I love a good clean five minutes in front of the mirror.  I am better than the best reality tv show when I am both the audience and the entertainer.  I’m creating a perfect frequency loop that is both terrifying and mesmerizing… So be careful honey.  I digress….

I’m about to head out here… Need to get my drink on. Need to get my ladies on. Looking sick af as usual. 

Not a single dime will be getting my digits.  Like I’ve said a HUNDRED TIMES, I will call you.  Maybe. 

Gotta get uber back on my phone because I stole that idiots credit card and there WILL be bottle service. 



Houston, I have a problem…

Posted: August 27, 2015 in Uncategorized

I have to stop lying to myself, and I have to stop lying to you.  (But I will keep lying to the slaves; those bumbling idiots are useless to me.)

I have a problem.  Like, a life controlling problem.  I am slowly becoming a younger, better looking version of Charlie Sheen.  Only difference is I’m not paying for any of this crap.  Neither figuratively nor literally. 

You see, it starts out fun and games.  And then $h1t gets real serious real fast.  Pull out a silicone nipple and a mix up my favorite comfort beverage, and next thing I know I’m passed out on some random dudes couch. 

I don’t know how to stop myself once I start.

I start out laughing, telling jokes, and doing typical life of the party stuff.  I even act like I give half a half a rats butt about the slaves.  

But as the party goes on, I become a different person.  Not a person you’d want to be around.  Not a good person. 

Like, I think I bit a guy in the throat last week.  Wtf. 

I vaguely remember crying (with tears) once or twice.  

I have stains on my clothes that seem to be biological…Any more than that I do not care to know.  
There is a faint smell of cheese and saliva on my hands and face …. And feet.  Weird. 

One time I woke up with so much ketchup smeared on my face I actually didn’t recognize myself in the mirror and called the police. 

One time I woke up knuckles deep in the stuffed kangaroo pouch.  You had to be there.  It’s weirder than it sounds. 

But worst of all, there was one time I woke up in slave number ones fat arms and I couldn’t remember what we did.  And that was my rock bottom. 

Yes, my head hurts.  No, I can’t take Advil for this.


I know how to rage.  Just been raging a little too hard lately. 


Stop staring at me. 

Posted: August 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

Yeah yeah.  It’s been a long time since I wrote anything.  I have two words for you.  BUT…..

I promised my therapist I wouldn’t say them anymore after last Friday’s incident involving the police and a taser.  You know you’re going to be in trouble whenever you hear the words, “Tackle him, he got my weapon!”  That donut slurping idiot couldn’t catch me if he tried.  He says I started it when I said the magic words in his general direction.  I say he started it by being extremely round, smelling like a bakery, and sending all the right signals that he is a walking talking chocolate cream puff (couldn’t confirm because of the taser thing but God knows I tried. I tried.).

I also promised my therapist I would try to stop making up fantastical tales of my escapades.  So in honor of that, I have to admit that the previous story is not true.  I did not wrestle a taser from a cop and get arrested last weekend.  

I did but a new tv though.  You know they say it’s not how big but how you use it?  Not true. Tvs are all about comparing with your loser neighbors.  

I swear though, the longer I watch this tv, the more that I feel like it’s watching me… Like that painting in Ghostbusters 2…. It’s like it’s staring deep into my soul and I can’t look away.  I’m terrified, and yet, I just can’t move my eyes.  

Bachelor in Paradise is on. 

Until next time. 


PS:  F no I do not have a therapist.  Re-read that whole thing now and figure out what I’m really saying.  Boom bit$&s. 

After a long night at the club, there’s nothing like a late night stop at your typical greasy spoon diner to sweep away your transgressions.

I never know what to eat at these places.  What is the “right” food for the meal that occurs after 1am before 5am … In fact, what is that meal called?  I would call it “Snucker”.  Just snucker right in there before breakfast.  Snucker is a good word. 


I look through the egg choices, the skillets, the pancakes.  Nothing really wets my whistle.  Nothing says, “shovel me into your mouth and you’ll feel better about your earlier sins.”

Then I see two magical words:  French toast.   This is the only thing from French culture that really matters.  

Nothing dulls the ache of regret like a piece of white bread soaked in eggs and butter.  Nothing. 


