tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82081411928760630682023-06-20T07:52:54.802-05:00Wanted: Missing Teddy BearEvil messages from an Evil Toy Store.Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-76564175354658658322011-07-25T04:54:00.006-05:002011-07-25T05:52:34.575-05:00Recipes for Eating the Rich<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">The Boehner BBQ:<br /><br />The Senator is fat, but also old (62), so while he has a fair amount of meat on his bones, remember he is a public servant (*cough*), therefore his meat will range from overly fatty to lean "bone" meat that has the consistency of jerky. Also, he is one of those public servants (*cough*) that refuses to make his tax return public, so he's also a chicken shit. Chicken shit, as you may or may not know, tends to sour the meat.<br /><br />Recommendations: tenderize, tenderize, tenderize followed by a 24 hour period of marination. After this, you may prefer a slow roast or bury him in some Luau sand with hot coals like they do with pigs. This will take some time, so you must be patient.<br /><br />Consider some cabbage as a side with some pork-n-beans.<br /><br />For those of you on Weight Watchers: One small 8 oz Boehner stake is approximately 124 points, which for most of you will be your entire ration for the week.<br /><br />Reid's Ribs:<br /><br />Senator Harry Reid is in much the same position as his Republican counterpart. He has an estimated net worth of over 5 million. This means he is one fat sow which means flavor for your and me.<br /></span><span style="display: block; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);" class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Link" class="gl_link" border="0" /></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Recommendations:<br />I would go with a spicy rub for his outer flanks, trim the fat whenever possible (which is more than he does. Consider a massive deep fry (use peanut oil) with beer breading. I know . . . a big vat of oil for a Senator is a bit risky, but he's from Nevada, the "come lose your money in our casinos" state. I think it's worth the gamble.<br /><br />Sides:<br />Roasted potatoes sprinkled with cold butter and rosemary. Corn. He's a Mormon. Mormon's love corn, possibly because it doesn't resemble portion of the male or female anatomy (not counting the clitoris).<br /><br />The richest man in the world as of this writing is Carlos Slim:<br /><br />Mmm, Mexican. In one of the poorest, problematic countries on the Northern American continent, he has the most.<br /><br />Recommendations:<br /><br />Consider fajitas, slow roasting and shredding for enchiladas, be liberal with the cheese, because Mr. Slim is anything but slim, so there's plenty to go around.<br /><br />Sides:<br />Frijoles with roast jalapenos and well seasoned rice.<br /><br />Read the damn <a href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com/">comic</a>.<br /></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-3023932651095038102011-06-29T04:52:00.021-05:002011-07-25T04:47:06.866-05:0010 Places to NOT Meet Women<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Following hot on the calloused, diamond-studded, well-sandaled heels of such prime beef anchor paper houses as FHM, Maxim, Men's Weekly, etc. who have </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">all </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">answered the question to death about to where meet members of the opposite sex (depending on how opposite you really want to go--because there is a small street on the wrong side of Mexico City (if there is indeed a right side) that will test the limits of even Cosplay serial masturbators with necrophitic colon-fetishes) . . . I thought I'd explore the answer to the OTHER question. . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">The one that no one asks . . .<br /><br />Where NOT to meet women.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Here is my list of 10 places you are guaranteed not to meet or get lucky (or unlucky) with a woman:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">1. Men's restrooms at truck stops where the nasal-whining music of Willie Nelson is piped into the parking lot near the gas pumps. Chili is cheap and plentiful; deodorant is optional. The toilet seats are literally bolted in the upright position and the women's bathrooms have been converted into makeshift foosball tables.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">2. San Francisco. That is to say you may very well meet and mate with individuals who </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">look </span><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">like women, but one quick check of their genetics will prove otherwise. The police scientists (I know, seems like an oxymoron, but they do exist) were developing a test that involved a cotton swab and a small glass tube with a rock like substance at the bottom that would turn blue upon contact with a Y chromosome, but the courts deemed it "profiling, frivolous and unnecessary".</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">3. The audience of Oprah. There will be TONS of women there (literally, they actually have industrial sized shocks beneath the stage), but they will have no interest in you whatsoever. Due to the little studied "Black Hole Oprah Phenomena" or BHOP, you, a man, will become invisible to the naked or clothed eye (for girls who wear eye patches) of any woman within a 1 mile radius of the full figured talk show host. They will only be interested in Oprah and the prizes they may or may not win. Women love Oprah. You are a man. You do not love Oprah, nor do you see the fascination. Try Maury.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">4. France. You are something other than French. I know this because no one French reads this blog. I've made sure of it by NEVER ever (not even once) mentioning the "C" word (no, not Cancer, Cunt or Calcutta, but thanks for playing). Young French women are complicated, pouty and like to play hard to get; old French women are complicated, depressed and <span style="font-style: italic;">are </span>hard to get. No one but French men have a shot with any of them unless you storm the country with jackboots or know how to "get trapped in an invisible glass box while wearing white gloves and white makeup" or are willing to invest a tranquilizer gun that dispenses Rohypnol darts at amazingly long ranges. French women are astonishingly fast, despite their rampant cigarette usage.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">5. The Moon. 'Nuff said. We checked it out. We came up dry (depending on your usage of the word "came"). The moon is definitely BYOP.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">6. New York, Central Park at precisely 4:21 A.M. every 48th Thursday of the year. We're still studying this one. We have no idea why this becomes a null spot for the female species. Could be Solar flares. Could be a estrogen-vacuuming vortex of some sort. Or it might have to do with the fact that Charlie Sheen's cock once escaped on this precise day and time six years ago and made a nuisance of itself. (Sheen's cock is like a meteor slamming into the Earth; it only needs to happen once to make a lasting impression.)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">7. Any conventions where the single focus is role playing that involves dice with more than 6 sides. Pretty much any convention that has dice with more than 6 sides will be devoid of women. In fact, dice that has more than 6 sides are to women what garlic soaked in Holy Water and God's urine is to Republicans, er, I mean vampires.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">8. Sewage Treatment facilities. Maybe it's the smell. Maybe it's the idea. Maybe it's the fact that there are zero, count them, zero women who don't think they can do better job-wise, but running shit through pipes and pouring chemicals on them seems to be something that only interests men.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">9. Alaska. I know. You've seen Northern Exposure and pictures of Sarah Palin and her many daughters whose family crest actually has a broken condom on the shield to symbolize poor judgment, but the fact that most people forget is that Sarah Palin and her family are all actually fictional. As of this writing, the U.S. Census Bureau proclaims that females make up 48% of the population in this frigid state. What they've neglected to mention is that the Census Workers are so lonely in the frozen North that they now consider most wild life as "entirely datable", and they're not talking about "data".</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">10. The Senate. Go figure, but it's a sausage fest. 17 women to 83 men. I honestly don't know what the Senators are thinking. I for one like the sound of pantyhose whisking whisking whisking until I'm ready to lay down another $20 at the local strip club during my three hour, eight Bourbon lunch, but who am I to judge?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Read the damn </span><a style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);" href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com/">comic</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">.</span><br /></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-17198770867064271062011-06-19T16:57:00.004-05:002011-06-29T06:28:06.565-05:00The CLOUDThe "cloud" is the newest catch phrase. The cloud is everything you need. It has all your movies, all your music, and it's yours (sort of).<br /><br />"Give me everything you own or, um, at least have paid for, all your entertainment content," the Cloud whispers to us, "and I'll give it back to you whenever and wherever you want. I'm your perfect girlfriend. My legs are always open. Finally you can watch porn in church, listen to Hip-hop at work, re-visit your favorite horror movie while being sodomized by the TSA, mmm latexy."<br /><br />How can I resist?<br /><br />2 reasons:<br /><br />1. I downloaded a whole bunch of music from Walmat. Silly me, I got them in the Windows format (.wmv). One day though, a nasty little PC-blurp gave me some problems and I lost a lot of content. Oh, I still had the music. It was on my mp3 player and on a hard drive, but the licenses wouldn't let me transfer them. They'd been corrupted. I went back to Walmart in desperation to see if they'd let me re-download. After all, I'd paid for them, and some of them not that long ago. Surprise! Some them DID let me re-download, but only the mp3s. Walmart had stopped carrying all wmv formats though, so if I wanted them, I'd have to pay for them again.<br /><br />They'd pulled a switch-a-roo and wanted to soak me for the same money as before.<br /><br />Some of this music I had on vinyls, then re-bought on CDs, and having lost the CDs, now decided to buy "online".<br /><br />Question: How many times do I have to pay for the same song?<br /><br />Question: If I had a record, tape cassette or CD, couldn't I put it on this PC, then put it on that PC, then that mp3 player without problem?<br /><br />What did I do? you ask (if not, I'll wait for you to ask, and if you don't, I'll come to your house, erase all of your DRM licenses and put a baby alligator in your toilet bowl). What did I do? I got a torrent and stole them. Why? Because I was pissed off at having to buy the same music again that I'd bought a month before.<br /><br />Now, if I'd broken the CD or lost it, I'd have to re-buy it, right? So isn't this just like that?<br /><br />No, and here's why. If I lost or cracked my CD, that's my own damn fault. I have all the protection, the anti-virus, the spybot, the backups, but through no fault of my own, things happen with PCs, Microsoft, etc.<br /><br />A more apt analysis would be if I sold you a CD, then a friend of mine snuck into your house and laid it out in the Sun on your window sill creating a lovely, decoratively warped coaster that would no longer even fit in a CD player, much less play, then I showed up again the next day wanting to sell you another CD with the same music. How many times do you think I could pull this off?<br /><br />2. It's a cheat. You never really own anything anymore, do you? You own a ticket to come into their store and listen to your music. Granted, their store can be wherever you want to be, but it's still <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> store. They don't have to worry about building better, more powerful hard drives or smart phones. They only have to worry about creating better, more ubiquitous broadband. But what happens when <span style="font-style: italic;">their </span>system goes down? What happens when they decide you should pay to be in <span style="font-style: italic;">their </span>store to listen to <span style="font-style: italic;">your </span>music? They could, you know? They could change the rules however they like, and you wouldn't have a single hard copy of a single thing in your library, because <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> library belongs to<span style="font-style: italic;"> them</span>.<br /><br />The cloud is ultra-convenient. It doesn't require anything but for you to have a device and a decent internet connection. You don't have to haul DVDs and CDs around. You will go for it, because of the convenience. We both know you will. I might, too. But it's a ghost in the making, a haunt we can all see as we're nodding with smiling, drooling enthusiasm as we kiss the real estate agent's gloss right off her lips and give her a fat commission.<br /><br />The cloud is also an amazing database of your likes and interests, so they can do a better, more efficient job of selling you more stuff.<br /><br />I can't wait for the cloud to come to the clothing stores. I'll call ahead and have the department store deliver to me a jacket and a nice pair of sneakers, but at end of the day, they'll be waiting outside my front door with two bruisers holding aluminum baseball bats, wanting their clothes back. After all, we're not a buy culture anymore, we're a rent culture.<br /><br />What do you own?<br /><br />Your house? No. Your bank owns your house until you pay off your mortgage. I'll let you stop laughing or crying about how long that's going to take. But if you're in the lucky .0000000001 % of people who have paid off their mortgage, then your house belongs to the state. Try not paying your property taxes for a year or so and you'll find out really quick who your house really belongs to.<br /><br />What about your car? Bank again, unless it's paid off. I suppose even if you didn't pay for your license and registration or your driver's license or state mandated auto-insurance, you could still keep ownership of your car. You just couldn't drive it on public roads.<br /><br />Your pets! Ah, you own your pets. Whew. Wait . . . does the cloud take pets?<br /><br />read the damn <a href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com/">comic</a>.Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-52090288890938959332010-04-29T05:04:00.004-05:002010-04-29T05:31:52.424-05:00There is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me...but the Rest of You are Highly Suspect!<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I'm over 40. I drink. I fuck. I eat.<br /><br />Three out of those 4 are really easy, and the last one just requires a little more effort....or on the odd weekend money, or just a trip to Vegas. But the point is that anything you find easy is obviously a talent.<br /><br />Getting older is like stumbling down a hill during a blackout. You don't remember where or why things started hurting, but you know you must've fucked up somewhere, because suddenly they do.<br /><br />So I have a talent for these things, which is not to say I'm good at them, just that I find them easy.<br /><br />But the first thing...the first thing is taking it's toll.<br /><br />At the risk of sounding like an old guy, I have trouble after spicy foods now. Don't ask. Believe me . . . you don't want to know. I rarely dig into a pile of hot wings anymore. The guy at Wing Zone once insisted I taste the Atomic sauce before he would serve it to me. I didn't break a sweat. It was a matter of pride. Besides, I'd eaten hotter. I'd once had a curry in India that had me speechless and breathless. I'm serious. I literally could not take a breath. I was crying, sweating and in pure heaven. And it wasn't that kind of bullshit Habanero hot either that's all burn and no flavor. This curry not only delivered the internal core temperature of the Sun into my mouth, but it was fucking delicious.<br /><br />And then one day, what went in hot, came out hot. And spicy food was no fun anymore.<br /><br />But I can still drink. Except. . . .<br /><br />Well, I used to buy the cheapest beer and sneered at the idiots that paid more 3.99 for a 12 pack because...hello! This beer was cheap as shit and you got just as drunk. Now, I only buy nice wines, and imported beer. Give me a glass or two of wine and I'm nodding off halfway through Gray's Anatomy.<br /><br />Okay, I don't really watch Gray's Anatomy, but you get the idea. Then there was the morning I woke up and realized I'd been so drunk I'd almost driven off a bridge, and that somehow in my drunken state, I'd managed to change the tire I'd popped on the bridge railing.<br /><br />That was about the time I decided to start sleeping in my car instead of driving. Now I only drink at home, and only every now and then. It's so pathetic that I rarely even drink in the mornings anymore, because, y'know, you lose the whole day, and after working all week, my fucking weekends are fucking precious! I don't want to spend the whole day drunk and sleeping it off. I'd rather go to Home Depot or Bed, Bath, and Beyond to buy new towels!!!!!!<br /><br />Sad, but true. You never really own a house; it owns you.<br /><br />Okay, on to the last subject: fucking.<br /><br />In High School, with my first "sexual" girlfriend, I actually got off 5 times in the span of just a couple of hours.<br /><br />That doesn't happen anymore. Which is not to say I don't like getting off and don't have some advanced ideas of what sex can be--the more intense, the better--but afterward, I actually want to talk, and giggle, tickle, and do stupid things, and say stupid things.<br /><br />I'm pretty sure as men get older, they turn into women. I'm also reasonably sure women turn into men.