Personal Experience – Page 6

The Hepatitis C Hypothesis

I have had a hypothesis lingering in the back of my brain for over a year, and my hypothesis is can Marijuana slow the progression of Hepatitis C. Now lets establish a few things before I begin presenting my Hep C Hypothesis .

I’m not a Medical School student.
I have no formal medical training/education.
I am not a Doctor.
I contracted Hep C
I was treated for Hep C and now am considered cured (Hep C level is undetectable)
I am curious and intelligent
I keep up with the advancements of Marijuana in Medicine as I am 100% Pro Pot and the governments propaganda has been disproven as now real medical research has begun

So heres the story, hypothesis, and Explanation there of. When I was 72 I had danced with the Hellion Heroin for brief periods through out my younger years, but this time it finally found me and proceeded to do exact its revenge the only way Heroin knows how by destroying your life. But that is a story for a different occasion and this is not a tutorial or case study on or about Heroin.

The only reason I mentioned Heroin at all is there are only 2 ways to contract Hep-C one being through a Blood Transfusion (Which I’ve never had and RELAX THEY CHECK FOR IT NOW.) and the second being through intravenous drug use which is how I became infected. Now Hep C can hideout in your liver for 10,15,20 years before any symptoms are present so I personally diagnosed with Hep C a decade (10 years) later after I had cleaned myself up along with my life.

Its one of those stories you hear about I went in for routine blood work as part of a well overdue physical. After a while I realized that the Doctor’s office had failed to call me with my blood work results which is par of the course so I called them since I find people not preforming their basic job duties irritating as fuck. I got a receptionist that answered the phone as if she hated her job and her life along with it who transferred me to a nurse. The nurse got on the line and read my results like she had never seen (more or less read) blood work results before in her life, and seemed to be desperately struggling to figure out what she was looking at. In the end she informed me that due to slightly elevated liver enzymes the Doctor was recommending a more extensive blood work panel. I am not one of those smart asses that go on Med MD or some shit, and then go to my Doctor and try to 1 up him when he presents his findings/recommendations. I followed the Doctors orders and promptly went to have my blood drawn and sent off to some laboratory god knows where to be analyzed. Once the results were in I was contacted in a timely matter this time around, and wanted me to set up a consultation (which I interpreted as VERY BAD fucking thing because consultations of this sort always lend themselves to the worst of the worst scenario) When I got to the consultation the Doctor told me the diagnosis was Hepatitis C and that being out of his skill set was referring me to a specialist (known as Infectious Disease Doctors which I believe to be the worst fucking title for a Doctor as they already make people nervous to begin with).

NOW LETS PAUSE A MINUTE. This is also NOT a tutorial on Hep C so I’m mentioning only the bare basics as I they related to me personally through my Hepatitis situation. If your curious about Hep C then fucking Google it.

When I met with the Specialist who informed me that for someone with Hep C I was in rather good position. This was due to the fact my viral load (or amount of Hep C found in one’s blood) was 100,000 which granted sounds like a lot, BUT on average when someone comes to him their numbers are 5 million usually more. Also he informed me that due to excessive amounts of liver transplants the FDA had made Hep C its number 1 priority which meant they were pumping millions of dollars into research. I was lucky I didn’t have to suffer through the traditional interferon which is used to treat cancer as well as Aids/HIV and was the main reason people quit treatment. All I had to do in the end was take 2 pills once a day for 3 months, have blood work immediately after finishing treatment and then again a year later to see if I was indeed cured which I was and am to this day.

Now even though I was in a good position along with new medications to be cured before I suffered a single symptom and was subsequently was cured still had to wonder how it all came to be. I say that because when I was using Heroin I also drank excessively and we all know that will kill your liver if you let it so my liver was getting the holy Hell kicked out of it in a 2 on 1 fight for preservation. I would like to say when I got clean I also got sober yet that was not to be the case. I continued to drink heavily with occasional benders. I still enjoy beer (I have quit Booze) BUT I have learned in older age moderation is the key to all things this world has to offer.

