. Here’s what happens. Every morning I wake up and take stock. Okay, I don’t think I’m dead. I count the bed shakes to measure my pulse. Find my appendages numb and tingly from a long night of being prone, it must be MS or ALS. I’m now imagining a growing tumor in my pituitary gland. I look over at Her, She rolls away and I unscrew the Klonopin bottle just as deftly as I unscrewed her last night.

On this morning 2.0 MG is gonna do just fine. I sit up and immediately fall back down. Vertigo. Again. Wonderful. Better make it 2.5 MGs. I know it sounds weird but panicking doesn’t even make me panic anymore and this is making me concerned. Is there a finite amount of adrenaline the body can produce (when I was 13, I used to hope there wasn’t a finite amount of sperm swimming around the nut pond)? If so, I must have hit the wall. I’m already an hour late for work but I’m not going anywhere until my head stops spinning. I check the droid. Fuck, eight missed calls, 65 emails (60 spam), four text messages. I press on my Twitter icon but put the phone down because I can only read it when it’s exactly 12.5 inches away from my face and I can’t manage to get the distance right. I turn on the TV and can hear the cast from The View kvetching about weight loss struggles. I keep my left eye shut to focus, catch my reflection in the mirror and thank god I never got that tattoo on my shoulder (what would have started out as a ripped hockey player taking a slap shot by now would be a hairy fat fuck spilling out all over me).

Instinctively I reach down to adjust myself and I can’t feel my johnson. I pull up the sheets, look in my Hanes and I see what appears to be a dead fish-well, minnow. Klonopin side effect? I hope. I pull the head and tug it out but it slowly goes back into its repose like a 90 year old spent Stretch Armstrong.

I look back at Her to see Her eyes darting beneath their lids and feel happy and resentful. I reach for Her right tittie and squeeze gently. Look down, nothing. Great, now I’m sure I have dick cancer. Against my better judgment I get to my feet and into the bathroom. I empty my bladder but don’t feel a thing. My stream is weak and sporadic but as a benefit, it’s going in 8 directions at once. I get in the shower and immediately shart. At least I’m in the right place. The pipes squeeze and spring, finally relenting a brown unsteady offering of cold sharp water. No shampoo, no conditioner just a razor thin slither of Irish Spring.

I get it wet and sniff it imagining I’m a stocky Irishman on a prairie with my choice of sheep. The soap slips loose and after spending 3 minutes trying to grab it, I give up only to see shooting stars as I lift my head too fast. I towel off thinking I need a shower and see Her sitting up pulling her ear plugs out. She points to my thighs and appears to be mutely screaming. This confuses me so I look down to notice a yellow stream running down my leg. I guess I’m peeing again. That’s when I realize my hearing is gone. I get dressed (knock off Dockers, and unlogo’d golf shirt), grab a banana and get in the hybrid. I’m looking for a very large cliff to plunge from and this goddamn city doesn’t offer anything but gentle rolling hills. I step on the gas and head right into an oncoming garbage truck. Just before my head hits the windshield I wake up with a start. Jen looks over at me sympathetically and I tell her I dreamed I was John Banks again.