<br /><br />I rarely have to make the first move anymore. Really. Okay, I still have to get the phone number and follow up. I still have to pay for the date, for the most part, though the cool girls offer to pay a little here and there. But when it comes to the first kiss, the first naked romp through Hineyland, all I have to do is sit back and let the girl drive the tour bus.<br /><br />It's. fucking. beautiful.<br /><br />Women my age are much more comfortable with sex. They like it from behind. They want me on top. They want my hand up in their hair, pulling their head back so I can forcefully nibble on their neck, though they are quick to warn me against leaving any visible marks. Read that as "visible" marks. Women my age are fun. Okay...so they're breasts aren't exactly perky anymore, but their spirits are sure as hell free.<br /><br />Sometimes I think the only thing I've got going for me is that I don't smoke, then I start thinking maybe I should try a trip to Amsterdam and re-visit getting stoned. Sometimes I think I've got cancer and should go ahead and start growing marijuana. Sometimes I dream about that really really really really really really spicy bowl of curry I had, but can't have anymore. Sometimes I wish my dick was just a tad more erect for just a tad longer. I don't miss cheap beer, but I miss the times and the guys I used to drink it with.<br /><br />On the plus side, I'm getting really good at Left 4 Dead 2. Look for me, I'm Bad Teddy. I will save your ass if I'm not playing drunk.<br /><br />Read the damn <a href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com/">comic.</a><br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-61863820474778176232010-04-04T21:06:00.003-05:002010-04-06T22:29:04.180-05:00Women who hug<span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As many of may know, I run an Evil Toys is Us. Run means manage. Evil toys for an evil world. It doesn't bother me much, but as a manager, I have employees. Not many, but enough. Any at all is enough for someone who doesn't like people.<br /><br />On Thursday, April 1st, it came to my attention that a young woman in my employ (who I have not slept with) was busy having her birthday, but had kept it from everyone so we wouldn't make a fuss. Good for her, I say. Although, it could've been a ploy to make us make more of a fuss. She might be that insidious; it's hard to tell.<br /><br />It turned out another woman (who I have also not slept with) in my employ was also having a birthday. The two women had never met.<br /><br />One sits in my office droning on about some such problem, to which I nod and smile and refrain from staring at her somewhat large-ish breasts. One thing leads to another and somehow I happen to mention she's not the only one having a birthday. One thing still leading to another, the woman in my office asks to meet the young woman who has the same birthday as her.<br /><br />I introduce them. They're both suddenly dressed in smiles, then before I know it they're hugging and giggling and making other girly noises. I can't explain it. I can only attest to it, having witnessed it (and been a tad bit aroused by it for reasons obvious to any man).<br /><br />Inside I'm thinking, "Why are you hugging each other? You don't know each other? The only similarity between you is that you both have ovaries that popped into being on the same day."<br /><br />The last time I hugged another man was more than a decade ago. It was my father, right after he told me he was dying.<br /><br />Men don't hug. We can hug. We have the ability. We have the know how. We choose not to.<br /><br />Oh, if we'd served time in a war zone together or one of us had saved the pilot from drowning right after he managed to ditch us in the bay without killing us . . . then we might hug on the ten year reunion of the disaster. Hell, we might even sprinkle a few tears.<br /><br />I do hug my nephews, but they're kids. If they were grown men, I'd probably punch them in the face, because, y'know, I like them.<br /><br />These two women now have lunch every day. They appear to be best friends.<br /><br />Huh?<br /><br />If this had been two men, we would've remarked on the coincidence of our similar birthdays then preceded on to business or, well, something else, all the while discreetly trying not to be obvious in our ogling of all nearby women.<br /><br />If this had been a man and a woman, the same, except there would've been half as much ogling, and probably twice the amount of discretion.<br /><br />If this had been two gay men, well, probably the same as two women, hugging, but then things that in no way resemble anything discreet.<br /><br />Here's why men don't hug:<br /><br />We don't have breasts.<br /><br />Seriously.<br /><br />You can't possibly need more of an explanation than that.<br /><br />There's no squishy, sexual organs. If you're a woman, think about why you hug a man and what you want to feel. Do you like feeling small, protected, wrapped up safely in his arms, all cuddled and cozy? Now think about what a man wants to feel. He wants to feel big and strong, like a protector and possibly just a hint of nipple against his chest. It's tough for a man to feel those things when he's hugging another man who also wants to feel those things. See? But two women embracing can both feel safe and cuddled and cozy.<br /><br />Plus, the breasts.<br /><br />Read the damn <a href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com/">comic</a>.<br /><br />Aaron Diaz Hoal<br />4/4/2010<br /></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-8970186724530350832010-03-01T03:23:00.001-06:002010-03-01T03:24:12.629-06:00The Blind Kingdom...Part IV (Now with Real Lemon flavoring!!!!)<span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Smart advice for numb-skulls!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Hate:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">It's best to hate someone below you, meaning someone poorer, dumber, uglier, fatter or generally less well-adjusted. Due to the diversity of the human species, pickings are plentiful. If you have not yet found a reason to hate your fellow brother / sister, then you have not been alive long enough nor have you really lived. You think you will never ever ever hate someone? You will. Never underestimate your fellow humans' ability to annoy, betray, hurt or anger you. The lesson of hate, like so many things, is in how you overcome it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Note: Nothing pisses people off more than being generous and genuinely forgiving when they're busy trying to hate you. Just a tip from me to you because I care . . . you filthy shit-eating bastards.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Tears:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">They are the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">The economy:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">No one responsible and mature and wise gets hurt in a depression / recession. Oh sure, those of us who pay our bills on time and in full, those of us who prefer not to live beyond our paychecks might have to tighten our belts a tad, but not by much. We don't eat in restaurants every night anyway. Maybe once a week, if that. Instead of a trip by plane, we might have to drive, but we've got a sensible car and the low interest rate to pull it off. We're happy with what we have. We're not impressed by the Jones's because we know they can't really afford their new house, and we can afford ours. In fact, we're paid a few months ahead. We know we're okay because the mortgage company keeps calling us in the hopes that we'll refinance for lower payments, but we never do because we recognize it as a thinly veiled attempt to raise our interest rate, which just happens to be low and fixed, and when they call us and tell us it would cost us an additional $3,000.00 to refinance, we laugh in their face and put an additional $3,000.00 on the principal just to piss them off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">For the rest of you: be thankful you live in a country that allows you to go bankrupt with dignity and style. In any other part of the world, you would systematically be thrown into the streets to starve. Blame Darwin, and please, when begging, try to stay on the curb. I can't afford to have my brakes replaced just yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Your House:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">You don't own it; it owns you. If you put as much time and energy into your relationships (i.e. spouse, children, brother, sister, parent, etc.) as you did into decorating your house, you'd be the happiest person on the planet, surrounded by love, companionship and happiness. But you didn't. Let's just hope the local Home Depot shows up at your funeral and refrains making jokes about how much wood they gave you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Laughter:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">It's the only proof that you are finally experiencing life in full . . . or are drunk, stoned or clinically insane.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">World Travel:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">For Americans: it's not a myth, there are actually other people in the world besides yourself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">For everyone else: We may be idiots, but we're smart idiots; we're litigious idiots; we're idiots with a whole shit load of missiles, a whole shit load of financial and political influence. If you were in our place, you'd behave the same, if not worse. In fact, judging you all by the actions of the Romans (i.e. Italians), British, Germans and Japanese, we're not doing so bad. But by all means, feel free to whine, but when we visit your B&Bs (which are delightful, by the way) . . . A. accept that we didn't take the time to learn the language because our vacations aren't as long yours, and our proximity is not nearly so convenient, and B. don't spit in our eggs, most Americans didn't have shit to do with, nor did we approve of bombing the shit out of the Iraqi people.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Toilets:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Some of the best and worst moments of your life will be spent here: you have only yourself to blame.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">to be continued</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Aaron Diaz Hoal</span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-12558327797247622682010-02-01T03:05:00.003-06:002010-02-01T03:57:39.809-06:00Love Notes For Men and Those Soft Curvy Animals<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Valentine's day will be upon us soon, like a scourge, a Hallmark-sponsored virus, a legion of red, chocolatey hearts which if really shaped like hearts would more closely resemble big red blobby fist looking things with blueish veins--not exactly romantic, I know, but accurate. . .<br /><br />. . . which brings me to the point of men and women.<br /><br />Let's start with an obvious one:<br /><br />Falling in love.<br /><br />For Men, love is a destination. Once we're there, we know we're there, we're usually fairly pleased about having found our way there without having had to pull over and ask for directions or, God forbid, rely on a map. Either would mean we didn't know where we were going, and we ALWAYS know where we're going, especially when we don't.<br /><br />For Women, however, it's an exciting past time, like free-falling from a plane. It's thrilling, rewarding, and they want to do it over and over and over (picture the Energizer bunny here), even if it's with the same guy.<br /><br />For your guy, love is a house. You've both made it there. He doesn't feel the need to follow you around from room to room, reminding you that you're both in the house. Every room: "We're in the house, baby!" Jumping out from behind doors: "We're STILL in the house, baby!" Admit it, you'd want to smack him after 10 minutes of this.<br /><br />For your girl, she wants you to jump out of the plane with her again. Yes, you just did it yesterday, but that was yesterday. Yesterday you proved you were willing to give it all up for her. Yesterday your grand romantic gesture was recorded for posterity, but that was <span style="font-style: italic;">yesterday</span>. Are you STILL willing to give it all up for her, put her first, make her the number one star that leads your ship on the ocean (and over the edge of the Earth)? You can't just fall in love with her once. She gets no satisfaction, no ongoing thrill from that. There's no drama. She wants you to fall in love with her all over again every day, at least until she's menstruating. Then you just have to prove you're willing to put up with all of the crazy ass things she says, after which you may be rewarded, but only if you never ever bring up all the crazy ass things she said.<br /><br />Guys, for the most part, want one thing, and that is a naked woman laying on our bed, waiting for us to arrive home. Naked and dry and soft and very very ready.<br /><br />Oh, we want the other stuff, too, but it doesn't really occur to us that we might need it until we can see the hand of death looming in the distance. Then, and only then, do we really start to think, "Who will really be willing to put with me when I'm an old fart?" and "Who's going to be waiting to tell me that we'll face it together when I get dick cancer, butt cancer, back hair cancer or whatever?" and "Who's going to still let me jostle their fleshy bits and put my cold feet against the back of her warm legs when the old willy isn't quite as ready to salute the magnificence of the female nipple as it used to be?"<br /><br />It's not just about facing death. That's just the first time it really occurs to us that we might actually need all that love stuff, beyond getting wet and sweaty under the sheets. Plus, at some point our testosterone levels start to plummet, but that's still not the main reason. I'm not by any means suggesting you wait until after he's had his first colonoscopy to hint that he might want to marry you, but it is a viable and frequently over looked strategy, and you get an amazing number of credits once you've driven him there and back (keep a window open on the way home, just a tip from me to you).<br /><br />I was out of high school before I realized how much women liked to fuck. You could've stuck a live cobra down my pants. That was the extend of my shock. Not that high school girls didn't seem to like sex, but they seemed to attach so much baggage to it, reputation, possible pregnancy, parents finding out, etc. Now, in my forties, I'm surprised at how much difficulty women have with the emotional side of things. In fact, sex for women my age seems surprisingly easy. They're good at it. They want it. They're willing to admit it. Life's short. They don't want to wait forever to find out if you're worth it (physically anyway). But the baggage is all emotional at that point.<br /><br />It's nice to date women that have had their bad boy flings and now want someone they can trust and that is fairly decent (though a little bad boy still goes a long way). Unfortunately, the bad boys have fucked them over so much that they're still walking around with a bad taste in their mouth. And occasionally the insecurities have reached critical mass. I've dated a woman who loved sex, but who refused to have an orgasm with anyone who wasn't "the one". I wasn't. I've dated a woman who was so hot and who smelled so good, she was simply completely irresistible to me, and even though I could see the fuse being lit, I still lived in hope it wouldn't blow up. It did, but what a ride. I dated a woman who wanted a purely physical relationship, until she got it and then realized she needed more.<br /><br />And after a life time of women, some fucked up, some not so fucked up, some hot, some hot only to me, I'm still hungry for more.<br /><br />Go figure.<br /><br />I think I'll buy a large lump of chocolate shaped like a blobby fist.<br /><br />Aarron Diaz Hoal<br />2/1/2010<br /></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-43682710447734389332009-08-29T04:15:00.002-05:002009-08-29T04:22:03.310-05:00The Blind Kingdom (Part Three)--Good advice for stupid people<span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Love:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">If you're thinking about them every night; if you feel like you can't live without them; if you're sure this person is your soul mate; if they "complete" you; if you connect; if you scream for the first time ever during your orgasm; if you know your parents are so very very wrong; if you're certain your friends just need to get to know them to see the real them; if you sit by the phone, carry your phone everywhere you go, wait impatiently, agonizingly, anxiously for their call, just to hear their voice. . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">You're NOT, repeat, NOT in love. You're infatuated. Infatuation can lead to love, but it should not be confused with it. You cannot find love in an afternoon. You cannot love someone because they've got a gorgeous cock, smile, pair of tits, car, account balance, ambition, etc. Love is about trust. Love is about knowing someone. Love takes years, not seconds, not minutes . . . years. There are people who have been married for 1, 5, 10, 20 years and counting who are not in love. Love is like looking for your lost Ipod: you know you had it; you don't know how you lost it; the harder you look for it, the more flustered you become; the moment you're not looking for it, you spot it out of the corner of your eye.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">You know you're in love when you find yourself miraculously putting their needs ahead of your own, and you're not quite sure when you made the decision to do so.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Booze:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">If you can taste the oak, the currant and the soil in the latest Chateau Lafite Rothschild, bully for you! If you refuse to drink anything but imported beer, ale, lager, dark, black & tan, brown, etc. . . . Wow, color us impressed! Or just color us shitfaced, because we don't give a damn.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">We (i.e. you, me and everyone on the planet) drink booze to get drunk, to get tipsy, to have our inhibitions ripped from the anal-retentive grip of our cramping fists. It gets us strange bedfellows, strange bargains, strange children, strange visions, but no matter how expensive, how pompous, how snooty, how knowledgeable you are, you're still getting sauced, shit-faced, three sheets to the wind like the rest of us.