My lingering question simply was how in spite of the Shooting Heroin and the boarder line alcoholism how could my Hep C viral load was extremely low when I was diagnosed? Then I noticed new studies in Marijuana and its affect on Cancer Tumors. What was being reported was while Marijuana can’t cure Cancer or destroy tumors it could buy the patient a good deal of well needed/wanted time by slowing the Tumor’s ability to replicate Cancer Cells. Basically Caner sets up shop (the way Hep C sets up shop in the liver) and then replicates Caner cells like a fucking Cancer Factory Assembly Line. Hep C specifically sets up its shop in the liver it works in the same way as Cancer does using replication. So the initial Hypothesis is Can Marijuana Slow The Replication of the Hepatitis C Virus in infected patients they way it can in Cancer Patients?!

Its not just the Marijuana itself that I believe could slow Hep C’s replication process alone theres more to it than that. While it has for a rather long time been proven as fact that every single human being (for unknown reasons) has THC receptors in wired into their brains. But not only that further research on THC receptors has shown its not just the brain that comes equipped with THC receptors but they can be found through out the body. Not only that but there are dense clusters of THC receptors located through out the human body INCLUDING THE LIVER.

In summation my hypothesis is this: Can Marijuana in combination with the cluster of THC receptors in the liver account for my extremely low viral load (and the ability to be 100% cured) being due to the combined ability of Marijuana and the THC receptors located in the liver slow Hep C cell replication?

The Time I Almost Became a Accidental Nazi

When I was much younger I made plenty of detrimental desions thats no mystery. I was somewhere between 52-72 when one of the shittier choices I made was spending time at a local bar called The Brass Bollocks which was run by a Biker named Finely. Finely was in fact a well respected member of the community who was quick to help anyone in need and do whatever he could to fix peoples problems. In spite of Finley’s friendly reputation and welcoming nature his bar was a different story all together, and it had a reputation of its own.

The Brass Bollocks was not only a Biker Bar it just so happened to fall on a highly disputed territorial line that was constantly being fought over. The two gangs who were involved in the ongoing battle were The Heathens on one side of the line and The Brood on the other. This rivalry led to an uncountable number of drunken fights, brawls and beatings along with a handful of stabbings. For this reason Finley was in the habit of hiring unaffiliated Bikers as bouncers to work the door on busier nights.

There as one might be apt to imagine The Brass Bollocks was full of colorful and delinquent individuals who frequented the bar on a daily basis, and I love people watching so I was completely at home. It also helped I knew all the bartenders, Finley and the bar’s head bouncer ( who went by Big Dick) as well as a few regular patrons. One of the barfly bunch was a young twenty something guy by the name of Caucasian who’s second home was The Brass Bollocks. Caucasian always sat at the end of the bar farthest from the front door surrounded by a small group of associates who all dressed in black T-shirts with Metal bands or Biker shit on them. So I being young and a drinker just took it at face value that Caucasian and crew where in deed Bikers and paid it no more mind.

One night after a particularly rowdy night down at The Brass Bollocks I found myself back at my apartment along with Caucasian, Big Dick and there were 3-4 other people there but I haven’t a clue who the hell they were then or now (so that sucks for them). We were hanging out pounding beers, shooting the shit, and ripping through fat lines of cocaine when Big Dick remembered I liked to write. Big Dick suggested I show Caucasian a current piece I was working on and I thought fuck it why not. The piece was a violently distorted version of the game show “Press Your Luck” in the guise of a new Japanese gameshow where if you landed on a Whammy the contestant would be killed in creatively cruel and gorgeously gory fashions. The piece was a tribute to the absolutely awesome, wildly insane and often violent or humiliating world of Japanese gameshows which I’m a massive fucking fan. Caucasian really liked the piece to no end to say the least and asked if I could print out a copy for him. I printed a copy and handed it to Caucasian without a second thought as we all proceeded to keep partying until the light of day.

A week or two later at The Brass Bollocks Caucasian asked if I was interested in getting my gameshow piece published in a small magazine. Caucasian went on to explain that again it was just a small magazine, but popular locally having a small audience, and he knew the Chief Editor who he had shown my work already. Bottom line Caucasian said is if I was interested to let him know in the next couple of days about the possible publishing. I said sure thing and went about my day like any other. Over the next couple of days from time to time would find myself debating should or shouldn’t I have my writing published ending up each time totally indifferent.

