An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Saturday, February 18, 2012

The "Whilst I Shit" List

I have some free time on my hands, so... THIS:

* Do people who say "Here's the deal" actually know what the deal is and, if they do, must they always say "Here's the deal" like they're doing the person to whom they're addressing some major league favor by letting them in on what the alleged deal may be?

* Am I a bad parent for having a screen-shot of Oliver Reed, drunk off his ass during an August, 1987 appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman as the background on my cellphone instead of a googly cute picture of my twins?

* Is there some reason that my father just texted me and referred to me as "Boogie"?

* Why didn't Bobby Brown dump the contents of a forty and scatter some blow on top of Whitney's coffin?

* Why do we have a baby monitor when our house is the size of a roll of Mentos and the only sounds it picks up regularly are those of the dishwasher running and our fourteen year old dog breathing like a diesel engine?

* Does anybody actually read "Rex Morgan, M.D."?

* Would more Catholics regularly go to confession if there was a photobooth inside the confessional?

* When was the first time I realized I had swamp-ass?

* When did push come to shove and, on that related topic, when am I going to get to shove somebody? Because there's a lot of motherfuckers I really want to shove, preferably face-first into a brick wall.

* Why isn't there an idiot light on your instrument cluster that tells you when you have a headlight or a taillight out, which could conceivably save you from getting pulled over and/or having to deal with an expensive ticket? I'm sure more expensive cars than I can afford to drive have such an idiot light, but I'm not only an idiot, I'm a poor idiot.

* Is there a porn version of Facebook called "Pussybook"?


* Okay, just checked. Why isn't there a porn version of Facebook called "Pussybook"?

* Can a non-Jew get away with telling the "How many Jews can you fit into a Volkswagen?" joke?

* Will the Professions meme be going to go away before I'm compelled to insert a lobster fork into my Adam's apple and rotate it vigorously?

* If the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, will I still get a stomach ache if I eat it without washing it first?

* Is all this fucking ear hair really necessary, God?

* Is it weird that, sometimes, when I'm feeling bored, I go to the ATM, withdraw money, stand there staring at it as it comes out of the machine, grab it, scream wildly, "I WON! HOLY SHIT! I WON!!!! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!" and run away, get into my car and speed away?

* Would people still talk to me if they knew that I used to wear boxer shorts with Teletubbies on them? And by "used to" I mean, like, a year or two ago, and on the day of my wedding?

* Is all this fucking nose hair really necessary, God?

* Will cigarette holders, spats, and monocles ever come back?

* Would my life have been better or worse if I went to my high school prom and, if I went, who the hell would I have gone with?

* Why are there people in this world who insist on tucking in polo shirts?

* Do I dislike Jon Stewart merely because I'm a contrarian and everybody else loves him and will I ever be man enough to just admit it already or do I dislike him because he's a smug, pompous ass who doesn't understand that a comedian's primary mission should be to just make people laugh?

* Is all this fucking shoulder hair really necessary, God?

And, of course:

* If I'm fated to die on the toilet, so be it, but please-- please-- let it be on a nicer toilet than this one.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

My Salt Mine's Breath Tastes Like Salt

I go back to work tomorrow.

My wife had two babies, so I stayed home for a bit.

It's been nine weeks.


I was supposed to be gone for eight weeks, but I freaked out (NEIN!) and extended my leave by a week. Work didn't care. Hey, what's another week of not paying me to them?

(The answer: not much.)

I'm gold that most husbands/partners/S.O.'s don't take so much time off when their wives/partners/S.O.'s, Baby Mamma, Bitches have children. Of course, most people have single babies. Twins are kind of more complicated. More screaming. More shitting. More... there.

There there, they're there.

And they're definitely there. And, tomorrow, from roughly 5:45am when I leave the house until 3:45pm when I return, I'll be here, and they'll be there. My wife'll be there, too, until April 2nd, and she's got a couple intrepid people coming in sporadically to assist but, for the most part, she's going to be a solo act while I'm deeply entrenched in the psychiatric salt mine.

I was thinking about writing this next paragraph about how I'm preparing myself to go back. But, see, there really is no way to prepare yourself to go back to a job after nine weeks of being away. What am I supposed to do? Zen out? Read up on Clozaril? Do mental push-ups? Please-- it's bull-cock. It's like preparing to have twins in your house every waking and sleeping (HA!) second of every day.


Can't be done.



SO, why try?

I'm just going to wake up tomorrow and pilot the car a little less mindlessly than I've been doing for the last year-and-a-half, and hope I remember how to interact appropriately not only with patients, but with coworkers. I hope I remember which little checkboxes to tic off and which ones to leave alone. I hope I remember to sign my name, stamp my name, and write the time-- specifying a.m. or p.m. I hope the new photocopier likes me. The old one didn't. Antisemitic piece of shit.