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">And as a side note: I personally think spitting out the most gorgeous velvety tasting wine into a bucket is a travesty. If I can't make a spectacle of myself at a wine tasting, underwear on head, wrists in cuffs, shrieking lyrical poetry that would make the members of the Doors blush, including the Lizard King himself, then it's not worth the price of admission.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Parenting:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Your children have several purposes. Let's name them: 1. To fuck things up. 2. To grow up 3. To drive you fucking nuts 4. To drive everyone else fucking nuts 5. To play and make you smile 6. To teach you what you forgot you learned 7. To make you toss and turn and awaken at three in the A.M. because you hear them hot-wiring the truck to go buy cases of toilet paper at the all night Walmart, possibly getting drunk and or stoned on the way, pausing only long enough to impregnate or be impregnated.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">You can't stop it. You can't prevent it. No matter how skilled you are.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">You can love them and lead by example, which is easier said then done, and that's it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Good luck.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Remember: If you fuck them up, you're fucking us up as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Music:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Music, rock, pop, country, the blues, jazz, classical, world, zydeco, tejano, etc. is not about buying albums, concert tickets, Tee shirts, downloads, or anything else. It's about feeling something indescribable; it's about connecting with a part of yourself that even the great Bard couldn't describe. It's masturbation for the soul, and every now and then, it gets you laid.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Pets:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Love'em if you got'em.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Masturbation:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">You have a hand. You have genitalia. Any God who is so wicked, so tempting, so malicious as to give you a match and a can of gasoline and tell you NOT to set things on fire is not a God worth following. Stone me if you must, but masturbation is the best tool (heh, heh, I said "tool") for discovering your own sexuality. You MUST know yourself before anyone else can. You MUST love yourself before anyone else can. It does not take the place of the human heart or of human to human interaction, but it is like batting practice. Learn what you need to learn before the big game or it'll be a washout.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">(to be continued)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Aaron Diaz Hoal</span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-1706920220727426622009-08-09T03:57:00.006-05:002009-08-09T04:22:22.761-05:00The Female Conspiracy<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date teenage girls (and in most states are forbidden from doing so) and having to suffer through long hours of conversation where she patiently explains the way she'd like to be only to leave you the next day for someone who is exactly everything she told you she didn't want.<br /><br />The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date twenty-something girls (not that you ever stop wanting to) with killer bodies and a party attitude who you find drunk as a skunk in a back room sucking the cock of a gentleman with a nicer car than you.<br /><br />The nice thing about being 40 and single is you no longer have to date thirty year old women who are dedicated either to their career (around which your time and energy must be scheduled) or dedicated to having children RIGHT FUCKING NOW and if you can't deliver she'll find someone who can.<br /><br />The nice thing about being 40 and single is you get to date 40 something year old women. These women have dated assholes, both successful and unsuccessful, men who still lived in their parents' basement, men with no futures, no jobs, no steady income, no energy, no ambition, and no indication of every wanting to improve. They've been through the "I can change them" syndrome, and they're ready to settle.<br /><br />Many of the these women are ready for Mr. Right, but have certain "needs" (sex) and are willing to hang out with someone who is halfway decent like yours truly. I have a steady income, a car that doesn't belong to the bank, an easy, relaxed non-judgmental attitude, a sense of humor and a healthy libido.<br /><br />This woman becomes the "friend with benefits", at least until Mr. Right comes along. This woman is willing to settle for a man like myself who is a little bit of an asshole, but not so much that he's unbearable, and at other times is generally sweet, encouraging, but is honest about not wanting a relationship. Many of these women have joined yours truly in not wanting a long term commitment, because they (like me) value their independence and freedom, but it's awfully damn nice to have someone to sit with at the movie theater, to smack strawberry jelly with at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Poteet</span> Strawberry Festival, and finally return home to shed clothing and inhibitions for no less than thirty minutes, but no more than forty five, unless I'm drunk and can't get it up, but she gets around this by making me drive . . . but I digress.<br /><br />If all you sisters stuck together, I'd be in a pretty bad pickle, an extra sour one. It's because women give into the "friends with benefits" theory of life that men like me get to keep on keeping on in life without having to get married . . . or having to hire prostitutes.<br /><br />The problem with abstinence and celibacy is it defies the basic human programming. God, Mother Nature, Life and/or the Universe wants us to fuck. You want to fuck. I want to fuck. If we met, we might like to fuck each other. Granted, I don't have as much stamina as your pink buddy with the double A batteries, but I'm human, warm, funny, unpredictable, sweet, tender, brutal and I pay for dinner and a movie without complaint (including gas). I also smell nice when I'm really being considerate.<br /><br />I know there's a philosophy out there that says, "Ladies, don't give him sex until you're sure you're in a relationship, committed or otherwise". It's good advice, and it works like gangbusters when women can stick to it, and many can and have. But at the first stumble, the body, male or female, will always default to . . . fuck it, let's find someone to have sex with to accomplish any of the following goals:<br /><br />Get back at him.<br />Feel desirable again.<br />Get crazy to relieve stress.<br />Relieve the loneliness.<br />Relieve the pent up libido.<br /><br />And so on. . . .<br /><br />I've done a lot of things I wouldn't otherwise have been tempted to do because of the shape of a particular woman's ass, breasts, smile, eyes, and so on, because I wanted her to smile, because I wanted her to like me, because I wanted her to part her thighs, because I wanted her.<br /><br />It's okay. I'm comfortable with being manipulated, because I know women are also being manipulated by men, by women, by moms, by peer pressure, and by their own libido and ticking biological clock.<br /><br />Thank God most conspiracies fail. If this one had succeeded, I'd be married again, and I'm enjoying being single too much right now.<br /><br />Of course, the girl with the right smile, the right glitter to her eyes, and the right dirty joke on her gleaming, wet lips could change all that.<br /><br />Aaron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Diaz</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hoal</span><br />August 9<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">th</span>, 2009<br /><br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-25077612241936273632009-07-20T00:22:00.002-05:002009-07-20T00:27:26.175-05:00I Have Two Eyes in a Blind Kingdom and I'm Still Not King (Part 2)<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">GOOD ADVICE FOR STUPID PEOPLE (Part 2)</span></span><br /><br />Politics:<br /><br />Politicians lie. Get over it. They lie and we expect them to lie. We want them to lie, because we can't handle and don't want to face the truth. We do not want to hear any politician tell us that we're fat, lazy, irresponsible, bad parents, bad investors, uneducated and horribly misinformed about: A. the way democracy works, B. the way the world works, C. the way societies work, D. the way finances work, etc. We vote for those who will continue to pull the wool over our eyes, and if they manage to get a sheep to sit on our face, we vote even harder and with less lube.<br /> <br />Democracy:<br /><br />You have the right to vote, but more importantly, you have the right to NOT vote. If you choose NOT to vote, you STILL retain the right to bitch, whine and complain. It's called "Freedom of Speech". You have the right to NOT vote if you do not support any of the candidates. You have the right to NOT vote even if you're just lazy and can't be bothered. We have the right to try and make you feel guilty for not participating in our little democratic exercise / experiment, but you have the right to not feel guilty, if you can manage it. It doesn't matter how many dictatorships exist in the world; it doesn't matter how many celebrities appear in white tee shirts and jeans on your television trying to make you feel like shit for not voting; it doesn't matter how many people fought, died and struggled for the right to vote, you still retain your rights.<br /><br />Drinking:<br /><br />If you are of legal age, please feel free to drink yourself to death, but do it at home or call a cab. You can piss off your family, friends and that little tart of a waitress that pushes her boobs in your face to up the bill and her tip, but run a stop sign and it's my ass, and I don't care how sorry you are after the fact. I only care that me, my loved ones and that little tart of a waitress that I'd finally managed to get to come over after work and bang me is now dead and/or wounded. If you're a drunk, go ahead and skip the middle step and become a homeless reject. They don't drive, and therefore don't drive drunk, which by attrition garners my total respect. If you're not of legal age, drink away, piss your pants by accident, jump off the roof, do whatever you like, because you only live once, but do it at home or call a cab. Collect the keys at the door and lock them away. If you don't, I have the right as a fat, balding, middle-aged asshole to kick your ass, call the cops and/or your parents, and generally make you feel like shit.<br /><br />Celebrities:<br /><br />Celebrities are, much to your dismay, just people. Actors are just actors; musicians, just musicians. This does not make them experts on ANYTHING but they're chosen profession, any more than a banker is an expert on mental health, anymore than you should take investment advice from your proctologist.<br /><br />Anyone, anywhere can spew any advice they want, but being successful and/or beautiful doesn't make you smarter or better; it just means you have a better PR firm, a better image and better makeup artists. If you choose to use your fame and fortune to spotlight the charity or cause of your choice, then that is your right, but it doesn't mean anyone anywhere has to listen or feel guilty for not doing more.<br /><br />As for the "paparazzi": stop going where you know they will be, you whiny Mother Fuckers (i.e. Rodeo Drive, because, like, that's where all the really cool shops like totally are!). You can whine, bitch and complain all you like, but you, your fame and the PR firm that represents you are partially responsible for your current state of affairs. This is what you signed up for when you wanted, worked, struggled, obsessed and begged to become famous. If you didn't go into it with open eyes, it's your own damn fault. It's funny that I never see stories on the following celebrities: Tom Hanks, Morgan Freeman, Robert Redford, etc., ad nauseum, fucking, etc.! If you go into the fucking club, knowing there's paparazzi outside, then you damn well know they're going to be there when you stumble your drunken ass out. We have the right to retain our portion of the First Amendment without you limiting it because you can't keep your sorry PR ass under control and want to drive up the price of your next starring role.<br /><br />Computers:<br /><br />Learn how they work; learn what they do. You don't have to be a fucking expert, and I understand it can get complicated, but everything you touch and do involves a computer with the following exceptions: going to the toilet; and in a minority of cases, sex. Being old is no excuse.<br /><br />Coffee:<br /><br />It's ground up beans and hot water and that's all it is. I feel your pain. I really do. I have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on espressos, cappuccinos, lattes, girly caffeinated beverages with syrups and whipped cream, but at the end of the day . . . it's just fucking coffee. It's not a religious experience, it's not the elixir vitae, it's not even necessary for you to survive (no matter how shaky and headachey you get when you miss your morning cup). Starbucks didn't invent it, nor do they have the best, but if you like their convenience, their business model, the barista with the pert nose, pert breasts and the twinkle in her pert blue eyes, then feel free to take a second mortgage out on the house to buy it. We all have our little sins/luxuries, but at the end of the day, someone (usually South Americans) picks beans, someone roasts them, someone grinds them, someone pours or presses hot water at 15 bars of pressure or above over them and you drink it. It's not a miracle; it's a drug that is socially acceptable.<br /><br />Earth:<br /><br />We are now, and always have been, a global economy. It's not a conspiracy; it's not a plot by the Rockefellers or the Bilderbergers. We started on one continent (Africa), as one people, and despite minor differences in our appearance and customs, we still are one people. We have always sought each other out, our long lost brothers and sisters. We have always fought, killed, loved, fucked (there's a difference) and traded with each other, and even if we colonize a planet in some dim near-future, we will continue to do so.<br /><br />Religion:<br /><br />You have the right to believe any dumb ass thing you choose to believe, i.e. Catholicism, Buddhism, Scientology, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, etc. It doesn't matter what book you read, what country you live in, what your parents drummed into your adolescent head, it's still your choice. If you want to join a cult, by all means go ahead. It is your responsibility to identify what makes us fallible, flawed and vulnerable as humans, but should you chose to ignore this responsibility, then you're an idiot, but that's your choice. We have the right ridicule you for whatever fool thing you believe in without fearing that you'll shoot us in the face. You have the right to get pissed off. God says so. Well, not really, but wouldn't it have been cool if He (or She (or It)) had? Being religious doesn't make you better, stronger, smarter, prettier or more successful; it just makes you more religious. You are, at the end of the day, always responsible for your own actions, even if, especially if, God told you to do it. If God really did tell you to do it, then God expects you to take the consequences like an adult.<br /><br />to be continued<br /><br />Aaron Diaz HoalAaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-19930391038009363362009-07-12T02:08:00.010-05:002009-07-12T03:25:48.594-05:00The Little Stripper That Could<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-family:verdana;">If you've ever been to a strip club, excuse me . . . "Gentleman's" club. . . .<br /><br />Fuck it! We can be honest, can't we? You and I? We may be gentleman before we enter the club, but we're ravenous wolves once we're in. We don't whoop and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">holler</span> like you girls do in your silly little male strip clubs. We sit and we drink and sharpen our canine teeth, flick our tails, eat red meat and stare at the flesh writhing and wriggling on stage, the jiggly bits appeal to us the most, but the hair is nice, too.<br /><br />Anyway, if you've ever dared to enter one, you know that at the end of the night it smells like the makeshift locker room of a platoon of Marines behind enemy lines. It smells like men. Sweat, spit and booze (with a hint of urine, vomit and gas). But there is a special kind of stink on amateur night.<br /><br />Every thing is special on amateur night: the drinks, the crowd, the music, the women . . . especially the women.<br /><br />A little note about our beloved strippers, whom we adore from afar: I've heard a lot of women complain about what strippers have that they don't. I've also heard a lot of men hem and haw and try to explain. Is it the moves? The pole? The music? The setting?<br /><br />No, of course not.<br /><br />We can't have them. That is what they give us that you can't. We can have you, the wife, the girlfriend, the friend with benefits. We <span style="font-style:italic;">have</span> had you. They are there to be lusted after, not to be had. They are a fantasy and nothing more, and they stroke us from the inside out.<br /><br />Anyway. . . .<br /><br />Friday night, crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, double drinks in double fists, us men wait for our brothers' wives and girlfriends and friends to take the stage, to make us want them. It's not hard, but it's easy to fuck up. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Surprisingly</span> easy. <br /><br />I can't blame the husband or the boyfriend who "lets" his girl get on stage. There is something powerfully appealing about knowing a whole club of men want your girl, and can't have her. But you can, and will, the moment you close the door behind you and one of you trips the other on to a bed, couch, carpet, dining room table or back seat. Value is about wanting, after all, and the more that want the prize, the more valuable it becomes.<br /><br />Another note about strippers: The pros get tired, they become routine after awhile. They dance every night, every day, and it's only natural that they start to get the stripper "look". Powerful thighs, tight waist, heavy makeup, long hair, slightly artificial breasts, eyes that are not always the brightest, but are sometimes dimmed to a soulless luster. Oh, we'll still watch and drool and lust after them, but there's a reason clubs are always looking for "fresh" girls.