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

My Mother and The Golden Girls

I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. It’s strange, memories flash through my mind-mostly fleeting. Even years after she’s been gone, I sometimes expect her to call me on the phone. I usually have a few wacky hyper-realistic dreams involving my mother every week. They mostly are nonsensical. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. My mother usually does things in my dreams that she never did in real life. For instance, cooking steaks on the grill in the backyard while it was raining. I’m pretty sure she never used the grill in her life.
It is fair to say that nothing reminds me of mother more than when I catch an episode of The Golden Girls. My mother was an old Italian, her mother was an old Italian. They related to Dorothy and Sophia (my mother was named Dorothy). I can vividly recall those two talking on the phone laughing about Sophia’s latest antics. Personally, my mother was Blanche. Not the slutty part, but the fashionable-dressed to the nines, side of Blanche.
So, yes, I do watch The Golden Girls when it’s on. It’s fucking still funny all these years later. I can just hear my mother laughing along with me.

When I'm Dead

Oh, the joyless torture of everyday life. I long for the extreme static and noise to end. I need the wretched waste of time commuting to work to stop. The absolute finality that death will bring is my only peace.



Moving is generally a horrible experience. I have personally moved more times than I wish to recall. Rustling through forgotten boxes and papers is emotionally draining. My most gut-wrenching moves were ones that took me far away from my kids. Every card or drawing found, brings back a flood of memories. You really can’t hold back the tears. Every move I undertake, I seem to have less and less stuff. My aim is to get my moves down to just one car load. Maybe there’s just something intriguing about having absolutely nothing to show for your life.

For my last move, I’m hoping to have only the clothes that I’m buried in.

Marriage-Related Sex Initiation

Do you want to have sex before or after I mow the lawn?
If you don’t stop playing CoD by 10:30, we’re aren’t having sex.
It’s not Saturday.
It’s Saturday
If I don’t finish grading these 75 essays, you’re not getting sex this weekend.
Wife: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-no sex.
Husband: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-sex time!
Insert any holiday in 6 and 7. Wife: I want another kid. Husband: I can hold out.
Wife: Ok, I’m horny, let’s have sex. Husband: But Hitler is on.

If I Owned My Own Company

Of all the long dead of American dreams, is being your own boss. You remember that old and crusty dream, right? No middle managers berating and mentally abusing you in your cubicle, yes, it would be grand. I have put together some points from the one page The DeathBecomesMe Corp. employee handbook.

 Monotonous and meaningless meetings are forbidden, along with anything that could even be considered a meeting. Talking about the job at the water cooler? Verboten! If you want to drone on and on in front of people for an eternity, do it somewhere else bub.

Next on the chopping block-annual performance reviews. Most companies now use the painful and convoluted performance review to eliminate any chance of getting a raise. If applying for a job at DeathBecomesMe Corp., know that you may or may not get a yearly raise. If that's not good enough for you, sod off.

*Any instances of Microsoft SharePoint will be napalmed into fucking oblivion. If you love SharePoint, go waste your life away somewhere else.

So, there you have it. DeathBecomesMe Corp.: "We Won't Make You Want to Commit Suicide."

Ignoring Blogger.com Lately

Although, I really like the customization and theming of Blogger, I find that Medium is finely tuned for writing and is free of clutter. I mainly use Blogger to test out new CSS code. Not that anyone gives a shit.

The Moronic Farce that is the Republican Party

Repost from Medium

 Many of you may have watched the eleven train-train wreck of the GOP debate last night on CNN. I watched it until the end, and was nauseas. Never has it been so apparent that none of the candidates are mentally capable to hold any public office-let alone be President. The constant bickering, lying and name calling-not to mention the countless, “This President…,” and “Secretary Clinton did…,” bullshit, makes you want to move out of the country. Enough. We have Donald Trump’s plan to deport eleven million illegals. That’s fucking brilliant. He also wants to build his Trump-wall between the US and Mexico. But he’ll be, “Great at the military.” All of them want to expand the massive US military industrial complex. Not taking into account we already spend more than the next ten countries combined. These idiots should be wearing Nascar Tyvek jumpsuits plastered with the logos of defense contractors. 

 Admittedly, Rand Paul has some less hawkish ideas and agrees the various wars we’ve fought recently are all a mistake. But he does come out with crazy shit sometimes and can be discounted. Marvel at the absolutely ridiculous Mike Huckabee, who wants the US to return to Puritan days. He will of course reverse the marriage equality law and make abortions illegal when he’s President. 