I hate the ever teasing tilt-a-whirl that is Spring in Chicago.  One second you’re having fun, the next you’re blowing your funnel cake on your new girlfriend. 

It’s the terrible weather that forced me to do what I swore I would not do again.  You probably read about the last time online….

Yeah, I was the guy who chartered the plane and filled it with champagne glass towers, NBA players, women, the goat and the zebra.

No, I didn’t know that the zebra was protected, and no, I really didn’t know that the FAA cared about what animals are on what planes and where they’re going.  And I DEFINITELY DID NOT GET THE GOAT DRUNK to find out if the goats milk would come out alcoholic. 

So if you read about that, I learned a really important lesson.  I have to, need to, want to travel in style, but apparently I’m not allowed to fly in the style I prefer.  That’s why I impulsively swore I would never fly again. 

But this BS weather forced my hand.  

This time I took a commercial flight.  Cheaper and less likely to get me arrested again.  Although I wasn’t seated next to the tropics bound babes I asked for at check-in, I did make a friend on the flight.  


He and I are going to hit the beach together later.  Seems like he could be a cool wingman, if I can figure out what his name is.  Dang.  Gotta write that crap down. 

And now, I’m writing this from my hammock while sipping on a decent cocktail.  

When my waitress offered me a piña colada, I said, “When in Rome!”

Then she said I had to have the virgin version, and I thought to myself, “That is the most brave romantic advance I’ve ever heard…”  But she meant the drink.  And that’s the worst thing that happened to me today.  

Great day.  Suns out, guns out. 

Enjoy the cold day in hell up north losers. 


You know how they say, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer”?  Well I say, snap away, you idiot… Still can’t have my awesome life.

I recovered these photos from one of my live-in slaves’ cellular devices.  As you will see, that person is a creep.  I mean, how bad do I need a lock on that door?  Seriously, knock first, loser.  It’s my f-ing room and you have no boundaries.

I hate you and am getting REALLY close to burning this place down just to see you grabbing for your Compaq Presario desktop computing machine and running for the door.

Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a massive waste of cells, and that you wish you could have what we have.  You can’t.  (Mic drop…….)


I’m always looking to better myself.  I’m definitely in the market for material possessions that will both improve my own enjoyment of life, and get more girlfriends.  

I think this recent purchase does both.   Had to take out another loan from slave two.  I hate that idiot, but he does keep his credit score in the “ready for me to use it” range.

I got shark helmet to go with it.  But I never wear it because girls love my face and flowing hair.  And I love them too.  My face and hair.  And some of the women. 

Can’t even hide my crap eating grin.  Nothing like a 120 horsepower between your man loins.  

See you for a second while I fly past you on the interstate!


My “every Thursday after lunch” girl is seriously getting on my last nerve.

If I told her once, I told her a thousand times, I don’t like getting a foot rub with socks on.  It’s just gross.  And it doesn’t feel good.

Get the Aveeno, lube those mits up, and put your BARE hands on my BARE feet.  How hard is that?  Did I stutter?

Now that I got that off my chest, I feel a little better.  Looking is free, but you gotta pay to touch.

It finally happened.  She’s perfect. 

I got that old fashioned feeling.  You know what I’m talking about, right?  It’s the whole, I’m tongue tied and nervous around you.  I literally can’t take my eyes off you, but I’m trying to play it cool.  I’m willing to wait but also reached out for a price on making your husband “disappear” in a “freak accident.”

Up until now, my whole love-life was basically summed up with “the more the merrier”, but I really think that changed for me today.  

The only problem is that her gypsy husband wouldn’t give me half a second of privacy.  I’m telling you, we had a moment.  And now she’s gone.

She’ll be back.  They always come back. 

But until then, I’m going to longingly suck on this silicone nipple and daydream. 


PS:  sing a song for me, toots, and ditch the latino


I remember a time when I wasn’t as strong as I am now.

I can feel the strength in my fingers. Literally, my fingertips are pouring out power.

I’m not saying I have the Midas touch or anything, but I definitely touch everything I can just to make sure.

Sometimes I sit for hours and stare at my hands. Many great men who changed the world did the same.

Just leave me alone with my thoughts and my ten awesome fingers on my two fat, powerful hands.


PS: I’m sure you’re wondering where I’ve been lately. Don’t. You had to be there.