E-mail from the Moms

After my cousin's wedding, my parents followed my brother and sister-in-law back to their home in Massachusetts. I just received this e-mail from the Moms. In spite of myself, it made me laugh. You'd have to know my brother.

We made it to MA last night at around 10 o'clock. Their house is beautiful and the view is wonderful. This morning after coffee, Steve proceeded to mow the lawn with his new riding mower. Dad took a walk. The next thing we knew, Steve was in the house with a deep gash/cut on his shin. He had decided to try riding the mower into the gully which runs down behind their house. When the mower got stuck, luckily he shut the mower off and then pulled it backwards and then his foot slipped and went under the mower and the hitch came back into his ankle and made a dent and a trangular cut in his thigh. Because it didn't bleed much, I'm hoping it's nothing serious. They're at the emergency room right now. Will let you know.

It Is Bring Bella to Work Day to Share Her Fucking Preciousness and Lighten the Darkened Lives of My Co-Workers

Today is Bring Bella to Work Day. SB had to fucking spread the kitten preciousness around. I even forced Bella's ass to wear her damn purple bling collar with the tinkle bell and rhinestones THAT SHE FUCKING HATES.

I thought about calling a few close friends here and inviting them to COME LOOK AT MY PUSSY, but if you can believe it, that shit is not considered business appropriate! You can't have any fun in a business office, motherfuckers.

One time, when I was a supervisor (I got layed off from that gig, if you can believe that shit!), I ordered a mini-trampoline and had it delivered to my office, which had a glass window out front. Of course I had to assemble that fucker and test it out. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the motherfuckers passing by the window! So actually you CAN have fun in a business office, but they may lay your ass off for it.

I was telling a male friend on break, when I was petting my pussy, that my pussy is really clean and smells good. Then he wanted to pet my pussy, too!

[The Moms is going to be REALLY MAD when she reads this post. She doesn't like me discussing my pussy in a public forum.]

SB's Favorite Album Cover of ALL TIME

The Mom's had these glasses in the 80s. The SAME EXACT PAIR! The Moms also had a fro in the 70s. I was so PROUD of her when she met me for lunch at school one day. The Moms was stylin, peeps. She was on fashion's cutting edge.

I don't know about you all, but I'm thinking fitty cent (translation: 50 cents) was likely a bargain for this little vinyl gem. Something tells me Joyce probably sang love songs and shit because her ass was trying to look all romantic holding that rose.

Joyce probably creamed her panties over Julio Iglesias and Mack Davis and Charlie Rich. She probably had rescue fantasies involving Barry Manilow. She just looks prim and proper. Those are the WORST ones usually. If I teach you motherfuckers nothing else, let it be that: Watch out for the timid ones--there is a wildness lurking underneath.

Joyce probably had a few too many Kahlua and creams or white wine spritzers one night, and in a moment of CRAZY abandon, had the chorus to Mandy tattoeed on her right butt cheek. YOU JUST KNOW Joyce's dumb ass was humiliated whenever she had to go to the gynecologist after that.

SB's Cranky Ass Is Back from Business Travel

SB's cranky ass is back from beautiful Genoa, Ohio, and her ass is WAY sick. I only have a voice part of the time today. That motherfucker keeps fading in and out. I sound like a damn choir boy going through puberty. I just came into the office to wrap up some loose ends this morning. I am heading out early to go home and go to beddy. I am WORN THE FUCK OUT, people. Seriously.

The most funnest part of the trip was when I went to test my NEW pocket tape recorder and said, "Cunt, cunty, motherfucking cunt, cocksucker, sonofabitching whore" into it and then played it back for the Moms. I cracked her ass up, especially since my voice sounded like an 80 year old man with a bad case of phlegm. How to have fun on a business trip! We imagined my accidentally hitting play on the recorder at the client site. Sorry to disappoint--it didn't happen. I need my job, people!

I did see one interesting thing at the Holiday Inn Express. I saw some German motherfucker in some new and EVEN MORE UNFLATTERING form of Speedo. That motherfucker had his privates barely covered by some sort of thong-like triangular Speedo. That shit was not an attractive sight. For once, I wished I had a cell phone so I could take a damn picture and gross all of you motherfuckers out, too! It was so bad that my ass navigated way the hell way out of the way so I wouldn't have to see the front side of the damn suit. I had to be able to sleep at some point, people, and that shit would have been burned on my damn brain. Why do the Europeans insist on showing their damn junk off? I'm sorry, maybe my ass is a Puritan American, but I don't want to see your damn old sausage in a Speedo. It fucking grosses me out. So cut my ass a break.