Faced with my inevitable return to the working world-- I'm angry more than anything. I thought I would be more hysterical and panicked, but I'm not. I'm just mad. At myself. At me. Mad at my meager earning potential. Mad at my schedule that necessitates my being at work every other weekend. Mad at the fact that we don't have gobs and gobs of money and cocaine stashed away under the floorboards that might facilitate a life of leisure for my wife and my children. Mad at this country that punishes procreatin' mothafuckas by offering them unpaid leave at a time when expenses rise dramatically and unendingly.

I'm one angry little blogger-boo.


I suppose it's going to be alright, though. People always say that, usually when they have absolutely no idea if it's true. I suppose my wife will be alright and my kids will be alright and, if I can get through the door without bursting into tears, I'll be alright, too. I know that, in some ways, I've lost my facility-- that breezy ease with which I strolled down the hallways and knocked on patients' doors and knew everybody's name and everybody's story-- who washed their pants yesterday with cigarettes in the pocket and had a meltdown, who assaulted whom, who's on fall precautions, who's being discharged soon-- who isn't.

Well. I suppose it'll all come back. People say that to people, too. After all: working in a psychiatric hospital's just like riding a bicycle.

Isn't it?

Monday, February 6, 2012


I'm sick of the goddamn ukulele.

I don't know who's to blame for this. Maybe it's Jake Shimabukuro (which is fun to say) who is, like, a ukulele himbo-- if there is such a thing possible in this weird, wicked world of ours. Maybe it's Ryan Gosling's fault for being in that goddamned "Blue Valentine" movie and playing that stupid song for that blonde bitch before everything went to shit. But something is going on in this country, and that something has to do with the fucking ukulele. It's small, it's happy, it's bright, it's cute, it looks like it's supposed to be played by midgets wearing rainbow suspenders and I don't give a fuck if I never hear the goddamned thing ever again.

I think the first commercial I saw where the ukulele was featured as the background music was for a goddamned refrigerator-- maybe a year or so ago-- and it was a refrigerator that had a lot of special features. Side-by-side pull-out drawers, and there was a fucking kid pulling out orange juice for himself or something, and there was this delightful ukulele music playing while all the refrigerator doors opened to reveal pristine shelves filled with immaculate, sumptuous-looking bounty as if to say, if you buy this fridge, not only will you eat well and live clean, but twinkling, sparkling ukulele will play as the soundtrack of your life.



If you ever opened up my refrigerator, you'd probably throw up, and Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor would be blaring in your ear as you did so. And it wouldn't be played on a fucking Tiny Tim guitarette either. The notes would be screamed by a 500 pound German woman being put to death.

Over the course of the last year or so I've noticed a dramatic uptick in the number of commercials and television shows using the ukulele to let you know that their product or service or character is happy and that, if you align yourself with it/them, you will be too.

Even as early as 2009, some asshole who plays ukulele wrote on a message board:

"Anyone else noticing more and more ukulele music being used in TV commercials? Maybe it's because I'm a new player and all excited about all things ukulele, but I'm hearing more ukes in TV ads than ever before.

The two that come immediately to mind are an Iams dog food commercial and a Sprint phone commercial. I know I heard at least one more recently, but I can't remember who it was airline, I think.

Both have very catchy, infectious uke music in the background. Is it just me, or are you folks hearing the same thing I am?"

Yes, asshole, I am hearing the same thing you are, and I've had kind of enough of it. There are approximately 47,637 other musical instruments out there, marketing research analysts-- just once, I'd like to see a Nissan commercial with background music provided by a theremin. Or what about a life insurance commercial featuring a jew's harp? And, let's face it, there's just not enough prime-time television in this country augmented by the anguished bleats of traditional highland bagpipes.

Maybe I'm just projecting deeper psychological issues here. A few years ago, I started playing banjo. I don't know why I picked it-- I tried guitar in college and fucked that up, maybe I thought an instrument with one fewer string would yield more success. It did, but not much more. Anyway, when my mother-in-law found out I was playing the banjo, she mailed me her old ukulele. And I was like, that doesn't make any sense. I'm trying to learn one instrument, why would I interrupt that flow and switch to trying to learn a different instrument with different tunings and chords and styles? I never touched the ukulele. It's on top of my closet lying inert next to a backpack shaped like a teddy bear, which is also lying, inert. Of course, now that the ukulele is so popular in mass media, it's virtually a guarantee that I'll never touch it. I hope the banjo always remains an obscure instrument for bespectacled losers who make questionable wardrobe and occasionally facial hair choices. If I'm ever going to learn a sixth chord, it had better stay on the fringes of musical society.

And, as for the ukulele, I know it's just a fad-- something that scores well with test audiences, whatever-- they ranked it as the instrument that makes them feel the least like committing suicide, so now they use it in commercials and sitcoms. Like all fads, though, it's destined to go the way of the dinosaur.

Hey-- wow! Think about THAT! A DINOSAUR playing the UKULELE!

OH! Oh, man! I'm a fucking genius.