 Gasp as Ted Cruz spouts right-wing Christian diarrhea out of his gaping maw. Of course, he will, wait for it, get rid of Obamacare! And yes, defund Planned Parenthood, which costs at least fifty-trillion dollars per year. Let’s see who’s next, oh yes, Ben Carson. Ben is the Seventh Day Adventist brain surgeon who believes that the earth is 6,000 years old. Need I say more? 

 And then there’s Scott Walker, the governor Wisconsin who said something along the lines of, “Did I give up when the people tried to recall me?” You’ve got to be shitting me. If everyone in the state you govern wants you dead, you’re definitely qualified to run the whole country. 

 So there you have the gist of a most horrific night of TV. What were some of your favorite stomach-turning moments?

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.
Growing up, The Old Man would always impart dumb and sometimes grammatically incorrect life advice to me, such as, "Don't never say can't," and "Stop wishing your life away." I, being the pain in the ass that I am, would say things like, "I can't give birth," or "I wish I wasn't working in this disgusting HUD house with you."

The Old Man has also carried with him through the years, the slang and vernacular of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. You should hear him. He's a barely walking encyclopedia of an era long gone past.

Sayings like, "Boy, aren't you a tall drink of water." I can only assume this means something like, wow, it's refreshing that you're pretty and not a short ugly troll. Or The Old Man using, "Broad" when referring to a woman. Mostly, preceded by "Dumb."

The Old Man is also a master at hitting on waitresses in restaurants. It seems that in the past, women were more susceptible to getting ogled by men. Now, you're just as likely to get maced. For example, this is a standard occurrence:

Waitress: "Hi, my name is Kim. I'll be taking care of you today, how are you doing?"

The Old Man: "Better now!" Our eyes commence to rolling.

Now, The Old Man has a long history of forgetting people's names. He would come up with inventive names to cover for it. The most famous of these names is, Joe Matarotz. No one knows for sure if Joe is an actual person or not. Maybe The Old Man knew him in say, Korea. But here's the usual scenario:

Nameless guy in a store/restaurant/bar: "Hey, Al, how are you holding up?"

The Old Man: Hey, Joe Matarotz, how ya doin'?"

Unfortunately, Sammy thinks this is hilarious and uses the name of Joe Matarotz in every occurrence he can.

The Old Man has spent years speaking broken German to us. As I recall, dad's grandfather spoke German to him. The Old Woman would attest to The Old Man's German heritage. Mom would always say, "He's a friggen' Nazi!" And she always called him a "Nazi bitch" for some reason. Anyway, I have tried to pass on the German phrases I've picked up along the way to Sammy. I would write some of them here, but Craig won't be able to pronounce them. Obviously, my love for all things WWII comes from The Old Man. As far back as I can remember, he would sit there at night with his saltine crackers and sharp cheese watching The World at War. Nothing will make me prouder than someday, Sammy watching Nazis on TV with his son.

So, there you have it. The Old Man is definitely one of a kind. I'm sorry I can't be there, and I wish The Old Man a Happy Birthday.


How to tell if your life is a wanton cesspool of despair and the mundane

1. Would you describe your work area as "cube-like" ?

2. Are all of your clothes khaki-colored?

3. Even though you are a man, do you ever pee sitting down on the toilet and just cry?

4. Do you have to swipe a badge-like thing to get into your office building?

5. Even though you are an Atheist, do you ever wish that god would just kill you in your sleep?

6. Does it take multiple sleeping pills to turn of your brain at night?

7. You're bored most of the time.

8. Everyone you talk to sounds like they're on the 'The Delicious Dish' skit from SNL.

9. You feel like Neo at the end of the first Matrix.

10. Obviously, there's something severely wrong with happy people.

If you agree with most of these, your life is a wanton cesspool of despair and the mundane.

Killing in the name of…

I think that it’s time for the leaders of all religions to publicly admit that it was all a big fucking joke. Tell your sheeple that it was done to enslave them and you’re sorry. In other words, set them free so the most militant of them can you know, stop shooting and blowing innocent people up.

I know it maybe hard to relinquish the reins of tyranny and oppression, but really, leaders, your lives will be much better for it. You can still carry on the charitable work that you do, like feeding the hungry and homeless. But without all that sanctimonious bullshit.

So there you have it. My one part process to creating world peace—remove religion. Thank you.