Tags: great moments of literary inspiration

the prs office

leaves

Temporary distractions. Flooded full of them. Like walking through a waterfall of dead falling leaves until you lose all direction. Got to pick up every leaf. Have to deal with it. Each and every one. Falling so fast, though. Need to do something with them. Not sure what. But must be dealt with. And that tree over there. There’s another. The leaves are falling there too. How will you get those leaves? Need to get those too. But can’t go yet, still need need to deal with these leaves.

These. Those. The others over there, too. Lots and lots of leaves.

Where was I going? I really want to go there. But all these damn leaves.
the prs office

PSA: How to Pee Like a Man

This isn’t a subject that I exactly broach with excitement, but something has to be said. Since I haven’t seen anyone really mention this, I’ll break the ice, because someone has to goddammit.

Can someone tell me please what is it that possesses men to do some of the utterly bizarre things they do when they’re at a urinal?

Oh, by the way, for any ladies that may be reading this, I should probably tell you now: the following may be highly disturbing, educational, disenchanting, or just information you do not want to know. Or all of the above. You’ve been warned.

By and large, this isn’t a comprehensive study. I don’t hang out in men’s rooms and compile statistical research on this. But being the kind of guy who leaves the house and drinks a lot of coffee, I use public restrooms. And, by and large, the vast majority of men typically do what I do in men’s rooms – namely, pee. And by pee, I mean pee with no zeal, aplomb, zest, verve, fanfare or any other kind of attention-seeking style. You get in, you get out. There is no presentation.

The minority, however, do some strange things. To give you an idea of what the hell I’m talking about, below is a (potentially growing) list of the types of eccentric urinators.

The Talker – This is a guy you know who decides to liven up the peeing experience with a little conversation. It’s a little odd. Not completely strange, but a little odd. I’ll admit I’ve talked to the guy at the next urinal. It’s a locker room thing. You get used to it. However, there are those who insist on talking about anything, usually something intensively work related, and he’s going to talk to whoever is at the urinal next to him. Every time. Now, if you just got out of a meeting, I can see going to the can en masse, and you or the next guy says, “Jesus, I didn’t think the VP would ever shut up,” or something brief and relevant to the what brought everyone into the can. It’s a comment. That doesn’t mean I want to chair an action committee to redevelop the project management flowchart while I’m taking a leak. Does it look like I’m taking notes? It’s just not a good place to have a real conversation. Just talk to me at the coffee maker.

The Stranger – This is the Talker that you don’t know. The guy who wants to talk about the big nuclear explosion in the movie you just saw. Or the chick with the big tits at the bar. Or the chicken fucker they caught in Belize. If I don’t know you, and you are a man standing next to me, do not talk to me while my johnson is hanging out of my pants. The world is strange enough, thanks. I don’t need to wonder if you’re playing with yourself, or if you fit a psych profile that conjures the term “postal” or want to sell me something (perhaps yourself) while I’m going to the bathroom. Just… just don’t.

The Matador – Also known as the Leaking Super Hero. This person (and there are many) stands at the urinal, feet at least at shoulder width apart, with one fist fixed to his hip, elbow pointed out at a 90-degree angle during the entire peeing experience. It’s the kind of stance that might otherwise be fitting for declaring a land in the name of your country. Or for looking down on the thousands of dead that you and your army have just slaughtered. Or I suppose it could be apropos for standing on a hill crest and gazing down at the baseball diamond you just successfully built on a razed cornfield. It behooves a cape, hence the title(s). I don’t know why or what possesses this person to stand so proud. Perhaps it’s some sort of therapeutic affirmation of penis size, self-assurance or they’re just pretentious. I haven’t proven this, but I stand to wager they are the same type who really, really thinks his car is better than yours. Like you care.

The Whistler – Fairly self-explanatory. He whistles while he pees. It’s a little weirder than the Talker, because it assumes you can’t hear him. Like you’re not standing there, too. Or maybe he does acknowledge he isn’t alone, so he’s providing a public service: music to pee by. I don’t need a soundtrack when I’m in the can. And if I did, something resembling the opening credits to the Andy Griffith show would not be it.

The Slimer – I’ve never seen this guy. I like to think that there’s only one, because I don’t want to realize that there are this many uncouth motherfuckers inhabiting the planet. Or maybe they’re like the Gideons or Muzak musicians, and they’re likewise on some inexplicable mission to secretly torture people with any sense of dignity. I don’t know. But they leave their little trail wherever they go. Literally, in the form of giant boogers on the wall. I thought this ended in high school. Why, WHY must I stare at your fucking snot? Don't fucking pretend you don't know who you are, philistine! Why? What’s wrong with a kleenex? Or even eating them for fuck sake? You’re not doing this when other people can see you. So what kind of twisted territorial instinct possesses you to scrape your mucus at eye level on the wall? There is no better place for your boogers? The wall at the urinal is an unspoken, official bulletin board for your heinous behavior? Do you think your boogers need to leave the nest and mate with other boogers? What the fuck is your problem?

The Fireman – Another ninja, like the Slimer. This guy apparently stands about fifteen feet back and takes a sprinkler approach, I guess in the hopes that by going for the greatest area of effect, some of it will land in some appropriate receptacle merely by odds. This is all speculative. Like the Slimer, I’ve never seen this; just the evidence of the large puddles on the floor.

The Petrie Dish – It’s called flushing, fuckface.