<br /><br />But tonight's story is about one special would-be stripper who took on a drunken crowd of men that had had already climaxed and fallen flat on its face by the time she showed her eager, slightly oily face in the too-bright halogen swirling lights of this particular sweaty men's club.<br /><br />We'd stood, brothers in arms . . . or dicks, if your prefer, and showed our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">appreciation</span> for women, tall and short, curvy and skinny with primped hair and flat hair with trained dance experience and with none, with costumes and with bikinis . . . . We clapped. We threw money. We drank.<br /><br />Then Jeanie took the stage.<br /><br />She was not the stripper type. She wore no makeup, or very little. She was too short, with a pubescent figure, flat chested or close to it, freckled, thin and pale. She wore a black <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">unitard</span> with a leather skirt, black pumps, fishnets and strangely . . . cat ears with a bunny tail. Her themes were a bit mixed, but the music pounded irregardless, some techno no one but a German would recognize. Her hair was too kinky with curls, and too washed out, a faded brunette. Her lips were thin and unappealing, and she had the gawky, gangly look of a fawn on its first uncertain venture into the forest.<br /><br />And we fell in love with her. Or maybe we fell in love with her eyes . . . her eyes were strong and full of glitter. She looked happy. She looked childlike. She looked like she wanted to be there, and like she wanted us. Each and every one of us. She was all wrong for the stripper profession, for the stripper stage, for the club. She belonged in a bus station somewhere with a "runaway" poster in the background.<br /><br />She did not strut. She did a funny little skip step, her leather skirt somehow tickling our eyebrows. It was hiked too far up her waist, though her strategy was clear, as it did reveal the back of her unitard, which turned out to have been neatly trimmed into a thong. I had a sudden image of her feverishly cutting away material backstage, cat glasses posed low on her nose, freckles bright red on her cheeks, tongue parked at the corner of her thin lips.<br /><br />She did not perform olympic-style acrobatics on the pole. Her thighs couldn't have held her. She hardly touched the pole. Instead, she played on the edge of the stage. She played us, the crowd, and we wanted her. She did not hang on the edge of the platform and perform scissor kicks, yoga style; she flipped her skirt at us, did a strange, sexy little snake dance, did that strange, slightly stupid dance from the Fifties where you hold your nose and pretend to be sinking down into the ocean, and it was absolutely, drop-dead sexy.<br /><br />At one point, she made a show of removing one of her heels, sitting with her thin legs exposed, unbuckling a strap, rolling her eyes at us, making us laugh, then poking her leg out into the audience for help. We envied the man who got to remove her shoe. Then she did it again with the other shoe. She wasn't dancing; she was having fun.<br /><br />She dropped her unitard and slowly rolled it down until her ribcage was exposed, then looked at us and blushed. How silly of her . . . she hadn't given us her skirt yet. She was more saucy now, motioning for help with her skirt, then chastising the young man who beached himself on side of the stage like a trained seal. The skirt came off. It went with the man as he was escorted off the stage by a trained gorilla. But she ran after him, whipped him around, flowed into his arms, gave him a quick kiss on the tip of his nose and was away before he could get in a single grope, flashing her bunny tail as she ran.<br /><br />We were in love. Every single one of us. She wasn't a stripper. She wasn't a Supermodel. She was miles from perfection. She was imperfection incarnate and we loved every freckle, every dimple, every curl <span style="font-style:italic;">because</span> of those imperfections, instead of in spite of them.<br /><br />She danced for a little while. We didn't want it to end. We didn't want the rest of her clothes to come off, because that meant the show was over.<br /><br />I wondered if the girls back stage were rooting for or against her. I hoped for the former, but I'm an optimist that way.<br /><br />When she did finally reveal herself to us in all her naked splendor, it was just that, a revelation. She threw her arms up in the air, threw her head back with closed eyes and let us take her all in, her hip bones, her mound, her freckled thighs, her pubes.<br /><br />We cheered. Us men. We never cheer for strippers. We yell, we shout, we drool, we moan and growl, but we never cheer.<br /><br />And now, this is the part of the story where I must reveal the great fallibility of the sport of stripping.<br /><br />Jeanie did not win. She didn't get second prize. She didn't even get honorable mention.<br /><br />It was fixed. The crowd voted, but the announcer / club owner did not listen. I found out why the next week when I saw the winner on stage and divined the sordid truth.<br /><br />She may have not won the money, but she should have. She won us over and without half the natural attributes of the others. She won us over on personality alone.<br /><br />Next time someone tries to set me up with a girl with a great "personality", I'll think a moment before I make an ugly face. Maybe I'll take the risk. Maybe, just maybe, I'll marry someone like Jeanie, whose beauty really makes the overly used, after school special cliche true . . . it comes from the inside, the light, the sexy, happy heart that fills the eyes, the heart and the palate.<br /><br />Jeanie . . . you were the winner, no matter what they said.<br /><br /></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-79317951218408006682009-07-03T19:11:00.002-05:002009-07-03T19:14:56.849-05:00What I Learned From Dating Fat Chicks<span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >First of all, fat chicks don't always have low self esteem.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Portly or no, every girl is grateful for a good roll in the hay (and sometimes even a bad one), but not every girl appreciates a good roll in the hay like a fat chick does. I won't bother defining what makes a fat chick fat. Our definitions would differ, from me to you, from you to your friend, from your friend to your friend's favorite supermodel, and so on. But I will offer that in my experience fat chicks don't hate themselves nearly as much as skinny chicks.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Fat girls are fat. They already know what's wrong with them. They either eat too much, don't exercise enough or both. They don't go looking for other flaws. Why bother when you can't escape the biggest flaw of all? Skinny girls, on the other hand, can be trying. They are the conquistadors of low self esteem, always seeking out the next flaw, in perpetual journeys across the mirrors of the world for the next wrinkle, next cellulite, next mole, freckle or sagging body part.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Skinny girls spend more time in front of the mirror, and they don't eat or if they do eat they spend a suspiciously large amount of time in the bathroom directly afterward. Fat girls aren't anorexic, and usually not bulimic, or if they're bulimic they have the added curse of not being very good at it. After all, the point is to be thin, right?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >When you take a skinny girl to a pizza joint, they either order salad or they get halfway through one slice and pat their tummies with a simpering smile. Which means I eat the rest of the pizza, which means I get fat. Fat girls carry their fair share of the eating, which means they stay fat and I stay however I am.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Skinny girls have more energy during sex, but who wants that? I don't want a girl that will make me walk like I had a colonoscopy with a fumble-fingered doctor the next day. I want a girl that exhausts quickly. I can do foreplay, but fiveplay and sixplay gets a little tiring.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >I want a girl that drinks beer. 'nuff said.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Skinny girls are like skeletons in a latex dress. Fat girls got curves (sometimes hidden under other curves).</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >And frankly they're more fun to be around. They worry less about food, booze and laying on the couch for the entire weekend. And if you want to go somewhere, all you have to do is suggest that it will be good exercise. Dangle dreams of being thin and they're in the car with a towel and a water bottle in nothing flat. Fat girls do worry about skinny girls stealing their men, of course, (I doubt skinny girls worry about their man straying to plumpville), but they want to believe. When you explain to them that the thin, bony toothpick girls disgust you, they believe you. Skinny girls always worry someone skinnier will steal you away.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Fat chicks appreciate attention more. Skinny girls, pretty or not, get attention. They get a lot of it. If they're skinny except for their breasts, then they get even more attention. Watch the eyes of every man in a bar when a fat chick and a skinny chick walk in together, and you will begin to think that fat chicks have the gift of invisibility, though not always by choice.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Slather attention on a skinny chick and she'll be sizing you up. Are you the only game in town? Is there anyone else in the place that looks a little better, a little more successful? Smile at a fat chick and she's halfway yours. Ignore the skinny chick she's with and her thighs will part like a biblical sea.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Granted, depending on your definition of fat, the mechanics of sex may alter or even suffer slightly, but how many of us guys have laid our physiques over the girl of the evening and worried about crushing her? You don't worry about that so much with fat chicks. You do occasionally worry about the reverse, but again, that depends on your taste.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Last, but not least, I proclaim that dating fat chicks is not my fetish. It's just that more and more people are fat in the U.S., and I'm no slender puppy myself. And, of course, there is a difference between being curvy and obese, the number of curves for one thing. The heavier you get, the less curves you have. They are replaced by rolls. But when you kiss the pizza sauce stained lips of a curvy chick and tell them they're the most beautiful thing you've seen come around since flat screen plasmas, you'll see how easy the light turns on in their eyes. It's fun to switch that light on, and it makes you feel good.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >And in the dark, all boobs have nipples, all voices moan and all beds squeak the same, though some admittedly more than others.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >Aaron Diaz Hoal</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);font-family:verdana;" >(Originally published 4/7/08)</span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-17980248833332890502009-06-16T15:10:00.000-05:002009-06-16T15:16:48.826-05:00Everything that is wrong with me gets me laid<span style="color:#008080;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">Here's what women tend to like about me:<br /><br />I'm a casual, relaxed, "go with the flow" kind of guy. I'm funny, flirtatious, a little naughty, reasonably attractive, smart (though mostly just clever), supportive, non-critical, non-jealous, stable, an excellent communicator, and last, but not least, I tend to "get" what women want.<br /><br />Here's what women tend to hate about me:<br /><br />(Go back to the second paragraph and read it all again.)<br /><br />Get it? What attracts you, drives you away. My coin is shiny and only slightly tarnished, till you see the other side and realize the futility of changing me.<br /><br />Let's take it all apart, just for the sake of deconstruction.<br /><br />I'm relaxed. Good quality, right? But it also means . . . I'm lazy.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color:#008080;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">Good quality: </span></span></span><span style="color:#008080;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">I'm casual. Bad quality . . . I'd prefer to wear shorts and a tee shirt to your wedding. In a perfect world, pajamas (I have a nice selection of South Park PJs that would almost certainly match any bridesmaid's dresses!)<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color:#008080;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">Good quality: </span></span></span><span style="color:#008080;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">I'm a "go with the glow" kind of guy. Bad quality . . . you create the go, I'll flow, which means you have to do all the work.<br /><br />Are you seeing it now? Dating me, or anyone for that matter, except the pope, which in this day and age may be against some Italian law, but in the old days, the good old righteous days, the pope had a wife and sometimes a mistress. He was Italian, after all.<br /><br />What was I saying? Oh, right, sex . . . no, that's not right, well it is, but. . . .<br /><br />Dating me is like buying a house. A warm Sunlit parlor means your electric bills will be astronomical because your A/C will be running at 118%. "Cozy" means you can't turn around in the bathroom, even to wipe yourself.<br /><br />Should we keep going? Somewhere, I can feel two drunken heads nodding and saying, "Shhure, whyda fuck not? Ishh your bottle!"<br /><br />Good quality: I'm funny. Bad quality: I'm never serious, even when it's starting to make you want to go that big butcher's knife out of that drawer, and even then I'll probably make a joke about how I'm finally going to get your point.<br /><br />Bloodshed, shovels in the wee hours, explanations, and you're the next subject of interest on 48 Hours: Hard Evidence . . . The Killing Joke!<br /><br />I'm flirtatious. With you. With co-workers. With gay men. With other women. I'm flirtatious in general, which may at some point have you considering the corkscrew rather than the butcher knife. Let's hope I'm a good vintage.<br /><br />I'm reasonably attractive, which means I vacillate (which to my shock has nothing to do with Vaseline) between being over-confident and being insecure. It also means I will probably not have my back hair lasered, but I will spend countless hours grooming my beard (or yours . . . see? that was a "butcher knife" joke . . . told you!).<br /><br />I'm smart (mostly clever). Do you like feeling dumb? No one does. So when I let you do something dumb and then let out a dry witty remark about what you "should've" done, you'll probably move from the corkscrew department to the axe department. I recommend a hatchet. Axes tend to be too heavy for most women, which will probably be dying my words. "Should've . . . killed . . . me . . . . . with . . . . . chainsaw. . . . much . . . . easier. . . ."<br /><br />Supportive. Right? What could be bad about that? Ah, let's find out, shall we? Supportive means supporting you even when you're fucking something up and supporting you in the expensive compensation at which point you'll turn to me and say, "Why the fuck didn't you stop me from doing something so asinine?!" Because I'm non-critical and supportive. See?<br /><br />Non-critical. You're perfect. We both know it. Even when that spinach leaf in your teeth, a long ribbon of toilet paper on your heel, your skirt tucked neatly into the back of your pantyhose and your hair looking like Quasi-moto's hairdresser had a go at you. Once you've walked around all day like that, the phrase, "Hey, I love you just the way your are!", will likely get me buried in six pieces rather than 4. I don't want say anything about where that sixth "piece" will end up. But may I suggest an old ex's mailbox. He'll think twice about everything!<br /><br />Non-jealous. Every once in awhile, don't you kind of want your man to get a little "tense" about other men?<br /><br />Stable equals "not a risk taker".<br /><br />An excellent communicator means I have the ability to turn your own words against you and squirm out of most the crappy things I do which you are trying to call me on only to find yourself apologizing and explaining why you did the thing you did. Tip: it's because you're a girl. I forgive you.<br /><br />Last, but not least . . . "getting" what women really want, which means I'm going to know that when you're saying that seemingly innocuous thing that there's really something much deeper going on and it's going to drive you nuts because I'm going to call you on it rather than play your game and we're going to spend the next 40 minutes arguing about what you "really meant" only to have you finally give up and invite me over to have sex. You'll probably have much better luck in the morning before I've had my coffee. I'll tend to apologize and own up to anything when I'm just waking up, aching, uncaffeinated and feeling old (and spent), and feeling like a homeless person with the Swine Flu.<br /><br />With all that said, I have a lovely, cozy, sunlit cottage on the beach to sell you.<br /><br />Which means it's a dank, tiny, hot shack that might or might not be underwater depending on the tide.<br /><br />Read the damn <a href="http://tbac.comicgenesis.com">COMIC!!!!!</a><br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-81852279722838374192009-06-05T05:16:00.006-05:002009-06-05T05:44:18.856-05:0080% nice + 20% mean<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">A woman's heart is like an onion. I could spend the rest of my days peeling back the layers, only to be met with more layers. There is no inner truth, only layers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Women have been called fickle, but then so has love, but then I'm convinced that love was invented by women. It's our fault for believing the lie when our genitalia tells us otherwise. After all, can you really blame the billboards for being broke and fat or yourself?