Here's a treat of a description for all you motherfuckers who never had the good fortune to visit lovely Ohio. Close your eyes. No cheating. Now picture pale yellow dried wheat fields, bleached by the sun. Then picture a field of corn taller than the tallest person in your family. There you go. Your asses just visited Ohio! Also, you should picture lots of people in baggy shorts with out-of-date hairstyles (possibly even mullets). There's your damn virtual vacation, compliments of SB. You're welcome.

I came back from the trip to the entire yard of my house (& I do mean ENTIRE YARD), covered in tables with tarps on them. Even my damn front picture window is covered over by racks of tarped clothes.

The kids next door are having a damn yard sale, and those motherfuckers just took over in SB's absence! Last night, when I was trying to unload the damn car from my trip, carloads of assholes were pulling up to try and crane their damn necks to see what would be sold today (the opening day of the yard sale). Motherfuckers in Ohio go apeshit over a yard or garage sale. APE SHIT. I guess you can understand that tendency better now that you have virtually visited our fine state. When all you have to look at is corn and wheat fields, you'd go apeshit over a sale, too. And don't act all lofty and superior, because you would, trust me.

Conversation with the Moms

SB: Right now, I'd be willing to let the Cable Guy buttfuck me if it would get me some damn television service!

the Moms: I'm so proud of you.

Quote of the Damn Day: Johnny Depp

The quote below is from the new issue of Vanity Fair that just came out today and that I have a subscription to THANK THE LORD JESUS because JOHNNY IS ON THE DAMN COVER, PEOPLE!

On driving golf carts to get around on his island:

“My hillbilly instinct tells me, when you’re ready to drive a golf cart, you should have a beer.”

SB's got the same damn instinct! I also have the same instinct about driving a car. And don't you bitches from MAD be berating me in the comments section either! I'm FOR drunk driving, and the Moms told a bartender friend on Tybee Island that I am the BEST DRUNK DRIVER she knows. Mom was proud of that shit, and her ass was bragging on her kid. The whole bar gave me a round of applause. I love Georgia! They are my home people!

Maybe I should get the Moms a bumpersticker for her car that reads: My kid is THE BEST DRUNK DRIVER!

Paris Hilton Won the Biggest Damn Whore Poll by a Cunt

The Moms is going to be so MAD at me for using THAT word. I am 43 years old, and yes, my ass DOES care what the Moms thinks. Well, I care some.

Anyhoo, Paris only won Biggest Damn Whore by ONE damn vote. I was pulling for George Michael (well, not literally). George is a damn whore, but I still love him. In fact, I think he has the best voice of any living singer, except for maybe Andrea Bocelli. I crank the old Andrea Bocelli CDs up on the weekends and annoy the young neighbor couple next door, who probably prefer rap or some damn shit. 

The Disdainful one loves Bocelli, too. Also, Mercer and I both like pasta, flashy Cadillacs, and the red wine (okay, Mercer's not keen on el vino--that's just me). I am quite sure that we are both reincarnated mobsters. We also both like the flash--any kind of shiny jewelry or shit nearly hypnotizes our asses. We were probably named Guido and Rocko or some shit like that in the previous life. Strangely, the only food I can prepare is pasta and pizza. I eat it all the time. It's a holdover from the last life. I also have an aluminum baseball bat in my front closet for unwelcome intrudahs. 

I posted a photo of the BEST ACTOR OF ALL TIME EVER as the greatest mobster EVER, instead of Paris Hilton's whorish mug, because I can't stand looking at that wonk-eyed bitch.

The Whole Fucking Family Held Each Other and Cried Because They Were Frightened as Piss of a Damn Thunderstorm

[Maybe that post title could have been longer, but I'm not sure how.]

Well, we are having another goddamn thunderstorm here in beautiful Ohio right now. And this reminds SB of a story. Actually, it's the best kind of story, because it's true and it involves FUCKING BATSHIT BEHAVIOUR.

Anyhoo, my family used to have some friends who were originally a very wealthy family from Lexington, Kentucky. We're talking social register types here, peeps.