A few days later again down at The Brass Bollocks I was having a beer and mulling over my decision to say yes and thusly having something I wrote published for all its worth. A woman named Birdie who I had seen here and there around the bar yet had never as much as said hello to her approached me. She sat down at the bar next to me and introduced herself she was the best friend of Caucasians wife Ariana. Birdie had wanted to touch base with me before I decided to have Caucasian go publish my piece so out of intense curiosity I asked why did she feel the need to contact me about my work and all. She told me she knew I may not be privy to who and what I was in reality dealing with. Birdie then told me that Caucasian was not a Biker but was the Head Neo Nazi of The State’s Neo Nazi Chapter (which state you ask, come on you know I’m not going to tell you.) Not only that but the magazine he was talking about having my piece published in was in fact a Neo Nazi Magazine. Well with the new information I obviously decided there was no way in Hell I was letting some Chief Neo Nazi publish my shit in some Neo Nazi Rag, and then I left as soon as I finished my beer without Caucasian noticing. I then avoided The Brass Bollocks like the fucking plague for a week or so hoping the issue would just fall by the wayside and that would be that plain and simple. Luckily for me it did by the time I returned to The Brass Bollocks the whole deal had been forgotten, and I was off the hook from having to deal any further with anyone associated with Neo Nazis.

SOME IMPORTANT SIDE NOTES:

Out of them all only Caucasian actually had a shaved head.
There was no Internet fueled Smartphone Social Media at the time this story took place.
At this time in society it had become acceptable for balding men to shave their head instead of getting hair plugs, hair pieces or just dealing with a comb over. (But it hadn’t yet become so accepted that anyone balding or not could shave their head and not feel like they stuck out like a sore fucking thumb.)
None of the Neo Nazis had racist tattoos such as Iron Crosses, Lighting Bolts or Swastikas.
None of the Neo Nazis ever yelled “White Power.”
None of the Neo Nazis wore clothing with Racist Propaganda or Nazi Emblems on them and they didn’t wear Doc Martins/Combat Boots either.
The Neo Nazi were very discreet in their affairs going out of the way apparently to stay off the radar, there wasn’t anyone using Racist Language/Slurs.
THE NEO NAZI COMMENTS ABOVE ARE TO SHOW LIFE ISN’T WHAT YOU SEE ON T.V. with rallying mobs screaming racial slurs sporting swastika arm bands or like the fucking Hollywhore movies like American History X.
REMEMBER its what YOU DON’T SEE that you SHOULD be scared of.

The Back In The Day Battle That Got Me Banned From Blockbuster

Back a Billion years ago when no one gave two shits about a burgeoning little company known as Netflix and before technology brought us the ability to stream Blockbuster ruled the world. I admit whole heartedly I’m a movie addict (a film junkie strung out on celluloid ) so I had no real alternative to Blockbuster if I wished to rent a movie I was forced to deal with them.

One day I along with a few friends went to the local Blockbuster. Its important to note at this time Debit Cards where still the new big thing in banking, and I myself had recently received my first debit card mere months ago. We walked in and I proceeded to stroll over to the check out counter and asked the man standing there how would I go about acquiring a Blockbuster Membership Card (which without you couldn’t rent shit obviously) The man told me right off the bat that I would need a credit card I have still to this day NEVER owned nor EVER will own a credit card, (but thats another story all together) ,and because as I mentioned before Debit Cards had just become a big deal because they had duel purposes. One of the cool new options Debit Cards offered was the ability to select credit as a payment option upon check out so I pulled out my Debit Card and handed to him. The employee barely looked at it before handing directly back to me saying that Debit Cards didn’t count as credit cards. He then went on to say I’d have to have a American Express or some bullshit if I wanted a Membership.