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I always figured women just didn't know themselves, didn't know their true nature and spent every day trying to change who they were in an attempt to find out or were waiting for a man to tell them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I could be wrong.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Now, I realize, it doesn't matter. Men don't have to understand women any more than a fisherman have to understand fish. That is to say, we must must understand female behavior and ignore the rationalizations that justify it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Case in point: I happen to be dating a drop-dead gorgeous blonde who is a little bit of a ditz, a little bit of a child and who complains endlessly that I'm "mean". She asks me why I'm mean to her. I ask her why she would be with someone who is "mean" to her. She thinks about it for awhile and replies, "Well, you're not always mean. Sometimes you're really nice."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">She's right. Sometimes, frequently, I am really nice to her. I cuddle with her, give her sweet kisses on the forehead, tuck her into bed, pat her bottom, make her laugh and generally encourage her to do whatever she thinks is best for herself.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">But the mean parts are where I refuse to give her what she wants. I refuse to fall in love with her, refuse to call her my girlfriend, insist that I don't want a girlfriend and that I've been honest from the beginning only to listen to her rationalize in the following manner:</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">"Well, I mean . . . what really is a girlfriend? What is a relationship? Y'know, it's just friends and--"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">"No, you know what a girlfriend is and what a relationship is, and right now, I'm just not looking for that."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">"But, y'know, I mean, I just like being with you."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">"I like being with you, too."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Of course, when she refers to me being mean, she could be talking about the time I spanked her until she cried because she wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">So I ask her why she would respond to such treatment. She says that she doesn't and that she responds much better to being treated nice.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I performed a little experiment on the off chance that I was wrong. Here's what I did:</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I was really nice and sweet and kissed her and held her and whispered nice things in her ear about how beautiful she was and how good she smelled and so on. I slipped my hand under her skirt and tested her reaction. Think of it as a litmus test of sorts, except most such tests don't get you laid.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Dry as a bone. She might have been aroused emotionally, but not physically.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Then I was mean to her. I bossed her around, twisted her arm and forced her into my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth and bit her chin and turned her roughly around and had her bend over the counter while I checked her underwear.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">She was wet.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Have I proven my case? She was ready and that was all the signal and reinforcement I needed.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">The fact is you girls respond to a man's aggression, our assertiveness, our possessiveness. Yes, sometimes it's too much and it's a turn off, but even then there's a part of you that likes it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">The hot blonde I'm seeing (who is my age, by the way, and that is kind of refreshing) complains to no end that I think I understand women, but that I really don't. I always respond that I seem to understand enough to get her on her back with legs in the air, and that I've managed to avoid the usual traps that women subconsciously lay for us foolish men.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">I'll let you be the judge. You can throw a pie in my face, slap me, throw a drink at me, if you like, and I'll freely admit that I'm not expert at keeping women, but I've never had a problem getting women.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Maybe that's what she means. Maybe the meanness will get her going in bed, but drive her away eventually.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">But then, there's the depth. I'm a deep person, a truth seeker, a man open to discussion and learning from his mistakes.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Confusing, no? Not to me, but then I know me and I know what I'm about.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">But I'm willing to be publicly educated so I'll put it to you. . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">Why would a sweet, beautiful woman put up with a man who was mean to her every now and then?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-79388638730502160802009-02-13T20:10:00.004-06:002009-02-13T20:51:03.545-06:00The Litanous, Somewhat Litigious Ticker Tape of the Male Mind.<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Women, hate us or love us, this is the truth. This is honesty in it's purest form. This is evolution, biology, reproductive strategies, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">testicular</span> thinking in it's crudest, most subconscious, Alligator mind form as you will ever get.<br /><br />The sweet guy that you claim you love will never admit the truth. Assholes like myself will . . . and here it is:<br /><br />The thoughts of the male mind during an average day:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I wonder if she'd wake up if I just started fucking her?</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She'd probably be pissed. But would I get off before she woke up enough to be pissed? Nah, I'd probably pay for it later. God, she's got nice tits. Man, I could eat that ass up. Maybe I should lick her feet. Shit! I gotta get ready for work!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus Christ! I hate oatmeal. Fucking bland tasteless nothing. I'm fat. I should probably start doing some weights. Fuck that. I'm a god! She loves my belly. Maybe I could skip a shower? Nah, probably should shower. There's a couple of cute girls at work, not to mention the checkout girl. I could get her. I wonder if I need to stop at </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wal</span><span style="font-style: italic;">-mart. Why couldn't I be fucking a redhead? I wonder if she'd get too way pissed off if I went and fucked her breasts and came all over her face. She'd probably wake up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Godammit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! I hate getting up before the Sun. I should grab a bottle of wine, wake her up, make her watch the Sunrise with me, then fuck on the back porch, then go back to sleep. I wonder if she'd make me the perfect BLT. Fucking perfect world maybe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fucking Lexus cut me off! The bast-- . . . wait, it's a bitch. Fucking </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">bitc</span><span style="font-style: italic;">--fuck it! She's cute. Too rich for me though. Could I fuck a girl </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">long term</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> that made more than me? It'd be weird if she wanted to pay for everything because I didn't have shit. Fuck it! Being a kept man would be pretty cool--pretty cool--fuck it! I couldn't do it!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I really want to pull her hair when I fuck her. I wonder if she'd let me fuck her up against a wall, wrap her legs around me. Jesus, she's wearing a lot of makeup. What the fuck?! Don't wanna fuck a rodeo clown!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Damn, Deb is hot! I should call in, flirt with her, tell her I love her show. Maybe I could meet her in a club and talk about how she's British and how I've been there. I wonder what the radio show intern girl looks like. Is she really hot? I can't believe Deb has brown hair. I was thinking </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">blond</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fuck it! What else is on? I need some music. Fuck! Almost missed my exit. Do I have time? Yeah, a little late, but I should get there. I should call her. Should I call her? She's probably on the road. I should call her and say "hey". She'd love that, but fuck it. I've gotta get to work. What would I do without her? Well, honestly, I'd find someone else to fuck, but she's pretty great. Fucking cracks me up. I . . . maybe . . . do I love he--</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Damn, </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">look at</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> this bitch! God, what an ass! But she's black. Could I fuck a black chick? I don't know. Fucking exotic. I should find an Asian chick to fuck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Shit. People. Gotta deal with people. Smile. Say hi. Smile. How ya </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">doin</span><span style="font-style: italic;">' today? Ha ha. Funny. Stupid fuck. God what an ass--hey, how ya doing? I would so fuck those breasts, except the rest of her is a little fat. Goddamn, that face though. I could fuck that face to kingdom--</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Statistics. Reports. Excel. Data. Discussion. Number. Tact. People. Employees, I'd fuck that. I'd fuck that, too. I need a real girlfriend, not the bullshit I've been playing around </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wi</span><span style="font-style: italic;">--data, numbers, math, </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">microsoft</span><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">microsoft</span>, fucking Bill Gates, </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">microsoft</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">microsoft, </span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">what the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">fuck's</span> up with the mosquitoes, sorry about your loss. Man, fucking death. I can't believe I'm fucking forty. Mother fuck--I'd fuck her. Cute, but kind of mannish. I'd fuck that. She's kind of chubby, but maybe if I was drunk.<br /><br />What. A. Fucking. Day.<br /><br />I'm tired as shit. I should get a burger or a fucking pizza or some fucking ice cream of maybe I should get loaded. I wonder what escorts really charge. I wonder how much a high class escort really costs. I wonder what they smell like. Do they smell like the last guy they were with or do they clean up and smell really pretty and nice and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">fuckable</span>. God, I would so love to fuck a model or maybe a supermodel, like in her twenties. Twenty-five. Could I get a twenty-five year old? Maybe, if I didn't want to pay my mortgage for the next three fucking months and could fucking lie and sweep her off her feet. I wonder if I should buy a suit?<br /><br />God, she kisses good. Jesus, she smells like fucking heaven. I want to fuck her in the foyer. No, fuck that, on those don't-use-because-they're-fucking-</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">decorative cushions. Prop her ass up and dig in tight. What the fuck? Are you actually bending over in front of me?! Are you fucking serious? Oh, I am so totally fucking the daylights out of you ton--get together with friends? Fuck that. Shit. Really? Why the fuck do I promise anything ever? This sucks. Oh, right, because I want to fuck her. I'd promise to launch myself into the fucking Sun if she hinted at opening her thighs. All this bullshit about the glass ceiling and women. They've got all the power. Man, if I had tits like that I'd be such a fucking slut. She should be sluttier . . . but only with me. I wonder if she'd kiss another girl on videotape for me, but only want to fuck me, but invite another girl, a hot friend, to fuck me, too . . . on video.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Goddamit</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, I'm fucking tired. Fuck it. I'm taking a nap. Of course. Of fucking course. She wants me to go down on her now?!? I'm half a-fucking asleep. A long boring party, a shitload of beer, a hostess with cleavage that i wanted to dive in, and now that she's half drunk, she wants to fuck, and all I want is to go to </span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">slepzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz</span><span style="font-style: italic;">."</span><br /><br />Aaron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Diaz</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Hoal</span><br />2/13/09<br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-5010078715076558762009-02-01T08:17:00.010-06:002009-02-01T09:08:22.649-06:00If (Poor=Fat) then (Skinny=Broke)<span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">If I'm buying a lot more groceries these days, it's because I'm trying to eat healthy and cut back on expenditures. Ever notice when you go on a diet the first thing you do is a buy a shitload of "healthy" food? Ever notice when you try to cut back on spending money, you stop at the grocery store twice as much?<br /><br />I'm starting to wonder if I wouldn't save more money by being fat. Fast food is cheap, so is store-bought crappy food. Packages of powdered, sugared, glazed crap seem to be much cheaper than organic, multi-grain, high-fiber, low-fat crap. The grocery store is tempting me with a choice, be skinny and poor or fat and less poor.<br /><br />I have poor relatives. They are on the "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Gummit</span>" program. On this program, they qualify for butter, cheese, eggs and the like because they have really shitty jobs that don't pay them nothing. But they do have Direct Dish and pretty sweet pickup trucks and all the ammo they can carry. Go figure. The government gives it to them for free (the food, not the ammo). I haven't had actual butter in probably a decade. Why? Because I care about my cholesterol and my heart and my colon. Or possibly because I'm an idiot.<br /><br />I'm writing this because I'm getting old and starting to sound a lot like Andy Rooney. I was actually standing before the chicken at the local H.E.B. yesterday and griping aloud about what a rip off it was. "$8.00 for three chicken breasts?!? Are you fucking kidding me?!?" And that wasn't even the organic stuff. Chicken thighs are about half the price, but they are also full of fat, right?<br /><br />When the food prices started soaring, I remember hearing news stories about how it was because the price of delivery had soared, because the price of gasoline had soared, because the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sheik</span> in Dubai decided he need four more manufactured islands in the shape of his three new wife's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">uteruseseses</span>. (Plural female <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">genitaliaseses</span> are a grammatical weakness of mine. Deal with it.) But when the gas prices came down, all of a sudden the same news channels explained (patiently and always with glossy, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">shiny</span> effervescent smiles) that it was because of the speculative market. It was all about the stock market, you see. Gas prices didn't enter into it. Huh?<br /><br />This is what I know. We (you and me) got sick of the food industry sneaking crap into our food (fat, sugar, salt, chemicals, etc.) and we asked nicely, "Please stop", and they said, "Fuck you. When you stop buying it; we'll stop making it". But they'd stacked the deck against us, snuck in things like high fructose corn syrup that tricked our brains into overeating, and other assorted little tricks designed to make us eat more, buy more, eat more, buy more. They were turning us into a nation of "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Tribbles</span>", always eating, always buying because what we ate never satisfied us.<br /><br />So the organic industry was born. They promised free-range chickens and eggs, no added chemicals and we said "hurrah!", at least until it started costing us an arm and a leg. It's gotten to where butter might actually be healthier for you than margarine or that other weird butter-like stuff. Same thing with cheese.<br /><br />A few years ago you couldn't eat spinach. Last year you couldn't eat tomatoes. This year we can't eat peanut butter. Next year I think they've got rice scheduled to be the mysterious "eat it if you WANT TO DIE!!!" food, which appeals to gambling addicts, but not to the rest of us.<br /><br />So here's where I am. I'm not old to get money from the "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Gummint</span>". I'm not poor enough to get free food. I'm right smack dab in the middle class with the rest of you bastards. Eating healthy gets me poor real quick, but getting poor makes me fat. Eating crap saves me money, but gets me fat, which makes me want to diet, but diets cost more money, which makes me want to cut back on money buying cheaper goods, but the cheaper goods make me fat. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Jesus, no wonder we're a nation of yo-yo dieters. (Except for Yo Yo Ma, I believe he's a Slinky dieter.)<br /><br />It's time like these that I envy anorexics. For the price of 1/2 of a cracker and a sliver of celery I can be both skinny and rich, at least up until the part where I die, but like smokers always say, "Hey, ya gotta die some time? Why not speed the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">process</span> along?"<br /><br />Aaron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Diaz</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hoal</span><br />Hungry, poor and pissed in Austin, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Tx</span><br />2/1/09<br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-21514506619479013652009-01-25T13:31:00.001-06:002009-01-25T13:31:44.970-06:00Spankings: What's a Southern boy to do?