The father was an attorney who did pretty well for himself, until he was unceremoniously disbarred from practicing law. Unfortunately, because my ass is nosy, I never did hear why the old man was disbarred. But Evan (the name has been changed to protect the less than innocent) did so well before the unceremonious disbarring, that the family, which included Evan's wife and three pretty teenaged daughters, lived in a mansion with an O-lympic sized swimming pool.

However, as commanding as dear old dad was as an attorney, whenever the family would set out on a car journey someplace and encounter a thunderstorm, Evan would pull over to the side of the road, and THE ENTIRE FAMILY WOULD HUG EACH OTHER AND CRY until the storm passed. I kid you not.

That shit still makes SB laugh whenever I hear thunder. I just picture it in my mind and can't stop laughing. Bunch of pussies.

My dog Ginger doesn't like storms either, and her ass is probably pissing all over the wooden floor at home, so that will be nice to have to clean that shit up when I get home tonight. I keep telling Ginge that my Uncle Bob said that thunder is just Jesus bowling (and evidently Jesus gets a lot of strikes!), but it doesn't help her a damn bit. She just shakes and quakes and dribbles piss and even tries to follow my ass into the 1/2-bath. I have to tug and pull and war with her ass before I can get her out.

NOTE: The Moms said I needed to add a note to this story of the crying family and let you, my beloved readers, know that Evan was 6 foot 4" and a REALLY BIG guy. She thought that added to the ridiculousness of the whole thing, as if that shit wasn't ridiculous enough in the first place.

I Was an Adult-Child Zombie and Fucked Up Mom's Special Day

Ah, me poor long-suffering, Mum. As if raising my difficult ass wasn't punishment enough, I fucked up her Mother's Day ROYAL this year.

You see, the Moms likes to watch the TV show, Sunday Morning. So this year for Mother's Day, I told the Moms that I would pick her up around 8:00, and we would go to our local coffee joint, grab a cuppa and a treat (on me), and then return to her house and watch Sunday Morning together. Picture it--SB's ass getting up before noon on a Sunday! Now, that's sacrificing for one's mother! Almost as BIG A SACRIFICE as giving birth! Not quite though, because SB was a pretty BIG fucking bebe, and I gave the Moms a sharp backache throughout most of the pregnancy.

Anyhoo, this all would have worked out great (the coffee/Sunday Morning/Mother's Day thing), if I hadn't taken that Ambien so late on Saturday night. SB was barely coherent when she picked up the Mom's for her special day.

In fact, I barely remember the drive to or from the java joint or swerving around on the road or even the tasty Snickerdoodle coffee. Moms said that she kept trying to have a conversation with me, and I was barely able to form a coherent sentence. Ambien, for some reason, really hits me, but it usually doesn't hang on like that. It was strange. At one point, the Moms even had to lean over and wipe a string of drool from between the coffee cup and my lips! Nothing says Mother's Day like wiping the drool from your grown child's lips!

I depressed me dear old mum. I nearly ruint her damn day. As if it wasn't bad enough that her son lives on the far East Coast, and she is away from her precious granddaughter. Mom started feeling a little depressed and dejected, because the kid she did have, who was local, was drooling and zoning out mid-sentence. It did not make her feel like a SUCCESS as a mother overall.

The somewhat awkward young man from across the street crossed over when he saw Moms out watering her flowers later in the afternoon and looking depressed and he gave her a big hug and asked how her Mother's Day was. That made her smile. It even touched her heart. Thus proving that wise old adage: you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.

Yes, I said I was sorry for drooling and fucking up Mother's Day! I had her over (after a lengthy nap) for a Pepperidge Farm cookie assortment (which I managed NOT TO EAT ALL OF) later in the evening. I was, in fact, conversant and a better, unzombified daughter in general. All was not lost, motherfuckers.

Madge Has the Damn Dementia

And this outfit is proof! Someone is really wanting some attention. Madge's bony ass canNOT possibly think this shit looks good. Doesn't her ass have a stylist, and if she does, is it Bobby Trendy? Madge's goddamn hair bow doesn't even match the damn dress! She will never woo Sean Penn back looking like this mess.

Madge is an old fart now, and she needs to have some damn decorum! Lindsay Lohan has better taste than this. And SB doesn't give a good goddamn if it's Christian Lacroix. His shit DOES NOT look good on older women. It doesn't really look good on younger women either. It's just loud and FUG.