The Singer – Granted this is a miniscule contingent, like maybe .00001%. In fact, I think I’ve only encountered it twice, but the last time was half an hour ago and he inspired me to finally write this, so it gets counted. This is the Whistler who thinks he’s center stage at Radio City Music Hall. This freak is singing Bésame Mucho while he’s peeing. In a public restroom. Never mind the guy in the stall trying to concentrate on his constipation problem. Or the guy in the other stall who ate way too much Taco Bell the night before and is already concerned about his prostate launching out of his rectum. Forget the people walking through the hallway near the door to a giant echo chamber with toilets in it. Never mind that I’m just washing my hands while this is happening, and I now have to go out there and endure the looks of fear and confusion, like I’m somehow an accessory to this. Sing away, fruitcake. You’re in key. Embrace it, and make damn sure we enjoy it too. Celebrate! In fact, this is a notoriously famous and standard scene seen in all great Broadway Musicals. Gershwin practically made it a convention – y’know where the lead is pissing and breaks into song so stupendous that it transforms into a full ensemble number. It’s a good opening for Act 2 actually. Schmuck.

I would like to apologize for everyone who has read this and has had to somehow vicariously suffer the behaviors of others through this journal. But it’s a small sacrifice if one of the dipshits above reads this and realizes the harm they are causing to the collective psyche as a whole.
the prs office

(no subject)

Fact: if you look carefully in old paintings inspired by God to the artist where Satan is depicted, you may notice small gnat-like creatures usually around Old Nick’s ass. These “mythological” creatures essentially serve the purpose of crawling up Satan’s anal cavity, much to his pleasure, and rifling through whatever goodies may be stuck up there. The gnats are looking for bits like corn and whatnot, which will be rationed off as rewards and culinary delights to special deserving residents of Hell like Richard Nixon. There are many terms for these creatures, mostly in Latin, but the modern nomenclature is Rectal Vulture. While they look like gnats, most things do in the true scale of an archangel like Lucifer. In fact, when these Rectal Vultures roam the earth, they’re roughly the size of genetically deformed, dwarven men. While they are hideous both in form and in their mannerisms (especially their impish attempts at speech which resemble Sylvester the Cat with a mouthful of maggots), they are capable of passing themselves off as humans. Such is the art of Satan’s magical ways.

Sometimes the Rectal Vultures will span entire human life-terms on earth, occasionally aided with special incentive from the Lord of the Underworld himself. A good example of an earth-bound Rectal Vulture is Malcolm Glazer.

This is the only conclusion I can imagine, for he has somehow accomplished the previously impossible venture of Jedi-mind-tricking stock holders into ignoring his colossal debt and amassing enough cash to buy the controlling portion of Manchester United. While this sucks for the UK, I’m fucking delighted.

Over the years, I’ve had problems with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Some of this had to do with their courting of highly overrated but useless athletes, like Keyshawn Johnson, Brad Johnson and the true embodiment of undeserved arrogance, Martin Erratica. But most of my contempt was political. From the cahoots of Tampa Sports Authority to the raping of the fans’ trust, to a deal to get the city to pretty much pay for a stadium and to pay people for it to happen, all of it has revolved around one hub of graft, hubris and fraud – Malcolm Glazer.

However, over time I’ve grown to like the Bucs. They acquired the second best coach in the game, who began changing the strategy of the team and promoting and demoting members much in the way I had hoped. The only thing that keeps me from being a complete fan is Malcolm Glazer, and now there’s hope he won’t be around either.

For Glazer to pull off the near-ownership of Manny U., even with the assistance of Satan’s accountants, he’s going to have to trade something off. It’s basic math. According to the figures, he shouldn’t have the capital to own both teams, and now that the Bucs aren’t the team they were five years ago, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for the Rectal Vulture to pawn the Tampa franchise. If he retained both teams, then it’s only evidence that he’s been promoted to Super Duper Colonel Rectal Vulture, for there will be no other reason to explain it.

As for the future of a Glazer-less Bucs team, I’m sure many people will worry. Most of these people will be what I call New Fans. Not that there’s anything necessarily wrong with these fans, but many of them didn’t care less about the team until they were Super Bowl bound. True, they are fans, but not of the caliber of the Old Fans, the ones who wore jerseys even when the team nearly went two whole seasons before winning a game. The Old Fans are the ones who had season tickets for twenty years, until a certain Rectal Vulture ignored their loyalty, deleted their seniority for tickets, and reduced them to the same peasant anonymity he reserved for everyone else in the Bay. Most Old Fans are used to a losing team and will support them regardless. However, many of the people throwing temper tantrums and accusing Gruden of running “Dungy’s team” into the ground are going to be the same who scapegoat anyone they can, because they can’t wrap their heads around the fact that all great teams go through a period of suck. These are the same people who don’t know that the Packers blew goats for nearly two decades before the Brett Favre/Mike Holmgren years. That didn’t obstruct the Cheeseheads from their loyalty. But I digress.

My point is that the Bucs, like all teams that didn’t win the trophy last year, are in transition. They want to win the big game too. Doesn’t mean they will, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t trying their best. They can do it just as well, if not better, without the grubby shit-stained hands of Malcolm Glazer. True, all sports teams’ owners are vile. Ask Jon Gruden. They’re some of the most ethically deprived businessmen who drag their knuckles across the planet, and there is a special place in hell for them. But only one of them is a Rectal Vulture. If you thought the Brits hate the Yanks now, wait'll they get a load of Glazer. I can only hope it’s a matter of time, and if I’m right, then I’ll be a total Bucs fan.