<span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I don't know how they do it in the Northern states or in Africa or the Middle East, but being a boy from the South, I was always taught to "look after the 'little ladies'".<br /><br />I was taught to open doors for women, wait for their short legs to catch up, let them go first, and to walk closest to the road on the sidewalk. Maybe it's all silly. Some women don't like it. They feel they don't need special treatment, that it's a compromise of their equality. Some do. Some complain that men aren't gentleman anymore. If that's true, it's because some other woman gave us some abrupt and negative feedback or maybe they weren't raised with manners. Don't know. Don't care.<br /><br />I do what I do because I like doing it. It makes me feel good to do something nice for someone, man or woman.<br /><br />I was also taught never, ever under any circumstances, hit a woman. There are a few women who were apparently not taught the same thing in regards to men, but that's another blog.<br /><br />Men who hit their women had something demonstrably wrong with them and needed to be pushed down a nice high flight of stairs. Those of us who are at heart chivalrous gentleman find it difficult to stomach the idea of some asshole going to town on his wife or girlfriend. We don't find it difficult to stomach the idea of taking a well chosen 2X4 to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">asshole's</span> skull just so he'll get a taste of what he's been dishing out, even though we know, it won't do any good.<br /><br />So when a girl you're dating decides she'd like a good spanking and then expresses disappointment that you didn't give it to her hard enough, a boy like me is left with a dilemma.<br /><br />On one hand (pardon the pun), I have an innate desire to give a girl what she wants, that which makes her squirmy wet and infinitely enjoyable.<br /><br />On the other hand (ditto), it just feels flat out wrong to wallop that beautiful bottom no matter how much she shivers with delight.<br /><br />The answer to this great dilemma, in case you're wondering, is that pleasure wins out, like it always does.<br /><br />You learn to get past that little voice that says "don't you never hurt no girls", and to listen to that voice that says, "well, this is interesting".<br /><br />I guess it all comes down to whatever turns you on. I know there are some things I could never do, things I might be able to get past or stomach, but don't want to.<br /><br />Sexually, we're all a bunch of depraved little monkeys. Fact: 1 out of 1000 monkeys hope they fall from a tree and "accidentally" get a stick poked up their ass. Fact: that wasn't a fact at all, but something my stream of consciousness made up. It seems we're a lot less in control of our fetishes than we would like to be. I'm sure there are a lot of people who would gladly give up their desire to lick plastic shoes or to waft cigar smoke over their sphincter from a woman's black-lipsticked mouth, but then again, maybe not.<br /><br />Maybe those little fetishes, those breast fixations and feet fixations, intensify sex, make it bigger and more powerful.<br /><br />For the record: I gave her another spanking that left her bottom and my hand raw. She loved it. She shivered with delight, and as weird as I felt doing it, I enjoyed it, too, because, well, when a woman shivers with delight, delightful things happen to their breasts.<br /><br />Aaron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Diaz</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hoal</span><br />(self confessed man-whore)<br />1/25/09<br /></span></span></span>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-39538051977354463192009-01-18T10:32:00.003-06:002009-01-18T11:11:02.608-06:00Other than that, how was the play, President Obama?First they compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln.<br /><br />Is this really a good idea? Jesus Christ! It feels like every one is setting him up for martyrdom.<br /><br />I have a nightmare of waking up one day and seeing a black face shining with sweat on some television street in some television city, exclaiming with tears running down his face, "They killed him!!!"<br /><br />We're desperate. We're hurting, and like desperate hurting people do, we're reaching for anything, anyone, which is not to say President Obama isn't worthy of our hope. It's only to say that we're putting all our eggs in his basket, painting a huge "S" on his chest, handing him a cape and saying, "Save us."<br /><br />This ain't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Metropolis</span>, and he's not Superman.<br /><br />Believe me. I feel it, too. Calling all the Ex-Presidents together like some superhero Justice League, riding the train, irritating his own party. I feel the hope, too.<br /><br />But--<br /><br />--the more perfect he seems, the more likable, the more golden, the more I worry.<br /><br />What if something happens to him? What then? What happens to the rest of us? The race riots will eventually die down, but what happens to the economy? What we're feeling now, depression or recession, call it what you like, is just a pinch. While some of us are losing homes, going broke, searching for jobs, most of us are still treading water. If Obama gets assassinated, America is likely to become the United States of the Titanic.<br /><br />Dubai will be the new capitol of the world. They will take our celebrities, and the celebrities will go with open arms, because in Dubai, they can shoot photographers if they feel like it. Okay, well, maybe they won't do that, but they can lock them up, deport them if they want, and that will make the celebrities happy. Wait, no celebrities, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hmm</span>, okay, so it's not all bad.<br /><br />This is the part that gets me tagged with the FBI. This is the part that sends them and the Secret Service scurrying to my door with me stuttering and crying out to the media (if I'm lucky enough to get talk radio attention), "But--<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">buh</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">buh</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">buh</span> . . . it was only a BLOG!!!"<br /><br />This is the part I call, "If I Were a Terrorist".<br /><br />If I were a Terrorist, I'd be finding the next John Wilkes Booth, the next Harvey Lee Oswald (or well, anyone who uses all three of their names), and setting him up as the next patsy.<br /><br />Which would have the most disastrous results? Taking down the Twin Towers of New York or having some Southern Racist assassinate the first black president?<br /><br />Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I'm scared of nothing, but it feels like Obama is taking the same kind of chances that Kennedy and Lincoln took.<br /><br />This is the part I will call, "If I were a Secret Service Agent"<br /><br />To Do List:<br /><ol><li>Hire and Train the shit out of more agents</li><li>Corner the market on Teflon and Bullet-proof glass</li><li>Buy Depends in patriotic colors.</li></ol>People. An observation:<br /><br />People, most people, are basically good. We all want the same thing: to be happy. Most of us just want to get to work, do our jobs, get home and enjoy our lives, whether that's through a night dancing at a club, a quiet night with the family, an outdoor BBQ with neighbors or getting shitfaced on our front lawns.<br /><br />But there's a lot of us in the world, enough to create a tiny percentage of us that are fucking nuts.<br /><br />A rule of thumb about this whole "one person making a difference" crap.<br /><br />To make a change for the better, it may take only one person or event to start the movement, but it takes a consistent effort by a shit load of people to carry the movement forward until it sticks.<br /><br />But it only takes one, single nutcase to fuck everything up.<br /><br />And now my own State of the Union address:<br /><br />Folks, we're hoping things get better and we're struggling and putting a lot of faith in our new golden boy, rock hard abs, new puppy and all. This ain't Camelot. This is America. This isn't the Civil War. This is a united country that's accidentally put nearly the entire global economy into a tailspin. No one said it better than the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Sargent</span> on <span style="font-style: italic;">Hill Street Blues</span>, and it's advice that goes for our new president as well as us:<br /><br />"Let's be careful out there."<br /><br />Aaron Diaz Hoal<br />1/18/09Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-28075718593035959742009-01-18T10:25:00.002-06:002009-01-18T10:32:16.142-06:00Welcome to Dallas, President ObamaFirst we compared him to Kennedy, now Lincoln. Neither president ended up where any of us want our new Commander in Chief to end up.<br /><br />What do we do with a black president? Well, he's not that black. I'm going to be a racist for a few minutes, because I can, because it comes easy, because I'm white and not that poor, and because I've got nothing better to do. I was thinking of writing Pepsi to discuss how their logo is a perversion of the unnursed female breast and how God explicitly forbid such a thing in Luke 23: 47--49 . . . ahem. . . .<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, 'Surely this was a righteous man.' When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things."</span><br /><br />See? The red and blue breast of the Pepsi logo?! Can this resemble nothing more than the bruised unnursed breasts of the people Galilee? Atrocious!<br /><br />But now we're going to get a black president, and I, being Holier than all you Thous, must weigh in. Don't worry about the weight thing though, I'm trying to exercise more. I make two trips to the refrigerator for each commercial break and I walk down my driveway to get my mail now instead of driving my car.<br /><br />Where was I? Oh, yeah, a black president.<br /><br />Do you think any of his advisers are whispering in his ear, "Oh, yeah, one more thing, see that? The Manson-Nixon, er, Mason-Dixon line? Yeah, don't go South of that. And for God's sake, whatever you do, do NOT let them talk you into taking a sunny drive through Dallas!"<br /><br />Of course, we're all wiser and more politically correct now. Our nation is without hate. No one hates black people anymore, or white people, or brown people, or even yellow people. That's what we have terrorists for. If red is the new black (and I'm not sure that it is, honestly), then terrorists are the new communists which replaced the horribly antiquated "witch". Where's Senator McCarthy when you need him? Oh, yeah, rotting in the grave, heh, heh. Right now, he or is ilk (why does the word "ilk" make me "ill"?) should be holding up laundry lists before Congress or the Senate and claiming to have proof of terrorists sympathizers having infiltrated our God-fearing nation, wait, was that supposed to be God-fearing or God-loving? I'll have to check the bible again. Strangely, I feel a perverse need to fondle myself when I perform Biblical research, which explains why I'm not allowed in church anymore. (Well . . . at least one of us was not nodding off during the sermon, and I was certainly feeling the hand of God, because we're all made in His image you see, and that means God's got to be hung like a horse with great big luscious breasts. Again, kicked out of church, now you see why.)<br /><br />Now, a small passage which attempts to redeem me before both African Americans and America's Salt of the Earth:<br /><br />First, I like black people. I grew up in Louisiana, and have lived in the South my entire life. Being somewhat musical, I find it difficult not to groove to the blues, R&B, and even the occasional rap. Being a gourmand, I find it difficult to pass on a plate of good soul food. Being human, there's something beautiful about a black family on Sunday morning, the men all bald and beautiful, the women dressed in flowers and heels. I especially admire the older black men, of course, with their suspenders, their pot bellies and the pride of their family gleaming in their eyes.<br /><br />Second, I like farmers, ranchers and cowboys. I've had good experience with these good ole boys, and I know that if you were stranded somewhere in your finest hose and heels (which I often am) and one of these "rednecks" came by in their pickup truck (confederate flag sticker and all), they wouldn't hesitate to stop and give you a helping hand, buy you a new battery, offer you a ride or use of their cell phone, and you'd be thankful, because like African Americans, they are basically good people.<br /><br />Now, allow me to unredeem myself:<br /><br />President Obama will soon find himself in an impossible position (which is not the fun impossible position where you try to lick yourself because today is one of those days that you are depressingly single and it's fucking HOT!). No, I mean the impossible position of being too black for the whites, and not black enough for the blacks. At least with white presidents, all the off-white citizens expected to be fucked. If one of these white guys give an off-white citizen a concession, a boost to immigration or inner city schools, they have the right to be ecstatic, though that ecstasy could and will be used against him.<br /><br />For some reason I keep seeing a smiling Hillary and a Billy whispering into the microphone, in his scratchy Southern dialect, "Wow, he didn't even last 30 days."<br /><br />Let's hope I'm wrong. I usually am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more bible research to conduct, as soon as I find that hand cream my last ex-wife left behind.<br /><br />Aaron Diaz HoalAaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-47446152587812434212009-01-02T00:21:00.002-06:002009-01-02T00:32:18.564-06:00How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the TamponShe stands in my living room, pupils dilated, nostrils flared, rosaciaed cheeks extra rosy, holding a diaphragm in the palm of her small hand, showing me her blood clot. Probably in response to some unsympathetic asshole-type thing I'd said about how she's always bitching about her period but she's had them for years now and shouldn't she be used to them by now?<br /><br />"See?" she snarls, shoving the filled diaphragm towards me. I can see the clump of red in the center and I don't want to see the clump of red in the center so I shut my eyes and avert my face with the expression of a ten year old who has just had his first foray into an abattoir. "See? This is what WE have to put up with!"<br /><br />In her passion, her hand shakes a tad and the clot drops on to my plush, white carpet. She bursts into tears, apologizes and runs for the Fabreeze, the soap, and the scrubby brush she uses when her cats have their accidents.<br /><br />I light a cigarette and watch her scrub my carpet like some feverish maid who has just been threatened with I.N.S.<br /><br />Time. Stops.<br /><br />It does that sometimes.<br /><br />I start thinking about shit. Weird shit. I usually do this after sex, before sex, when I'm trying to find someone to have sex with, and when I'm viewing porn. It pisses me off, because it's usually ill-timed, but not today. Today, the timing couldn't be better.<br /><br />Men experience blood as the potential for death. Our only history with blood is being wounded. Losing blood is losing life is draining energy until we're cold and in the ground. Blood=bad thing.<br /><br />For women it's more complex. (Isn't it always?) Women have the same experience with blood, PLUS the potential for life. Each uterine lining shed is another opportunity passed, another moment where they could've conceived, but didn't, and therefore are failures.<br /><br />Time. Re-starts.<br /><br />By now, she's finished scrubbing and I'm not saying a Goddamn word, despite the fact that I can still see a pink aura around the spot. I'll probably forget about it, but she won't. She'll feel ashamed about it every time she passes by until we finally call a professional cleaner or get a new carpet.<br /><br />The important thing is I can take advantage of her guilt and have some rocking good sex for awhile. She might be a little more willing to go down on me or she might let me finally do her doggy-style. Either way, until her shame lifts or until I piss her off again (which is why I have to take it while I can get it), I'm looking to be a lucky boy.<br /><br />Now, which is worse in your experience? Being sick in the hospital or having to visit a loved one who's sick in the hospital. I'd rather be wearing a thin, backless paper gown and having my guts laundered than to have to make small talk with someone who's managed to get past my defenses and make me care about them. It's just easier. I'd much rather piss blood for five to seven days than to have to listen to someone whine about it.<br /><br />Every month, your girlfriend, sister, daughter and mother become mental patients. I'm not complaining. One out of those four give me a good occasional fuck (two if you live in Alabama or Mississippi; three if you live in Arkansas). And I'm just horny enough to plow through even during the violent march of the Crimson Crusade. If she's willing; I'm willing. I've had blood on my dick and on my hands and I've found that it all comes out with some soap and water. To some men, this idea is abhorrent. That's their business, but it's one less fuck for them and one more for me, and I've found when I show no disdain for Little Red Riding Blood, I score a lot more Brownie points. If she can put up with the mess and the stink (which I rarely notice anyway), I sure as Hell can. And I'm just horny enough to not care about the conditions (with the following exceptions: 1. whores in Mexico 2. transsexuals in transition and 3. common prostitutes).<br /><br />Now, she's curled up in my lap, weeping, apologizing and ignoring my hand which has somehow snaked its way up under her shirt and wire-framed bra and planted itself on her breast. Maybe I'm a bastard, but I like her when she's like this, vulnerable, needy, wanty, soft and sweet. It's like an ice cream that's begun to melt. If your hand ain't a little sticky before it's all over, you're not doing it right.<br /><br />Aaron Diaz Hoal<br />Originally published 1/27/08Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-10675844280274950322008-12-08T19:26:00.004-06:002008-12-08T20:11:32.103-06:00I have 2 eyes in a blind kingdom, and yet I'm still not king.