The Moms gets mad when fat people go out in too small clothes. She always asks, Don't they have a damn mirror? [Okay, the Moms doesn't cuss. I added the damn, people.]

MADGE, DON'T YOU HAVE A DAMN MIRROR?

A Blast from the Past for You Oldies Like Me

Yes. Yes, it is. You are correctamundo--those of you who guessed the photo above is of a Popeel's Pocket Fisherman by Ronco--because you just never know when you're going get a wild hair up your ass and want to fish. This shit folds up and stores in your pocket, so you can fish anytime and anywhere you take a notion!

I don't know whether Ronco is still in business or not. I kind of sincerely doubt Ronco made it through the Bush years (I barely made it myself), but anyhoo. . . there for awhile, Ronco made fucking everything except a damn automobile. If you needed a popcorn popper or a lint roller, try Ronco. I think even my double-album Donny Osmond's Greatest Hits was pressed by Ronco. But that sort of brings back a tough childhood memory for SB.

I begged and whined at the Moms and daddums for the double-record Donny Osmond album WITH THE POSTER (from Ronco) for at least six-fucking-months, and then, when I finally received it on my birthday, I decided to take it into school for show-and-tell. I WANTED EVERYBODY TO KNOW WHAT A HUGE DONNY OSMOND FAN I WAS! I wanted all the kiddies to know what excellent taste in audio fare I had at such a tender age. And then, (TEAR!) walking out to the driveway to get in the car to go to school, SB was holding the album the wrong way (NOT BEING CAREFUL WITH MY PRECIOUS GIFT FROM HEAVEN), when one of the precious fucking records fell out of the sleeve and crashed onto the driveway. It was the record that had Puppy Love on it, too!

A GREAT BIG CHUNK chipped out of the cocksucking vinyl. I cried and cried and cried all over my Sear's Winnie-the-Pooh-and-Piglet-Too designer ensemble. It was heartbreaking.

SB had the SADS for over a week. The Moms and daddums told me that I had to learn an important lesson and learn to take care of my things.

BULLSHIT. I WANNA NEW GODDAMN DOUBLE-RECORD SET, I said. I really did. I actually said that. The rents knew, even at my tender young age, that stopping me from cursing was a lost cause. Their new mission was to teach location cursing--in other words, where cursing was most appropriate (home) and where it was not (out).

Evil Dolls -- the Horror, the Horror!

If you are one of my regular readers, you know all about SB's weird doll phobia. I think dolls (& mannequins) are creepy as hell. I just know the mannequins are talking about me when I'm in a store--they talk with damn telepathy, people--just because your dumb ass can't hear them doesn't mean it's not occurring!

I don't even like to sleep with any kind of doll in the room with me. Take the Cher doll, for instance. The Moms had to put her out under the Christmas tree, or my ass refused to sleep in my bedroom, the Christmas that Santa brought her. See photo below and maybe your dumb impoverished ass will understand why.

You can imagine my horror at encountering the viddy below over at Dlisted. I may have to get all of my stepdaughter's damn dolls out of the house before I can get some shut-eye tonight! This is one of the grossest things I have EVER seen IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!

Leech Women Tribute *PUPPET MASTER* - video powered by Metacafe

This clip really gives SB the yucks! My stomach actually feels queasy. Evil dolls!!!!!!!!!!!

Did I mention I also have a thing about doll hair? My appetite goes away if I so much as see a doll on a commercial while I am eating. It just totally gags me. [There is a story here, but we're not sharing that one today.]

IDEA: Maybe I should start carrying a doll around all the time so I can finally lose that stubborn 20 pounds!

I could write a book: The New Doll Diet. It could be a bestseller, people! I don't need your damn negativity. I have enough of my own.

Ironic Photo: Shriners at the Damn IHOP

Here's something you don't see every day--Shriners at the damn IHOP. All SB knows about Shriners is that they seem to like the IHOP, and they're all a bunch of fat, over-sized motherfuckers (connection to IHOP or coincidence?) who get some kind of hard-on from riding around in little cars. I don't get it. I was born and raised in this country, and there's a lot of shit I don't understand. I'm not ashamed to admit it either.

