Monday, December 8, 2008

I have 2 eyes in a blind kingdom, and yet I'm still not king.


On Living:

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.

On Dating:

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.

So, here's the thing. Don't worry about how long it will last or what it means, 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.

On Dying:

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 GarbageLand 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.

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.


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 feel 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.

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".

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.

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.

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.


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.

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.

Having a fetish is fine as long as the fetish does not become the sole focus of your sexual desire. Sex is supposed 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.

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.

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.

to be continued

Aaron Diaz Hoal

(originally published 10/12/08)

Friday, December 5, 2008

Fun With A Taser

Last month, a good friend rushed up to me as I was leaving work and said he "had something important to give me". 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 zapped! angrily between them. I believe my assessment was summed up the following gastroenterological exasperation: "Oooooooooh! Sparky!"

"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."

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--"

I tased him.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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 Lord of the Flies island made the most peculiar sideways grimace as they went down. I had to laugh. No one else was. It seemed only appropriate.

When I was pawing through the $5.00 movie bin, seriously eyeing a copy of First Knight 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.

Guess what? Adult diapers aren't just for adults. Good to know, no?

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.

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, Dummies Guide to. . . ." 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 Dummies Guide to Picking Up Really Cute Brunettes with Green eyes." She laughed, blushed beautifully, flashed a friendship ring at me, and I smiled in good natured defeat and tased her.

I must say girls who drool aren't so beautiful anymore.

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.

Couples should stick together, I always say.

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.

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.

Slowly, trembling, shaking, I put my tongue between the metal barbs, closed my eyes and pressed the trigger.

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.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

(originally published 9/17/08)

Thursday, December 4, 2008

How to survive your child's school crap

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.

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.

Through it all, of course, being the callous bastard that I am, all I could think was, "Dude . . . you fucked up!"

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.

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.

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.

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 after the "Recycle Faire".

Repeat after me: recycle stuff.

There. Now you know all you need to know. What took the Elementary school numerous presentations, skits, music, painted posters, etc. ad fucking nauseum etc. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?!?

Why are we fighting a war on drugs again?

Just curious.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

Jogging For Losers

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.

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.

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.


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.


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.

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.

1/4 Mile:

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.


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.

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.

1/2 Mile:


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.


Open a new pack, but keep it regular. You still have a ways to go.

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.

3/4 Mile:


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).


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.

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.

As for the snack, might I suggest something sweet and light and loaded with sugar, say . . . Krispy Kreme?

1 Mile:


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").


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.

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.

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.

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.

Aaron Diaz Hoal

(originally published 10/30/08)