It's like: neanderthals and me, the art of seduction, this american life

on draft dodging, animal collecting, varicose veins and solving the world’s problems with a small-minded ideology

By dusty (April 21, 2008)

I am growing an amazing beard.

This beard will be the epitome of me when it is finished. This beard will put Jesus’ and Jim Morrison’s to shame. This beard will define me and enshrine me in a world where beards go to live. I will not touch this beard with metal nor will I touch this beard with flame. I will not give up on this beard, as it is a living, breathing thing (and I am not talking about the micro-organisms probably living and breeding in it but rather the metaphysical, metaphorical aspect that effectively renders this beard a sentient being). No, I will grow this beard and then I will grow it more. When people ask me why my beard is so long I will respond simply and coldly with utter disgust.

The idea to grow this beard to such a point of crucial allure has come and gone and come back again and then gone away again several times in years past, but the time just wasn’t right back then.

But it is now.

I am sticking to my original dream this time. I will not give up like I usually do with most things (which is rather easily). There is a fire inside of me — driving me, steering me, has me on cruise control — forcing me to grow this beard. That fire inside of me is probably some sort of murderous beard-eating ball of flames because, really, why would a fire want me to grow a beard. But nevertheless that fire is there. And questionable intentions or not, it has me in its fiery grip. (A grip which no stop, drop or roll is capable of releasing me from.)

So like a lemming to a cliff or a heart to a heart attack, I go blindly towards the light. I grow my beard and ravage the countryside with glimmers of peace and love and a face that resembles a pubic region.

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It's like: this american life, what are you looking at dicknose?

the self-aggrandizing grandeur of living in perceived poverty while training a lion to kill

By dusty (April 18, 2008)

I am self-righteous and self-gratifying and selfish and self-indulgent and self-absorbed. And that is why I write on this blog (sometimes), and also why I don’t care if you, the reader, care about me, the writer. So pat me on the back, motherfucker, because I am awesome and here is why:

1. I am nearly six feet tall. Officially I am listed at five-foot-eleven and three quarters. So what that means to you is that I have all the beauty of a six foot man without the inherent pretentiousness.

2. I laugh a lot. Mostly at the hilarious things I say but sometimes at the hilarious things other people say and still other times at the hilarious things other people don’t say, because, hey, sometimes people are retards or homeless or crack-addicts or all three.

3. I live the dream. I stay up late, I sleep when I want. I dream when I live. I eat popsicles and jumped in the ocean for the very first time just last week. And when was the last time you did that, motherfucker? Exactly.

4. I am good at most things. And that’s just the truth.

So, I may or may not like you (I probably like you), and you may or may not like you (let’s get married then?), but there is definitely one thing we can agree on — and that is that this blog really probably only matters to me. Oh and also that I am awesome, as stated above.

Which begs the question: how did this all happen for me? Was it my amazing parents (who were born on the exact same day, by the way)? Or the tiny farm town of five thousand neutered souls in which I grew up? Or the multitude of little adopted children that still live in the house I grew up in? Or maybe it’s the Capricorn traits of which I have none?

It is probably all of those plus other things I can’t remember. And I probably don’t care about those things either, because in the end, I don’t really care about the equation that formed the solution (I can’t even do longhand division), and there is no calculator for solving life, that I know of.

And besides, this is all just a self-absorbed way for me to write witty banter that makes me laugh at you for laughing at it.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, the hunger, this american life

categorizing the lives of pandas and snakes in a college-ruled notebook filled with math equations

By dusty (April 9, 2008)

I wish I was a fat person because I like food.

But, typical of the unfairness that is this world we live in, I was born with an unfairly overactive cracked-out metabolism and an appetite that can only stomach a pound’s worth of food in one sitting (at the very most — even in the most extreme conditions). My plight is real, my fortune unfortunate, and my body not able to eat all the food that I like. This is the dire reality that I live in, dear reader.

I have tried everything to overcome my insufferable disability, but it’s all in vain (and by vain I don’t mean my appearance but the fact that I cannot eat a 72 oz. ribeye steak without having a seizure). I have taken SSRI’s (hoping for the gloriously delightful side effect of massive weight gain), I have tried lipo-injection, I have tried laying on the couch for weeks without moving, I have even tried injecting multiple meals straight into my body through an IV. But nothing, nothing whatsoever will cure this horrible affliction. I will never be able to eat more than two plates at a buffet, or eat my family out of house and home (or even eat my family, after a shipwreck or plane crash). I will never fit the American obesity stereotype and also I will never be able to have a gastrointestinal bypass.

Yet despite living this nightmare life of average-sized portions and second-rate leftovers, I will continue to coat my face in grease and cow’s blood and butter and McDonald’s breakfast in the false hopes that one day my stomach will open up and I can eat an entire large animal smothered in gravy in one sitting.

Maybe one day.

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It's like: this american life, unicorns & rainbows

a rather large event unfolding in a terrifically hysterical manner

By dusty (April 8, 2008)

Tonight I asked Alan what to write about (I had been thinking about Sunny Delight). To which he replied “how alan is going to get people to buy what he composes on fl studio”.

