I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

The Old Man, the Gestapo, and the nursing home

I went to visit The Old Man last Saturday at the local Gestapo-run rest home for retired Nazis. Most people probably cringe at the thought of visiting a place with a large group of the half-dead. I suppose that there’s something eerily comforting about the smell of death and lunchtime mashed potatoes.

I wheeled The Old Man from the dining room to a small community room. It had a little LCD TV hanging on the wall and a couple of chairs with one of those hospital-type TV tray on wheels that you can raise or lower. Sitting on one of the chairs was a lone pink balloon. I just found it funny that this pink balloon was sitting on the chair for some reason.

The room had a few windows in it. One was cracked open enough to let a nice cool breeze in to wind through the stale air of the building. The room had a view of the back courtyard. There were power lines off in the distance and the yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence. The fence and the power lines made it resemble a German WWII POW camp. We imagined an SS guard holding an MP40 patrolling the grounds with a large German Shepherd.

The Old Man recounted the stories of his youth that we’ve all heard thousands of times in the past few years. It’s really alright, I don’t mind. He doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or anything. He’s just old. How many people do you know in their 30s who tell you the same story every time that they see you?

The memory lane monotony was broken up by a girl starting to vacuum the room. She was young and relatively pretty. She had on hospital scrubs and a flowery print shirt. Now The Old Man is never one to not hit on women-no matter what age or whatever the circumstance. The Old Man watched her vacuum intently. I imagined her using the Oreck like a stripper pole. The Old Man taking out a wad of singles and stuffing some into the elastic waistband of the green scrubs, Girls, Girls, Girls blasting in the background.

After the vacuuming chick was done, I got The Old Man some coffee and brought him back to his room. I helped him to his creaky old bed and he sat back with a thud. I spoke to his disheveled roommate without bottom teeth. He expressed a desire that his son would visit him. He trailed off in a unintelligible murmur when I asked where his son lived.

As I made my way through the halls of mumbling wheelchair-bound old people upon leaving the facility, I was swept by an overwhelming sense of dread. Most of us will end up at a place like this. It’s alright I guess. They keep it at a warm temperature. They fill you with food. It’s easy to drift away-fast asleep in your bed. However frequent or infrequent visits from loved ones are, it must become a blur of past and present memories.

Cheers to The Old Man. Ogler of vacuuming nurse strippers.

Possible resume objective text

The gray metro train lurches forward through the beige countryside like thoughts of suicide through the mind of a man at the end of his rope.

How's this still a thing

How are the following things still things?

Grey's Anatomy 

Dancing With the Stars 

Country music 

Hip hop 

Bible shows

Thoughts on killing your girlfriend’s dog (and making it look like a suicide)

Buddy the dog after he killed Santa for his cookies and stole his hat
If you’re a hypersensitive freak like I am, you undoubtedly get really fucking annoyed at things like; people chewing, breathing, speaking loudly, or just being alive and around you. Speaking of chewing, please Kit Kat, end those, nails down a chalkboard, crunching commercials. You know the ones, the overly-exaggerated sounds of people snapping open the bar and shoving it in their mouths and chewing with a ridiculous amount of decibels.

Anyway, the sounds I hate most in the world are that of animals being animals. For instance, dogs licking themselves. It doesn’t matter which part of the dog’s stupid body that they lick, it all sounds like an old lady slurping the world’s hottest cup of coffee.

I know a certain dog, let’s call him Buddy. I know, very inventive name. It’s like naming your son, Son. At any rate, Buddy does whatever he can to annoy the living fuck out of me. If there’s a noise that his dog body is able to make, he makes it. Just for me. He especially loves to lick his chops in the middle of the night. That extra long dog tongue comes out and licks from ear-to-ear. Somehow, Buddy is able to make a “sighing” sound to express his boredom. To wake you up in the morning-on Saturdays, the fucker will scrape his front claws on the door frame.

Suffice it to say, I’ve had many thoughts about killing this beast. My latest theory is that if I make Buddy’s death look like a suicide, I won’t go to jail.

Not to get too graphic here, but my first plan is to put Buddy in the bathtub. Maybe light some candles, put on a little Who Let the Dogs Out?, and slash his wrist. Then I thought, “Buddy hates taking a bath, he’d never kill himself that way.”

We all know that if a dog could wield a knife, it would stab you in the neck for your hamburger. And we all know that chocolate is deadly to dogs. What if Buddy, looking back on his life, felt he hadn’t accomplished any of his doggy goals, and he just couldn’t take it? I readily have copious amounts of sleeping pills lying around. Buddy would wrap like ten of those suckers in Baker’s chocolate, you know, because dogs are too stupid to swallow pills, and start chomping away. Then I thought, “Buddy doesn’t have opposable thumbs, he couldn’t possibly wrap the pills in chocolate.”

Finally, I found the right way for Buddy to commit suicide. Buddy loves rotisserie chicken. In fact, he labors under the delusion that one will just magically appear in the recycle bin every morning. And he’ll scratch at the back door every morning to check for just that. What better way to take care of my “dog issues” than to just leave a whole chicken right on the counter where he can easily reach it. He does get on his hind legs and scarf anything that’s close to the edge. This is fucking perfect. He’d eat that chicken in one gulp and choke to death.

What would his suicide note say? “Sorry, Eric,” and a greasy paw print? Or maybe, “Humans, I know that there’s a barbeque rotisserie chicken on the counter. I can’t control my cravings any longer. Goodbye cold, cruel world.”

There you have it.

*No actual animals were harmed in this post, unfortunately.

DBM music reviews

In my never ending struggle to find music that doesn't suck, I've recently made a few album purchases.

Marilyn Manson:
The Pale Emperor 

Genre-wise, I would call TPE more of a traditional rock album with just a little smattering of Industrial elements. Unfortunately, most of the tracks sound alike. It really reminds me of some of the songs on Marilyn's ex-cohort Tim Skold's Anomie. The more traditional rock tunes that is. I seem to have an affliction to plain old boring guitar, bass, drums and a singer lately. There has to be something extra mixed in there to separate from the past 50 years of rock n roll. Replay value: 3.(Amount of replays before one gets sick of it).

Next up, we have Emigrate: Silent so Long. A side project of Rammstein guitarist, Richard Z. Kruspe. You know the Germans always make good shit. There are also a few guests on the album, most notably, Marilyn Manson. SSL has some really good tracks. Most notably, "Hypothetical" (featuring Marilyn Manson), "Silent So Long," and "Born On My Own."

 This album leans far toward the Industrial Rock spectrum. Replay value: probably unlimited.