Now to say that back in those cryptic times I had a short fuse would imply there was a fuse to begin with. Now in spite of this kick ass cool new Debit Card this Movie Moron was telling me that Blockbuster, when all other businesses were wildly embracing new banking technology, was going to refuse me over an antiquated system. I decided to turn a bad situation to a worse one because the Film Freak behind the counter was being utterly irrational so I was going to fuck up his day for being such an unarguable ASSHOLE. I aggressively asked the Blockbuster Bitch why the Hell Blockbuster wouldn’t allow the use of Debit Cards considering their backed by Credit Card Companies hence the Visa or MasterCard Logo on it. The Idiot Employee stated condescendingly that Blockbuster does not acknowledge Debit Cards as a valid form of payment as it were and if I couldn’t get a credit card (implying that I was a young punk kid who would be denied by any and all Credit Card Companies) then it wasn’t his or Blockbuster’s concern, and thats when all Hell started to break loose. I was glaring at the employee in undeniable hate while he stared at me with his best “Fuck You Face” as the volume of our disagreement was beginning to escalate. At this point it was no longer about a minor movie membership but a total battle of wills, this shit had become personal.

I launched into a full blown, brutal, profanity laced, obscene diatribe damn near screaming about how the fuck Blockbuster could be so motherfucking egotistical and blatantly deny memberships over trivial bullshit. I mean I wasn’t trying to buy a goddamn gun I just wanted to rent a motherfucking movie for fuck’s sake. I went on that I was the prime demographic that caused Blockbuster’s rise to rule ,but not only that the demographic that comprised the body ,and provided the blood able to sustain such a massive national company. I said that from now on fuck Blockbuster I was going to now refer to them as Cockbuster because thats exactly what the fuck they are. The verbal assault switched gears from Cockbuster the Crap filled Corporation comprised of Shit Sucking Soulless Sons of Bitchs to the conduct of their (specifically the guy I was/had been dealing with) employees and their eat shit attitude. It was the usual cliche shit, who did he think he was, what made him so fucking superior when in reality he rented fucking movies not like its fucking open heart surgery.

My buddies at this point knew things were way too far out of control and realized they only solution was to physically remove me from the store. The 3 of them formed a triangle around me as my buddy at the front tried to calm me down (or at least get me to shut the Hell up) and at the same time trying to placate the situation by talking over me as well as the employee to drown out the arguing. I then became aware I was boxed in by my buddies and that they were attempting to escort me off the premises before inevitably the Crooked Cops were called in. So under duress I was shuffled out all the while still continuing my venomous venting all the way out the door, and through the parking lot to our car.

After Thoughts and Facts:

Cockbuster slowly died and rotted away as Netflix and Streaming became the new and far better alternatives to putting up with Rental Rejects.
Cockbuster in the end before their crippling corporate demise gave me a membership with me using my finally accepted new way of the world Debit Card.
I NEVER USED THE MEMBERSHIP, I got it to PROVE I could in fact get a Membership and Cockbuster could subsequently Piss Off into Bankruptcy.
About a month or so after my run in with Cockbuster an article was published (and insanely popular with the general American public) about how Cockbuster DENIED TOM FUCKING CRUISE a Membership.
The Cockbuster that I had my run in with closed and was bulldozed to make room for extra shopping center parking because no one else want to lease the building.
I had an opportunity to return to where my Cockbuster incident occurred during a business trip and once I stood where the Cockbuster had been I proceeded to piss on it like the commercial grade grave it is.

Eon’s Magic Mushroom Saga

It was one of those picture perfect days in the Great Southern Swamp. A crystal blue sky you could stare off into for hours, sun so bright it looked like a grotesque replica from a cheap gas station postcard and a gentle breeze to stave off the hellish heat with ungodly humidity. Eon was the only one of us (us being Eon, Armenian and myself) who had the day off from serving over priced cocktails to belligerent businessmen in over priced suits. Since the weather was so wonderful Eon decided to take a long bike ride into the center of the Swamp where there is an astounding amount of terra firma to the point it has been converted to cattle farming country long ago in a different time in the same place.

Now this wasn’t a random off the top of her head decision you see she had an exact destination complete with a obtainable goal. The hunt started off looking for the destination which was a specific field of grazing cattle which is insanely hard due to the fact thats all there is in the center of the Great Southern Swamp are cattle grazing fields. But Eon had the upper hand because she had been given vaguely cryptic directions by a well intentioned co-worker by the name of Psilocybin. The hunt concluded with the obtainable goal of harvesting some marvelous Magic Mushrooms.