<p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:180%;">GOOD ADVICE FOR DUMB PEOPLE (Part 1)</span><br /></p><p face="georgia" style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">On Living:</p> <p face="georgia" style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Everything that you do will bite you in the ass. It could be good. It could be bad. Either way, you will complain about it.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">On Dating:</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">You're not interesting; she's not interesting. Together, you're far less interesting. You're both too picky and it's a miracle you managed to get past date #2 without fucking it up. Your chances of lasting through the long haul, through the big M, in a Universe where Victoria's Secret supermodels / waifs parade up and down a television runway in nothing but their underwear and white angel's wings . . . . . . . . . . . . sorry, lost my train of thought . . . oh yeah, your chances of making it are almost nil.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">So, here's the thing. Don't worry about how long it will last or <i>what it means</i>, savor the shit out of it while you've got it, because after he or she or it shreds your heart into more pieces than a Lehman Bros. retirement plan, long after you've gone broke on the therapy bills and gotten past the pain and the betrayal and the "that fucking bitch" syndrome, you'll have something nice to get all nostalgic about when you're listening to your next girlfriend drone on about how her boss /friend is such an idiot and can't even wear shoes that match her belt.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">On Dying:</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">You're gonna die. You don't know when. You don't know how. Treating your body like some holy temple through which no evil shall pass, not cheese, not meat, not second hand smoke, will get you hit by a bus and / or killed by a chunk of wing off a poorly maintained international aircraft going to all the places you're afraid to go because you know the water there isn't quite "right". Why? Because God hates pompous asses, self-righteous asses, and people who don't know how to have fun with the life they've been given. On the other hand, treating your body like a theme park called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">GarbageLand</span> USA will probably build up your immune system, but it will also make you feel like crap, and therefore make you wish you were dead, because you can't stand up straight, and in your hunched-back glory, you spend more time coughing up phlegm than you do breathing.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">So, the key is to eat well most of the time, eat crap every now and then. Walk every day, and I don't mean to and from the fucking car. I mean, around a track, at a park, anywhere that gets your heart pumping and your lungs filling, and only do stupid, reckless, spontaneous things every once in a long while.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Exercise:</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Listen very closely! You do NOT have to run six miles a day before breakfast, then hit the gym on the way home. You do NOT have to throw up. You do NOT have to take expensive herbs, pills and potions to <i>feel</i> normal, and you and I and the entire fucking world know that there are no quick fixes. Liposuction won't make you healthy. Breast implants won't make you feel better about yourself. They'll only make you feel better about your tits and leave a special "prize inside" your coffin. You do NOT have to buy any book that has the word "Diet" in it. This includes, but is not limited to, The South Beach Diet, The Atkins Diet, The Gerbil Food Diet and "Hey, Look, I Ain't A Fatty No More" by Starr Jones. No one can tell you anything more than you already know about food, but just in case you're a complete and total idiot (and I always assume that which is the highest probability), I will explain.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Running tears up your knees. Treadmills are boring. Weights are boring and tear up your joints. Swimming is good. Walking is good. Having fun is really good, even if it's doing something dorky like wearing a cape, wrapping foam around a stick and meeting all your friends from the Society for Creative Anachronisms down at the park to properly educate your "Squire" upon the most chivalrous uses of his "sword".</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Eating fat is bad. Eating a shit load of food is bad. Eating in a restaurant, fast food or not, is almost always bad, even when you think you're being good. Sugar is bad. Vegetables are good, but not deep fried, soaked in butter or sprinkled with sugar. Meat is okay, but not wrapped around or stuffed with cheese, deep fried, soaked in butter or sprinkled with sugar, and absolutely no roadkill. It's disgusting and you know it. I don't care if you are from Mississippi.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">It's more important to feel healthy than it is to look healthy. Fuck anyone who tells you different. They can look healthy in their coffin, but you'll be the one making snide comments about how "lifelike" they look.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">If you're so fucking fat that you can't manage it on your own and you want to get your stomach stapled or lap-banded or tied in a knot by a party clown with balloon experience then do so. Be proactive. Realize that it's still not a magic solution and that you're still going to have change your health, your psychology and your behavior. Food can be a reward sometimes, but not every meal is a fucking Grand Pris Trophy.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Fucking:</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">You can do it fast. You can do it slow. You can be hard and/or gentle. You can fill whatever holes you like as long as it's mutual. A little bruising or redness is acceptable, but anything that sends you to the hospital or that leaves lifelong scars is coming about because you have gaping wounds inside you that haven't healed. Get your ass to a therapist, figure your shit out, then go back and try it again.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Pleasure feels good. Pain can feel good. Both can be rewarding. Role-playing is fine. Public sex is fine, as long as you are aware that anyone who happens along has the right to call the cops if they so desire. It wouldn't be as exciting without the fear of getting caught, right? Well, do it enough and your excitement will be fully realized.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Having a fetish is fine as long as the fetish does not become the sole focus of your sexual desire. Sex is <i>supposed</i> to be about connecting with yourself and possibly another person, or two. It is not supposed to be the end all be all of your existence.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Don't fuck animals. Don't fuck children. I don't give a shit if you think your neighbor's schnauzer was coming on to you or if that little boy in his front yard was blowing kisses your way. They weren't. They can't give their consent, and even if they could, they don't understand the act they're consenting to, because they're too stupid and immature.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">You are an adult, and you're reasonably intelligent. Check yourself in and get your shit figured out or we can and will catch your ass and send you to a place where you can't give consent and aren't given a choice, but will get everything that's coming to you, and no one will care because we'll be too busy applauding a three time loser who made the mistake of ripping off a shop that specializes in security cameras, but who also found inside his heart the time and energy to rape you.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;"><i>to be continued</i></p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;">Aaron <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Diaz</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hoal</span></p><p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255); font-family: georgia;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">(originally published 10/12/08)<br /></span></p>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-86732974816961181422008-12-05T22:47:00.001-06:002008-12-05T22:48:43.548-06:00Fun With A Taser<p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Last month, a good friend rushed up to me as I was leaving work and said he "<i>had something important to give me</i>". I followed him out to the parking lot where he opened the passenger door of his Kia and popped open his glove compartment, producing of all things . . . a Taser. It was a neat little black box with metal snake fangs at the end. He depressed the button and I marveled at the little blue electrical jolt that <b><i>zapped!</i></b> angrily between them. I believe my assessment was summed up the following <b> </b>gastroenterological exasperation:<i> "Oooooooooh! Sparky!"</i></p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">"Yeah, it's yours if you want it. My wife is scared shitless one of the kids will get a hold of it and wants it out of the house."</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I held it up to the Sun and looked at it as if the Lady of the Lake herself had delivered it to me from the, uh, lake. He chuckled and said, "You just gotta promise me to be careful with--"</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I tased him.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">He went down quick and hard and jerked around like an epileptic for a few minutes, then breathed heavily and tried in vein to cuss me out. I nodded with approval, tased him again, before he could get up, and left him in his own drool before he could regain his senses. He'd done me favor, after all, and I didn't want him feeling guilty for getting up and kicking my ass.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">At stop lights, I admired my new toy in the car as it lay on the passenger seat. On the road, I glanced over adoringly at it like a new lover, with doe eyes and a tender simpering smile.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Then low and behold, I saw the homeless guy at the Ben White stop light. Not the one in the wheelchair with no legs, but the one with the blue knit cap and the gut the size of Montana. I thought about motioning him over, though I'd never done it before, but I had an urge to be a good Samaritan because of my new found toy. I was in industrial plasticky heaven. But I didn't have to, he wandered over, as if sensing my joy and knocked on my window. Unable to help my smile, I rolled down the window and tased him.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">He stumbled backwards onto the shoulder (thank God) and flailed around, before coming ominously silent. I thought maybe I should check him for a pulse, but then the light turned to green, so I just assumed it was a sign from God that he would be alright. The Almighty wouldn't steer me wrong, would He?</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">At Wal-Mart, I smiled cheerily at the greeter and showed him my new toy. He put his hand out, so I tased him. Only later did I realize he thought it was an item I was returning and it would need one of those little green stickers, so everyone would know I was returning it. I felt a little sorry for the guy, especially at the discovery that false teeth have a tendency to actually leap from the mouth upon a significant jolt of electricity. Who knew?</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I must say I've never had such a pleasant experience in Wal-Mart before. Aisles cleared before me. Customers who had well-ingrained habits of leaving their carts in the middle of the aisle suddenly bowed before me, because, well, because I tased them. I did make the observation that the kids that ran around the store loose and wild like members of a lost tribe from that <i>Lord of the Flies</i> island made the most peculiar sideways grimace as they went down. I had to laugh. No one else was. It seemed only appropriate.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">When I was pawing through the $5.00 movie bin, seriously eyeing a copy of <i>First Knight</i> with Sean Connery, an elderly woman approached me. She couldn't have been taller than 5'2", even with her bufonted blue hair. She was clearly upset with me, so I tased her. It's nice to know some seventy year olds still have their own teeth, though I did not relish the hollow sound of her skull hitting the tiles. It made me a little sick in the stomach actually, so I moved on to housewares, where I was approached by an "associate", but who strangely enough looked to me to be nothing more than a sixteen year old boy with terrible acne. I knew what he was going to say, so I tased him.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Guess what? Adult diapers aren't just for adults. Good to know, no?</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I bought a few items: one of those plug in things that would hopefully make my guest bathroom smell a tad more like a spring meadow and a tad less like cat shit, because the litter is so cleverly secreted away in the closet; a CD by Tenacious D which is stupid, funny, and filled with some catchy tunes, (Goddamn, Jack Black has a phenomenally good voice, if only he were more serious, he could make a truly excellent album, but maybe he wouldn't be Jack Black if he did that); several cheap towels because that redhead has a tendency to squirt, or pee upon orgasm, I'm not sure which, but I'm keen to find out; razor blades; a $5.00 copy of Iron Man, which turned out to be a poorly animated series (Note to self: don't shop drunk!); two bottles of wine, for shopping drunk; 52 containers of yogurt; 3 tins of tuna; 1 jar of mayonnaise; 1 sponge; and a pair of boxers with pictures of Vaseline containers on it, though it may have been just square beige blocks, I just assumed.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">It was while I was shopping for pants that I noticed a pretty brunette perusing the books. I sauntered over, pretended to look at some magazines, then maneuvered behind her and "accidentally" bumped into her. I apologized, of course, and almost at once noticed and breathlessly commented on her beautiful green eyes. She blushed and tucked a lock of that thick black hair, with all the shine of an oil spill, behind her ear. I asked if she knew where I could find some of those "Dummies" books, and her face went all quizzical on me. "Y'know, <i>Dummies Guide to. . . .</i>" She laughed and nodded. "I don't think they have those here." I snapped my fingers as if I'd just missed a pop fly and said, "Well, if you happen to find them, let me know. I'm looking in particular for the <i>Dummies Guide to Picking Up Really Cute Brunettes with Green eyes</i>." She laughed, blushed beautifully, flashed a friendship ring at me, and I smiled in good natured defeat and tased her.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I must say girls who drool aren't so beautiful anymore.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">I made my way to one checkout line after another, discouraged by the long lines. Ah, but I had a secret weapon. Cozying up the tall black man at the end of the line, I tased him. As people moved to help him, figuring him for a heart attack, I moved forward in line. Next was a lone Hispanic gentleman with worn jeans covered in sheet rock dust, standing next to his wife with a basket filled to the brim and beyond with sausages, pork chops, bacon, and God knows what else; they were apparently buying a whole pig on an installment plan. I tased him. His wife lunged at me with wide shocked angry eyes and began to cuss me out in Spanish. I apologized deeply from the bottom of my heart and helped her get her husband back on his feet, then I tased him again. She stood in mute wonder for several minutes, utterly apalled and/or astonished, so I tased her.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Couples should stick together, I always say.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Around this time, the Self-Check lane opened up, so I scanned the first of my items and heard the commotion arising from behind me. I needed to get home quickly, but the razor blades blipped and the screen went to that Goddamn "Please Wait For Associate" screen. Meanwhile, two young jocks from the local basketball team were inching up behind me, closer and closer, already trying to scan their items, despite the fact that I still hadn't paid for my own. I tased them. When the associate finally showed up, she seemed more interested in the two boys sprawled on the floor then in clearing my purchase so I tased her. I'd had enough of waiting to pay for my goods, so I tased the scanner and miraculously it blipped back to life and gave me a $40 discount, which was good because my items had come to nearly twice that amount.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">When I got home, I put my groceries away and listened to all 28 messages on my answering machine, which were all essentially the same message from my friend who'd given me my new toy. I ate some yogurt, plugged in the outlet smelly thing and plopped myself down on the couch to study my beautiful new toy. Black and steel blue with the acrid smell of fresh electronics, I admired it in all the ways a man can admire a function of power.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Slowly, trembling, shaking, I put my tongue between the metal barbs, closed my eyes and pressed the trigger.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Later, when I was scrubbing the stains off the couch, I made a note to call my friend and thank him for the gift that had so recently changed my life. Tomorrow, as we all know is the annual Shriner's convention, and I recently bought a ticket on-line.</p> <p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Aaron Diaz Hoal</p><p style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">(originally published 9/17/08)<br /></p>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-88226036069419791022008-12-04T02:52:00.009-06:002008-12-05T22:47:44.669-06:00How to survive your child's school crap<p style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Okay, so they're not exactly my kids, but they're awfully damn close. They are the fruit of loins that come from the same fruit of loins that I came from. Yep, my nephews.