My friend, Dinh, who grew up in Vietnam, was always trying to figure the Americans out. I told him to stop trying. "Dinh," I said, "my ass grew up here, and I don't understand my countrymen." Wisely, Dinh, who didn't talk much anyway (in fact, it took him most of a year to say once sentence to me), except on smoke breaks, when you couldn't get away from his ass, just nodded his head. "Don't try to figure it out. You'll just drive yourself crazy," I said.

Also, on a non-interesting footnote, Dinh's last name was also Dinh. So, his full Americanized name was Dinh Dinh, which is what the Moms used to call supper sometimes.

Phone Conversation with the Moms

SB: I made a new Internet friend over the weekend.

the Moms: That's great, dear.

SB: He's a heroin junky who lives in France, whose father was dismembered and eaten by a famous serial killer.

(long pause)

SB: Well at least you'll have something to talk about with the other retirees at the spaghetti dinner tonight.

Even Tootsy Is God's Child

Do you remember when this style of glasses was hot? The Moms had a pair exactly like them. They made people look like scary alien grasshoppers or some shit. The Moms is really pretty, but even she looked like a mutant grasshopper.

Jehovah's Witlesses: Part of the Unique American Experience

The asshole licker (Ginger) scared off a pair of lady Jehovah's Witlesses this morning. They were a couple of VERY STERN looking black women. Ginger always goes ballistic when someone shows up at the door--doesn't matter who. She even goes ballistic when Mr. SB comes home from work at night. Then, when he comes in the house, she runs upstairs and hides. But, she DOES sound ferocious.

I couldn't even get the outer door open to talk to the grim Witlesses. The asshole licker kept hopping up and down on her back legs. I said, "I'm sorry ladies [I really wasn't], but there is just no way [pointing at the hopping asshole licker]. Besides, I'm a humanist."

Well, if looks could kill. The one STERNEST black lady was having NONE OF THIS HUMANIST BULLSHIT. She really truly frightened me. She just glowered at me like there was a VERY BAD taste in her mouth.

After I closed the front door, I praised the asshole licker for being a good dog and scaring the Witlesses off. I gave her a treat and patted her head. GOOD DOG.

The Moms has an interesting tactic with the Jehovah's Witlesses. She believes in honesty, so she hands them their literature back and tells them she'll only throw it out. "I won't read this," she tells them. "So let's not waste it. You can give it to somebody who might actually read it."

I love my mother.

British Family Too Fucking Fat to Work Want More Welfare Money

What a fine example these parents are setting for the kiddies! They want more dole money so they can buy more Cheez Whiz and Cheese Doodles and frozen pepperoni pizza and Coke. At least dad has the sense(?) to wear a loose-fitting shirt. Why do fat women always want to wear skin-tight shirts that show their belly rolls? DISGUSTING. These hos should all be wearing shirts like the daddums has on.

And don't any of you Big Beautiful Bullshit ladies start writing hateful shit in the comments section about SB being a sizeist either! I SURE AS FUCK AM. And when I'm "on the chub" as the Moms would say, I wear a big loose shirt. I don't accentuate my fat, motherfuckers!
D-I-S-G-U-S-T-I-N-G.

Check out the Telegraph article on this family of fat lazy fuckwits (thanks Alec): http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/5004431/Family-who-are-too-fat-to-work-say-22000-worth-of-benefits-is-not-enough.html

It Is Too Dairy

And dairy is one of the basic food groups, therefore, it must be good for you. Yes, the Moms fed this shit to her growing chicklet on a blanket outside (in the sun with no sunscreen!) on Chicken in a Biskit (what's up with that spelling anyway--can't those fuckers at Nabisco spell?) crackers. Moms hadn't yet entered her Jane Fonda health food craze phase, where she shoved carrot sticks, grapes, and little tiny boxes of raisins at us, while the other lucky little motherfuckers in the neighborhood got Rice Krispy Treats.

Anyhoo, SB digresses momentarily in her bitterness. Back to the fucking ninth Wonder of the World. It's Kraft Easy Cheese! Fuck that, it's cheese in a goddamn can. Can you smart college kids out there improve on that? And SB recommends this shit with a dry red wine. Of course, what don't I recommend with red wine? EVERYTHING goes better with red, red, wine.

Mercer recommends it, too (not wine--EASY CHEESE--stay with me here, people--it's not that hard). She eats it right out of the spray nozzle! The Disdainful One knows quality food product when she tastes it.