I feel its pertinent to explain the correlation between the Cattle Field and the Magic Mushrooms. Its actually quite simple biological science you see. It starts with the cows who spend all day long (at sometimes night as well as they aren’t dairy cows but rather beef cows) grazing happily in the vast open fields where one field could cover up to 100 plus aches. Since the cows eat then we all know they have to shit which they do all day long as well. With the intense heat and rabid humidity along with ample sun and rain pervides the ideal weather for nurturing the growth of funguses such as mushrooms in this case. So thusly the mushrooms sprout and mature growing in/on the cow crap in the hot, steamy environment some of which are Magic Mushrooms, but I digress.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Collecting Magic Mushrooms is EXTREMELY HAZARDOUS and could lead to SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH. Why? HERES WHY:

If you don’t know the 100% positive identification of the Magic Mushroom you could pick the WRONG mushroom causing you to become VIOLENTLY SICK and in some cases they could POISON YOU AND YOU DIE.
There are BULLS out in the field NOT JUST COWS. Bulls are exactly like you’ve been told they are. BULLS ARE AGGRESSIVE, EASYLY ANGERED, TERRITORIAL and PROTECTIVE OF THE COWS as he perceives them as his women who are not to be trifled with.
REMEMBER YOUR TRESPASSING which is BREAKING THE LAW and can result in you being ARRESTED OR WORSE. In the Great Southern Swamps farmer’s CAN LEGALLY SHOOT TRESPASSERS, THEY CAN USE DEADLY FORCE BY LAW. Now most Farmer’s don’t want to kill anyone especially some stupid kids SO they load their SHOTGUNS with ROCK SALT. You see ROCK SALT SHOT OUT OF A SHOTGUN will PIERCE YOUR SKIN and if you aren’t aware Salt in a wound BURNS LIKE BOILING ACID though its virtually non lethal.
MAGIC MUSHROOMS ARE CONSIDERED AN ILLEGAL DRUG BY THE POLICE SO YOU ALSO RISK ARREST AND PROSECUTION FOR DRUG POSSESSION.

With mission in mind and hope in her heart Eon mounted her Thrift Store Special bicycle and started peddling in the direction of the designated hallucinogenic promised land. After an hour or two Eon finally stumbled more or less upon the desired field and leaned her bike up against a fence pole, checked her backpack and headed into the heart of the field. As the day trailed on Eon found a plethora of Magic Mushrooms along her travels in the field and was generally pleased with how things were working out. At one point Eon paused and took note that the sun was setting and that was her sign it was time to head on home. It didn’t take long for Eon to suddenly realize she was a tad bit lost as standing in the field was like standing on a life raft in open water, where there is no way to orient oneself. So Eon did all she could to try and retrace her steps through the field and its bovine residents until Eon noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was a rather large penis that belonged to a even larger Bull with a massive set of menacing looking horns. Eon froze as she and the Bull eyed one another up and then Eon started to run like hell. The Bull waited a brief minute and then decided even if Eon was retreating he stilled needed to settle the score because she had effectively broken into his house. Once the Bull made up his mind he charged after Eon in enraged at her indiscretion and intent on goring her to death or perhaps just trampling her to death one or the other it supposed. Eon saw the fence marking the perimeter of the field, but was unaware it wasn’t the side of the fence she entered through. Any who Eon fueled by adrenaline and the will to live hauled ass making it to the fence and baseball sliding under it just in time to avoid being killed by the Bull. BUT Eon had exited the opposite side of the field she had entered and this side of the field ended right outside of the fence at a 5-6 foot drop strait down into the deep dark (and more than likely Alligator infested) waters of one of the Great Southern Swamps numerous interconnecting canals. Luckily for Eon she managed to at the last possible second to grab hold of the long grass and weeds to keep from plummeting into the cretinous canal. Her body still pumped up on adrenaline managed to pull Eon up onto the narrow 3 foot embankment to safety.

Eon was now faced with a dying twilight and decided the best (and really only) option was to start walking along the massive fence perimeter until she inevitably found her bike. With a huge sigh of relief Eon hopped on her bike and peddled for the comfort and safety of home. Yet there was one trial left for little Eon to endure for as Eon was biking home with a back pack filled with Magic Mushroom (approximately a quarter pound or so) which are highly illegal she was “pulled over”. As it turned out it was just a local yokel cop who was rather bored and a decent enough person to stop Eon to see if she was alright. Eon told the officer she was all good and almost home (she was in fact only 4 blocks from the house when she got stopped) and with that the cop road off none the wiser.