“wtf is the fl studio,” said I (because when you are talking on the internet, abbreviations such as “wtf” are absolutely necessary).

He informed me, and instead of telling you what it is I am just going to regale you with tales of my childhood.

My childhood was amazing in every way. There were times when I played in the sandbox, and there were times when I rode my bicycle down the hill in front of my house. There were times when I went sledding and times when I went swimming. Times when I drew with markers on my privates and times when I got my mouth washed out with soap. There were times when I had 3 “girlfriends” and times when I built treehouses and forts and sandcastles. I had dogs and I hated some foods (and loved others). What I am saying is that my childhood was pretty much exactly the same as every other little boy’s childhood ever. (This of course does not take into account the lives of crackbabies and retards and the abused and the poor and the ugly and the dead.)

The lesson in all of this is that remembrance is an ugly beast, but a beast that can be tamed. (For example, that time when my parents left me all alone in my house as a tiny boy while they test-drove a new car and planned their ultimate escape from me — it was just a dream, apparently.)

So remember that the good times are the AIDS of the remembrance beast. It does not want you to remember them, and when you do, it cries a little (but just a little).

But that’s good enough for me. If remembering a snowfort means I am inherently giving the mental finger to some quantum asshole guardian of the past, then I’ll just pretend my entire childhood was spent living in one.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life, what are you looking at dicknose?

how to untrap your withering, cancer-ridden body from the belly of a lotus flower with nothing but a pair of pliers

By dusty (April 7, 2008)

This is a hard-knock life. And not just because ‘stead of treated, we get tricked. Or because ‘stead of kissed, we get kicked. 

This is a hard-knock life because God’s got some big fucking hands. And with hands that big, I imagine you can knock pretty hard. Hell, why not knock the whole world on its ass and watch it get back up again. Just to watch the world (itself some kind of symbolic Rocky Balboa) punch that invisible infallibility with hopeless left hooks and useless undercuts — each time getting knocked right back down (and it’ll get up again, he’s never gonna keep it down).

Because life hits harder than anyone. And God damn well surely better be able to hit even harder than that. 

So, how do you take such a beating, besides stuffing your veins with HGH and snorting pure adrenaline while freebasing cocaine? Well, if you know that, you know the meaning of life and be prepared because you are going to get a beatdown for that knowledge from a lot of people and several highly evolved animal species and maybe some deities too. 

The answer may not be clear, but there are several steps you can take to avoid a lifetime littered with beatings and years spent on life’s injury report. 

1. Be Happy. You know those homo smiley face pins? Pretend that is your real face. But don’t actually make your face look like that, though, because you will undoubtedly get your ass kicked. 

2. Learn how to take a beating. Beat yourself, if you have to. Because as discussed above, beatings are the main aspect of life. Be it from God, life, people or animals: you will take a beating in some form or another. Consistently. 

3. Have a favorite animal, so that whenever you see it in the zoo or in real life or if it is attacking you in your house, you can say “awww I love those things”. Mine is a zebra. — because, hey, look at those adorable black and white stripes! (I would still eat one, though. Just because you like something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t want to eat it as well.) 

4. Prepare a death date. It is coming for you. Sooner than you think, most likely.

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life

a rain-soaked wonderland of gumballs and mutilated cattle, caught on 8mm film

By dusty (April 4, 2008)

Today I killed someone.

That is a total lie, actually. However, I feel like I killed someone today. And feeling like you have killed someone is a feeling that I can imagine is only furthered by the actuality of the act. That is probably not true at all either, but what I did do was tell my roommate I am moving out.

And knowing that he will never find someone as good as me; never find another man to secretly and deeply lust for; never find a man who looks this good with this beard; never find a man who will satisfy his hunger for perfection the way I most certainly do — that is a tough pill to swallow. (Seriously, though, I really hate swallowing pills. When I was a kid my mom even had to crush them and hide them in a brownie to get me to take them.)

So, left with the knowledge that I have surely crushed my roommate’s spirits and possibly driven him to the edge of the metaphorical cliff, or the theoretical bridge, or the figurative noose, I feel that I must do something to save him.

But what? A cake? What if I get the wrong kind? Does he even like cake? I think he might be lactose intolerant? A Valentine’s day card? Valentine’s day was weeks ago! A Mother’s day card? I am sure my own mother would be pissed.

The best solution I have come up with is to simply kill him in his sleep and save him from the misery he is surely feeling and will undoubtedly feel for the remainder of his life.

Because in the end, murder is just an act. And my new house is really cool.

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It's like: slow cancerous death rattle, this american life

the finalization of the universe as it nears itself in a moebius strip of irony

By dusty (April 3, 2008)

Last week I was red. Not red from paint, or from being covered in tomato juice, but from the sun’s evil, evil (and also radioactive) rays. I am not sure exactly how it happened. One minute I was sitting on the beach in Malibu with no sunscreen and an albino-toned body and then after multiplying that minute for 3 hours a day over the course of 5 days, I suddenly looked like a Mark Rothko painting. (I think I just figured out how it happened, btw.)