If there is anybody out there who denies that man has evolved as a species, I think the concurrent evolution of cheese-food product is strong evidence that we damn well have.

Aerosol cheese is also a distinctly American invention. That means, we take something perfectly good the way it is and bastardize it by trying to improve upon it. And trust me, the fine folks in Europe aren't going for processed cheese food product at all, let alone junk-filled crap that you can squirt out of a can. Uh huh. No fucking way.

I can hear the conversation between the two American food scientists and inventors of Easy Cheese, wearing lab coats, in the early part of the 1960's.

Food Scientist 1: Stan, is there a way we can improve on cheese? We need to make cheese more exciting and appealing to the modern American consumer.

Food Scientist 2: How about spray cheese in a can, Bob? Now, that would be a gimmick that would sell like hotcakes! It's convenient, modern, and one of the basic food groups. I think American mother's will really go for it, as long as they're not too health food crazed.

Food Scientist 1: By gum, I think you're on to something there, Stan! We'll call it Easy Cheese, or do you think it should be Easy Cheez, with a z? Those guys over at Nabisco come up with some pretty snappy names, and by God, stuff like that moves product!

Food Scientist 2: Who gives a fuck, Bob? What kind of fucking drug are you on?
[Okay, Stan didn't say that. I've just gotten carried away. Kennedy was president. There was no cussing.]

A Dog's Asshole of a Morning

This was my morning.

This is usually my morning.


I've heard English people, such as Peter O'Toole, describe depression as "black dog," and I think that's about as good a description as any I've encountered. I've also read that statistically, most people who struggle with black dog find that they are worse at night, as the day and their energies wane, than in the morning.

Strangely, I have always found mornings the worst time, primarily because my ass wants to stay in beddy. I enjoy sleeping, and I am good at it. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, I would be a fucking gold medalist. Also, I am very fortunate to have kids (Ginger and Mercer), who pretty much sleep on command. I will say, "Let's take a nap," and man, those two are ready, God bless them.

I have struggled with depression since my teens, when I should have been medicated, but was not--mostly because I was born to sunny Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart personality types, who had not a clue--although they should have--at least the Mom's should have--since her father needed to be on antidepressants desperately. Grandpa's being medicated would have helped A LOT of people besides himself.

Anyway, I made up for lost time as an adult. If you can name an antidepressant, I've probably been on it at one time or another. Zoloft made me too artificial and foggy. Prozac controlled my appetite some (my other disorders include binge-eating and OCD), but didn't help my mood a whole lot. Celexa and Lexapro helped the most of anything I've been on thus far and didn't interfere with my sleep. Wellbutrin kept me up at night, and I have a tendency to insomnia in the darkest parts of the depression so I didn't need that shit. And if you can't sleep to escape, what do you do? Maybe drink A WHOLE LOT, which counteracts the purpose of the medication. You get the picture.

I have come to a point in the last decade or so, and after some therapy, that I believe my depression is primarily about brain chemistry. Sometimes, it is about feeling "stuck" in life, but it pretty much is a constant, despite the ups and downs of daily life. I have some reason and inclination to think that it might more properly be described as manic-depression, with more depression than mania. Either way, it's just there, sometimes much worse than at others.

Fortunately, I have never felt any shame about my depression, unlike that poor dear soul, David Foster Wallace. I figure its presence in me is just the luck of the familial draw and biological. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm being medicated and that I struggle. If anything, I guess I am more afraid that maybe the depression has become too large a part of my identity. Any of you who have had a long-term depression probably understand that statement.

Sometimes, I feel that depression is one of the few things at which I excel in life. I started with a diagnosis of mild depression in my early twenties. A few years later, I graduated to moderate depression. And in the last few years, I have hit that pinnacle of depression: clinical depression. Wow. This would all be funny, of course, if it were funny.

I am in good company as a depressive, and that is sort of a strange consolation. The ranks of other depressives include, but are certainly not limited to: Kurt Vonnegut, David Foster Wallace, Carson McCullers, Mickey Rourke, Kurt Cobain, Edgar Allan Poe, William Faulkner, Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, David Bowie, Elliott Smith, Marlon Brando, Van Gogh, Ville Valo, Robert Downey Jr., Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Rufus Wainwright, Axl Rose. This list is off the top of my head, and I could go on and on. I would almost venture to say that there are more artistic types who struggle with depression than who do not.