Car Fires & Pay Phones

For a formital time in my past (starting when I was 91) I spent traveling primarily back and forth from The North to The South every year or so. I embraced my tortoise paced transient life style as I’d spend a year up to say 18 months up North until I got bored or more likely was in some sort of trouble who’s consequences were on the horizon. At that point I’d head down South and start the whole process over again (and again and yet once again) in an endless self destructive cycle.

It was during one of my times I spent in The Swamp I was reunited with a couple of friends who had returned to The South many moons before me. I found out my 2 friends Armenian and his long term girlfriend Eon where living with Armenian’s parent’s (Mr. & Mrs. Fuckedin- Thehead) house about 3 hours from where I was living at the time. I had been living down in The South approximately 6 months in a smaller than small town known as The Rat’s Ass. Armenian’s parent’s house was located in a smaller micro town called Zero for the past couple of years. I managed to get a copy of their phone number, went to the closest pay phone (yes kiddies this was in the lost time before smart/cell phones.) and gave them a call. We bullshitted for a few minutes and then decided we should meet up and to do so I should shut up shop and drive to Zero where I could also crash on the couch at Armenian’s parent’s place indefinitely.

Right after I arrived in the tiny town of Rat’s Ass I bought a used car from this shady little amateur risky dink fly by night “car dealerships” you know the kind. It was one of those places with a motley crew of used cars crammed close to one another like Sardines on some small patch of dirt on the outskirts of town. Of course as par of the course I had to haggle with this slimy schister of a sales man until we struck a deal on a car that fit my needs. So making the drive over to Zero would be easy as I had my own transportation and no real reason to stay in Rat’s Ass since I had a shit retail job (and I was stealing merchandise from my employer as well for quite awhile) ,and I lived with 3 random room mates in a glorified flop house. Once I talked to Armenian I went directly home, grabbed my shit, told my room mates I was leaving so fuck them and drove off into the dead of night never to be seen again.

I arrived at Armenian’s house around 1 am and met his parents for the first time. His father Yon was a life long alcoholic fuck up with a extensive rap sheet and a hardcore drug problem. While Armenian was growing up (when his dad wasn’t in jail or on a bender) made the monumental mistake to try and be his son’s friend instead of father. Armenian’s mother Yeg also had an seriously extreme on and off again passionate love affair with hardcore street drugs though she was fully functional (Armenian’s dad at this point was BARELY functional). A few weeks of smoking weed, drinking beer and doing fuck all we all agreed it was time to get the hell out of Armenian’s parent’s place and get our own. We started by looking at spots in neighboring town’s as Zero well, Zero lived up to its name and had absolutely nothing to offer. We were still crashing at Armenian’s parent’s pad at night while we spent our days looking at different housing options.

It was a picturesque Wednesday as the 3 of us loaded up in my car and headed out to continue the reality hunt and headed out of town. We hadn’t even hit the town limit when simultaneously Armenian and I notice slight whisps of smoke trickling out from the perimeter of the car hood. Figuring the car was simply overheating we pulled into a local restaurant’s parking lot right away, and I proceeded to park my car way in the back of the restaurant’s parking lot that was entirely empty. Armenian and I jumped out of my car as soon as we parked and went to pop the hood to locate the car’s issue at hand. As soon as we popped the hood of my car it was horribly obvious my car wasn’t overheating ,BUT ironically was on fire as indicated by the foul flames that leapt out at us when we popped the hood. Again we must remember this was the time before technology (and its enormously fast evolution in society) so we didn’t have a cell/smart phone we could use right then and there to call 911. As people did at this time in history we ran over to the restaurant to ask to use their phone (or their pay phone if that be the case)

I feel its important to clue you the reader in on a few facts of this situation other than my cars being engulfed in flame. I will be using a list once again to help keep things moving along.