When I came home, my mom got scared, and said you’re moving with your auntie and your uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought, “Nah, forget it. Yo Homes.. To Bel-Air!” I…pulled…up to the house at about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabby “Yo homes, smell ya later!” I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there — to settle my throne as the Prince of Bel-Air.

Then I flew back home to Phoenix. And I was still covered in the sun’s evil, radioactive poison.

After many days (probably about 4), my skin began to fall apart (like a snake). When your skin falls off, you often ask yourself: “gross” And also, “I am dying” or “I have cancer for sure and it is over for me.” But because I am a better person than everyone else, I did not do those things (that is a lie).

My skin is still falling off, and as such, I have not been able to type on a keyboard to update you, dear readers, on my tales of life and life’s asskickings and donkey-punches.

However, my new keyboard arrived today — it is a special skinless ergonomic model that allows for typing with just bones for fingers.

I think I will enjoy my new life as a skeleton, though. I will no longer have to buy a costume for Halloween. And I can change my name to Skelly, just as I have always wanted. And people can put things through me, which I am sure will be a big hit at parties. Also I can pretend to unearth myself from a nearby grave when people are visiting their loved ones.

But with no heart, will I be able to love again? With no skin, can I ever use the term “sure, it’s no skin off my back”? The answer to those questions is probably no, and that is going to be a hard life to live, my friends.

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It's like: music is my girlfriend, this american life

things i got when it’s on and i’m home

By dusty (March 25, 2008)

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It's like: feelings (ew), the art of seduction, this american life

the impossible mystery of the sun’s coronal problem revealed

By dusty (March 14, 2008)

Today I flew a kite. Well, I tried to fly a kite. Kites are HARD TO FLY in this digital age. I remember a simpler time, when a kite consisted of a few sticks, some string, and a piece of fabric of some sort. Apparently that time exists no longer.

When we got to the park (we equals two friends and me), the seemingly impossible task of assembling the kites began. Unfortunately, I do not know anyone who works at NASA or any other spacecraft-manufacturing company, so we were left to do this using our own street-hardened, 2.7-GPA brains. After several hours of assemblage, one kite was ready to go. One of us was assigned to man its flight, and the other two began to put together the second kite.

However, a problem immediately reared its head. The kite was missing a crucial support beam, rendering it a useless, mildly-retarded down-syndrome beast of a flying machine. With no plutonium or iron ore stores nearby, we were left to use the knowledge we learned in prison: we fashioned a beam with sticks and fused them together by melting a piece of plastic around the joints with a lighter.

But that didn’t work. At all. It soon became obvious that we would have to give up one of the kites and focus on launching the second (imagine being forced to perform a second-trimester abortion to just one of your unborn baby twins…that is how we felt at that point). It took many attempts, but eventually we were able to get the healthy kite into the air (and for a time, it was roughly 50 feet high). Let me tell you, the sense of accomplishment and glamor felt when successfully launching a 74-inch plastic dragon creature into the air is unparalleled. Now I know what God feels like. And it feels good. Like God, but with an extra ‘o’ and a lowercase ‘g’.

When the doomsday bombs are dropped on this country and the apocalyptic Armageddon sirens are blaring, I won’t be boarding up my house and running to my subterranean nuclear safehouse; no, I will be outside, flying a kite — because when a kite is twisting and flapping freely in the wind, who cares about a nuclear holocaust. You know?

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It's like: feelings (ew), this american life, unicorns & rainbows

the tumbleweeds of life’s highway and tom sawyer’s eventual self-realization

By dusty (March 12, 2008)

The weather is amazing today. The weather also was amazing today. Also, the weather inside of me is amazing: a breezy wind of happiness and joy has swept away the cold, tumultuous thunderclouds of fear and angst. The PMS is gone, and with that, I digress:When I was a kid (I still am), I loved days like today. I walked around. And then I drove around. (And then there was car accident which forced me to drive 2mph and it took me roughly 40 minutes to go three exits on the freeway and I humbly and silently cursed the world around me.) But then I was able to go 65 again and I was happy at the world again.

And the world is happy with me, too, I think. A lot has happened in the past year and a half, and the world has been around to lend me some cash and have picnics with me and skip underneath the sun on the beach to the tune of The Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”. Except for the weekends it goes away on a coke bender and I get pissed at it and threaten to put it in rehab and kick its ass and ruin all of my friendships, it’s been a pretty damn good friend to me. And that makes me even more happy than I already am (which is very happy).

Item #2: SALE! SALE! SALE!
I put my ex’s engagement ring on Craigslist the other day, and one particularly resourceful young man offered to trade me a 9mm for it (perhaps with the intention I was going to use it to kill my ex). I didn’t do the trade, though. Not only because I don’t care enough about my ex to kill her anymore, but also because I prefer the comfort that a wad of cold, hard cash gives me. It is so much more fulfilling than a loaded gun. And although I respect John Lennon’s opinion (in a world sans-Yoko), I prefer to think happiness is a warm $795 OBO.

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