<br /><br />Several weeks ago, my brother-in-law (do we really have to bring the "law" into this?) decided to take a day off from work and begged his wife, my sister, to play hooky as well. Being the stick in the mud that she is (i.e. responsible), she said no. He got pissed off, hopped on his bike, a Kawasaki Concurs (i.e. big mother fucking bike), revved the engine up nice and tight, drag raced himself down the driveway and promptly lost control of the behemoth roaring between his legs. He laid it down, or rather, it laid itself down on top of him, and after what I'm sure was a few panicked hours later, he woke up in the hospital. For a week or so there, it was touch and go (like so many of my dates). There were tubes going into and out of him, and that's never a good thing. But he did finally awake, with less sedation, and started being the nice, if slightly incoherent, guy he should've been all along.<br /><br />Through it all, of course, being the callous bastard that I am, all I could think was, "Dude . . . you fucked up!"</p> <p style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(102, 255, 255);">Bec ause it only takes a fraction of a second, doesn't it? To make that decision that costs you your life or your leg or you penis (God forbid!) or anything else for that matter.<br /><br />To make a long story short(er), he's going to be okay, but it's going to take awhile. In the meantime, I've been corralled into staying for a week or so at a time to drive the nephews to school while my lovely sis visits her idiot, scratch that, banged up husband in the hospital.<br /><br />Surprise, surprise, this involved me attending the "Recycle Faire" at the youngest's school. I've never attended a "Recycle Faire" before, but I had an idea what Elementary School was like when I attended some four decades ago, and I had little reason to believe it had improved.<br /><br />My boy, the youngest nephew, diagnosed with Asberger's Syndrome (which always calls the phrase "Ass Burger" to my head when I think of it), which is a mild form of autism, had created a PowerPoint presentation and had somehow reformed two radial tires into "Recycled" sandals, which had mysteriously been lost by the teacher, but which would also just as mysteriously show up the day <i>after </i>the "Recycle Faire".<br /><br />Repeat after me: recycle stuff.<br /><br />There. Now you know all you need to know. What took the Elementary school numerous presentations, skits, music, painted posters, <i>etc. ad fucking nauseum etc. </i>I just managed to do in two words. The entire evening consisted of one media event after another of the word "recycle" being used enough times that I seriously considered recycling my own vomit.<br /><br />But, since I was just an uncle and not a parent, and since no one at the school had the foggiest idea who the hell I was, I had prepared myself well ahead of time.<br /><br />That's right: shortly before the beginning of the festivities, your hero, asshole incarnate, or is that asshole in carnal, anyway, I dropped acid. Flying Eyeball, to be exact. Three dots of some extraordinarily expensive LSD. I timed it almost perfectly.<br /><br />By the time the fruit of my father's daughter's loins PowerPoint presentation hit the screen, I was not only well lubricated, I was folded, ironed and slightly scorched. Never was there a more interesting, compelling and amusing presentation.<br /><br />When Roby the Robot came on to tell us in his mechanical voice about how Recycling was important . . . I was riveted. Wow, recycling . . . is like cycling . . . again. Wow, watching the beams of light flowing to and from a projector screen is like watching lint imitate popcorn, and if you ever cared to know, a projection screen is, in fact, not salty at all, but rather bland, and tastes slightly like rice.<br /><br />By the time the two little girls were finishing their skit which repeated the phrase "Recycling is Good" no less than 52 times (the same number of cards in a deck; coincidence? I think not, or way too much and way too fast actually), I was sitting on the floor, laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. My hand shot up first for every question. Steel cans are the most recycled material in the nation, and yes, you can even recycle circuit boards, transforming (magically) phone circuitry into personal computers, EKG circuitry to Fallout 3, a game I've discovered also during my one week stay at my sister's house is grossly inappropriate for children under the age of 34. Okay, so a few of my answers might have been a little off base. Screaming "Bloated Clown Balloons!!!!" twenty-two times in a row does tend to get the attention of the attending teacher.<br /><br />Anyway, the real point here is that if you have children you almost certainly have to attend one or more of their events. Politics aside, accurate data aside, you have to sit and look interested, which is why I recommend drugs. LSD, marijuana, mushrooms (one of my personal faves), is a sure way to make the evening fun and lively for all involved.<br /><br />On the plus side, while I am allowed to drop my nephews off at school, I'm now and until further notice forbidden from attending any extra-curricular school events. Who could ask for more?!?<br /><br />Why are we fighting a war on drugs again?<br /><br />Just curious.<br /><br />Aaron Diaz Hoal</p> <p style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(102, 255, 255);"><br /></p>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-57862458590681951892008-12-04T01:10:00.002-06:002009-01-02T00:31:35.458-06:00Jogging For Losers<p>At the 3/4 mile marker, I have become ridiculously certain that a venomous snake has somehow managed to latch on to my legs in mid-stride and sink its fang into both shins. There is burning, a lot of burning. It's like the wicked burn of flesh waking from a bad case of frostbite; it's like an acid slushee compress. My shins and calves are on fire, the muscles and tendons wound tight, and I'm thinking about limping back to the car and wondering why I didn't buy that $2.00 foam cooler and a six pack of anything at the Wal-Mart I passed on the way to the park. It depresses me, of course, because I've been running for months and I still struggle to get past two miles without walking. It also occurs to me that most fitness programs are made for fit people.</p> <p>A 300 pound man or woman doing aerobics is to exercise programs what a wheel bound, skeletal shell of a man or woman drawing on a cigarette through the tracheal ring in their throat is to smoking: it's compelling and horrific, and it doesn't dissuade anyone from anything.</p> <p>So, for all you people who cannot put the cookie down, or the lasagna, or the cigarettes, or the booze, this first step in my new custom made jogging program is just for you.</p> <p><b>Warm-up:</b></p> <p>This is a good time to ice down the beer, chill the wine or vodka, fill up the flask, get the pack of ciggies squared away in a pocket and walk around like you know what you're doing. You should be stretching. I find it best to keep my shades on and to jog in a public park used by many attractive women. There is nothing better than putting your leg up and peering over at the soft curve of the ass of the goddess next to you. Some of this is about jockeying for position. There is some work involved, but once you have your spot, you can "stretch" for a long time while the girl in the tight shorts kisses her knee and makes you appreciate the astonishing beauty of nature. Wear loose pants.</p> <p>Recommendations:</p> <p>Start with Menthol lights: I know, a little girly, but they're refreshing and light up your mouth and give you just the little kick you need.</p> <p>Try a Zinfandel / Rose or other "fruity" wine: or Light (aka "Lite" beer): Again, you want something that won't weigh you down but will get your buzz started. This is the warm up, after all, and not the time to take an industrial strength can opener to a keg.</p> <p><b>1/4 Mile:</b></p> <p>You want to park yourself behind one of those women whose ass you admired during the warm-up. This will provide a much needed distraction and delay the first wave of nausea and dizziness. If she gets too far ahead of you or if you lose her (and you will), relax. Another woman with another fit and delicious ass will be around soon. Conserve your strength, slow to a walk if necessary. Do NOT by hypnotized by the gelatinous motions of the assess and backfats of the women (or men) who are in as equally bad shape you. Stay ahead of them.</p> <p>Recommendations:</p> <p>Regular Marlboro's or other Regular Brand: You'll want to start on something moderate here. It's been a 1/4 mile, you should reward yourself. Stay away from "Low Tar" the same way you stay away from fat free deserts. They're not worth your time. If they ever come up with "Lite" or "Low-Tar" bullets, you can be certain some damned fool will buy them, but that fool doesn't have to be you.</p> <p>Regular Beer / Merlot / Pinot Noir, etc.: This is the time to indulge a little. You've made it much farther than 1/4 mile. You've wrenched yourself out of bed, pried yourself into some kind of jogging outfit, driven a car, and now you're EXERCISING! Wow. Be impressed with yourself. Be confident. Save your puke for the 1/2 mile mark.</p> <p><b>1/2 Mile:</b></p> <p>Puke.</p> <p>Note: Do NOT puke up everything. Save some for later. You'll be puking every 1/4 mile and the last thing you want to do is get to the 1 mile marker and have nothing left but dry heaves.</p> <p>Recommendations:</p> <p>Open a new pack, but keep it regular. You still have a ways to go.</p> <p>Open another bottle, pour another glass or sip from your flask. It's time to start introducing a little something harder: whiskey, vodka is ideal because it looks like water and has less of a smell which means less of a chance of you being mistaken for a homeless person. The trick here is to make sure you're thoroughly buzzed, because by now your body will be revolting (it might have been revolting to start with, but who am I to judge?). You want to slip yourself into a nice easy alcoholic numbness without becoming sloppy, weepy or passey outey.</p> <p><b>3/4 Mile:</b></p> <p>Puke.</p> <p>By this point you will be walking, or rather, limping, sweating profusely, coughing up wads of substances that must be synthetic because they contain colors that have not been seen in nature before, and emitting a general wheeze. Relax. This is normal. You might take a breather on a bench, which is a good time and place to have another drink and cig and maybe a light snack (see recommendations). Do NOT lay down. The last thing you want is to fall asleep and wake up in the dark with a paramedic slipping you the tongue "accidentally". Also, your wallet tends to walk away when you nap in public (trust me on this).</p> <p>Recommendations:</p> <p>It's time to whip out the Camels Unfiltered. Due to the wheezing, coughing and the general diminished capacity of your body to draw in air, you'll be dizzy and sick. While you're low on oxygen anyway, why not give yourself a nice relaxing buzz with the "prime rib" of cigarettes? You're doing a lot more than walking a mile for them, after all.</p> <p>Skip the beer unless you're carrying some brown ale. Guinness, Newcastle Brown, Samuel's, etc. Also, if you're doing wine, try to go with something that will get you down the road to numbing intoxication quicker like a nice port. Preferred choice, of course, is whiskey with a vodka back or possibly a few thimbles full of Everclear. You've only got 1/4 mile left. The only way to get there is if your body is moving but your mind is unconscious.</p> <p>As for the snack, might I suggest something sweet and light and loaded with sugar, say . . . Krispy Kreme?</p> <p><b>1 Mile:</b></p> <p>Puke.</p> <p>By now you smell like a slaughterhouse because the profuse sweat is shaking loose tidbits of grime that not even the best shower head in the world could penetrate under the flab, rolls and flesh flaps you call a body. After the run, and puking, you'll be noticeably hungry, but due to your unnatural stench, consider take out (or as they say in the U.K. "Take Away").</p> <p>Recommendations:</p> <p>Cigs don't matter, because no matter which you choose, you'll be sucking them from tip to tip in seconds flat. Since you're replacing oxygen with pure nicotine, you'll notice a kind of dazed fog surrounding you. Enjoy it while it lasts.</p> <p>Liqueurs are lovely at this point. Sweet, powerful and tasteless, because you're so plastered you not only can't taste anything (but cigarrette ash), you also can't seem to get your hand out of your pocket. When you come to you'll discover it was because you had your hand wrapped around your car keys and couldn't remove your fist.</p> <p>Meat. You'll need meat. Lots of meat. Hamburger, meatloaf, steaks, and you'll want to replace those carbs you just used up. Fries, baked potatoes. Steer clear of salads as they will not satisfy you in the long run, and cause you to show up at the local Taco Bell begging them to squirt the contents of the Seven Layer Burrito directly into your mouth from their happy little guacamole / sour cream / refried bean caulking guns.</p> <p>As with all exercise plans, when beginning anew always consult with your physician. Or if you don't like the way he yells at you, go to a fortune teller. At least they will take your money with a smile.</p> <p>Aaron Diaz Hoal</p><p>(originally published 10/30/08)<br /></p>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8208141192876063068.post-55725424767901325382008-11-26T22:40:00.004-06:002008-11-26T22:45:48.677-06:00Date Me . . . you know you want to.<p>I might be married, but you won't know for sure until we've slept together, after which I will absolutely not, under any conditions, call you the next day . . . or ever for that matter. Well, Saturday night when I've had one too many and feeling a little horn--er, lonely, I might call you then.</p> <p>It's too late in the battle for equality for me, the man, to pay for dinner, or to drive or to dress nice. You'll need your own car and good plastic. Also, you might go ahead and bring some condoms so I don't have to make any extra stops, though if all goes well you'll be picking me up at my place and returning me there after the date. Please lock the door on your way out in the morning. You might also consider feeding the dog, changing the cat litter and cleaning up a little.</p> <p>On the first date, I promise at some point to pull down your top and go "Brrrrrrr!" between your breasts, because I know you girls love that, the attention, the admiration, etc. I also guarantee to let you go first through every door and up any stairs or escalators for the sole purpose of watching, and commenting on, your ass. I swear to comment on every other halfway attractive woman, pointing out the parts of their body that are supremely better than yours, and giving you a "I'm just kidding" expression, but which will also have that "Not really" gleam in the eyes. I may or may not nod off during your endless chattering. I snore. It's best to let me wake up on my own, otherwise I tend to get violent. You might consider talking less and listening more. I will have endless conversation about drinking, fucking, sports, video games, other women, my life, my interests, things that piss me off, things that REALLY piss me off, and the time I almost stuck my dick in a cow. Laugh. A lot, and nod, and smile, and lick your lips to let me know you're actually listening.</p> <p>I will bring lots of drama into your life, and lots of chaos. I like games, emotional games, sexual games, board games, bored games, games where I call you lots of bad things, but only to help lower your self esteem. We both know that makes you more manageable and that you secretly love it. I will admit that I'm not much of a hitter, so sadly you'll have to go somewhere else for any physical abuse. I'll take care of the emotional and verbal sabotage though. We're all weak in one area or another; this is mine.</p> <p>I won't be isolating you from your friends, unless they're married, give good advice or are otherwise unavailable to me. I wouldn't dream of telling you to get rid of any girl friends that I might be able to sleep with behind your back. Don't worry, you'll find out, that's what drama is all about.</p> <p>I'm not an attractive man, nor am I thin or young, but you should be both young (or look young) and thin. Don't worry, it doesn't meant I won't date you. It only means I get to taunt you with calls of "fatty" and that you have to go to the gym daily and stop eating, but it's okay, because you're doing it to please me and that's what's important. Also, your breasts should be in decent shape, a nice size and not too saggy. You might consider plastic surgery, implants, tucks, etc. Again, you're doing it for me, but you'll need to finance this yourself.</p> <p>Girls who are exempt from dating me:</p> <ul><li>Anyone nicknamed "princess". We don't need two high-maintenance people in the "relationship".</li><li>Anyone with more than one kid. Shoving one kid off constantly on a friend or family member is perfectly acceptable, but after that your house starts to look and smell like kids live, vomit and poop there. I don't want to meet them and I won't be their new daddy. I don't "do" kids, in any sense of the word. Exception: if you have a daughter that is or is nearing 18, but she better be hot.</li><li>Anyone who is already dating (or married to) someone who is already more of an asshole than me. You don't need me and what fun is that?</li><li>Anyone with family nearby, unless you hate them, then we're in business.</li><li>Anyone in therapy. Unless the therapist has a drinking or drug problem.</li><li>Fat chicks. Don't worry, we can still have sex in between your episodes of starving yourself and going to the gym, but we can't be seen together until you can fit it into your size 4 jeans (or smaller).</li></ul> <p>I drink. A lot. I smoke. All kinds of substances, even dog poop once, but it was an accident. I frequently have problems with erections, so I probably won't last very long, but don't worry, I'll get off. You may or may not. You'll just have to get faster. Also, I don't do oral, but you will, and you'll probably have to learn to love anal and some other rather nasty things. It just depends on the kind of day I've had and how much I've had to drink.</p> <p>And I'd like to add I'm very open minded. It doesn't bother me if you have tattoos and piercings everywhere or if you think you might be a lesbian or half lesbian or 1/4 lesbian.</p> <p>Aaron Diaz Hoal</p><p>(Originally published 7/23/08)<br /></p>Aaron Diaz Hoalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15044998510571866991noreply@blogger.com0