As I said, the mornings are a struggle. I find that on the rare mornings that I can get my ass out of bed a little early and can sit in the peace and quiet of the house and enjoy a few cups of coffee before I have to hit the shower to get ready for work, things go a little better. I enjoy sitting with Ginger and Mercer, listening to the sound of the heat kick on and off. I have also learned that this time before work is not a productive time to discuss anything of relevance or anything at all really.

This morning was anything but peaceful and quiet, however. In fact, it was a dog's asshole of a morning. Everything just went wrong. I spilled Ginger's kibble all over the kitchen floor and had to sweep that shit up. Due to grogginess, I nearly gave Ginger's diarrhetic ass my medication instead of hers. I poured half n' half into my coffee, instead of my usual soy milk. Then, I opened a new tube of Rembrandt tooth-whitening paste and went to remove the sticky protective thing, covering the opening (AS IF THERE IS A TOOTHPASTE POISONER!), and a microsquirt of the damn toothpaste shot RIGHT INTO MY EYE and caused momentary blindness, intense burning, and then at least 10 minutes of tears.

And then, THEN, as I was bitching to myself about GOD DAMN MORNINGS and HAVING TO GO OFF TO WORK AT A FUCKING INCOME-PRODUCING FUCK FUCKING JOB, suddenly this thought pops into my mind: "Well, Christopher Reeve would have been happy to have had your problems instead of his." This is how my mind works. It randomly comes up with shit like that--there is ALWAYS some poor unfortunate fuck who would think your misfortune was fortunate.

The Moms and I discuss this a lot. She points out somebody who has it worse than me when I am depressed. And then I ask her something like, "Why is life so shitty in general that to feel better about your situation, you have to point out somebody who has it much worse?" I know those of you who have my mother's uniquely happy-assed nature are thinking--no wonder you're depressed, the way you think! Fuck you. Just kidding, kind of.

But, of course, I always insist that I'm a realist. In fact, one time I went off my medication for a period because I had this John Lennonish thought of why should my ass be medicated, when society is fucked up? Should I be on medication because I see things more clearly than average Joe ? But then, I also know that every insane motherfucker thinks THEY SEE THINGS CLEARLY. In fact, that is the very definition of insanity. If you question your sanity, you're not as fucked up.

I don't know what the actual message or intention of this post was. I'll bet you're glad you actually made it to the end of the lumbering post for that sort of payoff, but I guess I wrote this just to be honest and to share my struggle. Maybe some of you have been there or are there now. If you have anything that is helpful to share, feel free. I'M REACHING OUT TO YOU DAMN PEOPLE, DON'T DISAPPOINT ME!

I'm also curious as to what part of the day other people who are depressed find most trying. I guess misery really DOES love company.

That Dumb Ass Billy Mays vs. ShamWow Vince

NEWSFLASH: I guess there is sort of a war going on between that dumb ass Billy Mays and the ShamWow guy, Vince. Billy can spray KABOOM at Vince, and Vince can soak it all up with his miraculous ShamWow!

I hear that Billy is making hateful comments about Vince because his insecure, pepaw, dumb ass feels threatened by Vince's STUNNING salesmanship. Of course, SB is taking ShamWow Vince's side, because my ass hates Billy Mays.

SB needs a damn ShamWow to soak up dog diarrhea or to wipe coffee from the front of my shirt on the three-minute drive in to work in the mornings. Yes, I know Moms--I should use THE EXPENSIVE CABELA'S STAINLESS STEEL TRAVEL MUG you spent all that money on! I know what you're thinking. I can read your mind all the way from the Trailer Park of Nirvana retirement villa (and it's pronounced VEE-ya, you bunch of dumb fucking gringos--it's not my fault your ass learned Spanish from damn Taco Bell commercials).

Also, a ShamWow might come in handy after I get drunk and spill half a bottle of Merlot on the beige carpet. It happens, people, and yes, sometimes I grab a pair of pants and try to wear them as a jacket to walk the dog in. Smart-ass motherfuckers.

Here is a clip of ShamWow Vince in action. GO VINCE! Maybe I should get TEAM SHAMWOW t-shirts screened. Your thoughts? And fuck off if you like Billy Mays.