Zero is a Podunk little town YET this one restaurant was the designated “Fancy Restaurant” around the town. In all honesty the restaurant was equivalent to a run of the mill Olive Garden (No disrespect to Olive Garden intended)
The population of Zero were low to lower income blue collar workers mixed with drug dealers and addicts alike. This most likely accounted for almost the entire parking lot of theirs to be vacantly devoid of cars and customers.
The 3 of us didn’t resemble anything like any sort of dress code nor fancy attire in any way what so ever. Eon was the best dressed of us all in a hippy dippy sundress, a white t-shirt with some cartoon scrawled on it and barefoot. Armenian looked the most out of place of us all. Armenian was around 6’3″, wore entirely black clothes, had skin so white you could see right through it if he held his hand up to the light, long fucking fire red hair (with goatee to match mind you) ,and generally looked like he might lunge at you at any second. I wasn’t much better off than Armenian truthfully. I was insanely under weight at a buck 125 ( I looked like a concentration camp victim my mother told me), shaved head, and was wearing a Slaytanic t-shirt with worn out blue jeans and a beat up pair of combat boots.

So as you or one might imagine when the 3 of us stumbled into the restaurant out of breath and a bit sweaty we turned heads like we had 2 heads to say the least. Once we entered the front door we were in a entrance way that resembled a short hallway that led up to the Hostess’s desk. We strode up to the desk and politely as well as quietly requested to use their phone. We were immediately and emphatically (not to mention as snidely as a stuck up wannabe fancy fuck could be) NO. We were then told we could however use the restaurant’s pay phone if we needed to make a phone call. Now the thing about their pay phone was it was located on the far wall right at the entrance to their main dining room where there handful of pretentious twats were sitting eating their over priced fake ass fine dinning lunches. At this point I was pissed off like a son of a bitch, here my car is burning and these restaurant rejects are giving me a unwarranted snotty ass attitude so this is what I did next to settle this unseen score. I walked over to their pay phone as fast as my feet could take me and then proceeded to dial 911. Once the 911 operator picked up and asked what was the problem I was calling about I virtually yelled as loud as possible directly into the main dining room of the restaurant “MY FUCKING CAR IS ON FIRE! ITS BEEN BURNING AWHILE AND I THINK ITS LIKELY TO FUCKING EXPLODE ANY FUCKING SECOND NOW!!!!” It was right then every piece of pompous shit eating lunch jumped out of their seat and vacated the restaurant running like their asses were on fire too in an attempt to move or save their cars for the obvious reasons. Now I must remind you I was parked all the way in the back of the lot nowhere near anyones car in the least.

The fire department was dispatched and arrived in record time, but at this point all the could do was extinguish the flames as my car was absolutely totaled at this point after burning for 10-15 minutes strait. The prissy patrons of the restaurant all got in their cars and bailed, I never saw a single one go back in to pay or anything (I assume they all were going to use my car fire as a reason they shouldn’t have to pay their bill’s as it was a great inconvenience TO THEM) Anyway we called an acquaintance in town to come pick us up and give us a lift out of their. Our ride came over fast as fast can be ,and we loaded up and left leaving the burnt out wreck that was my car in the restaurants parking lot like a giant still smoldering piece of coal.

Patrolman Pud Whacker & The Night Of 1,000 Tickets

It was a warm summer’s day back in The Mother State I remember it well, time as not dulled the vivid details of that day in the least. I was driving around town aimlessly trying to find something to do in a town trapped in constant small time stagnation. I ended up stopping by my friend Arminian’s grandmother house and found him at home with his long term high school sweet heart girlfriend by the name of Eon. Not to long after picking Arminian and Eon up we ran into a mutual friend in the 7-11 parking lot called Hermoor the self proclaimed “Last Norwegian Viking”. Like us Hermoor was bored out of his Nordic God loving mind and had nothing to do as well decided to join our futile quest for entertainment.

We had been aimlessly driving in virtual circles for about half an hour when I made a right turn onto a highway accidentally cut some random red pick up truck off. The driver was a beer bellied middle aged man in a stereotypical John Deer baseball cap, dingy flannel shirt and sporting a scruffy unkempt wild man of the woods beard. At this point in time the term road rage had not been defined and coined into the american lexicon as of yet ,BUT thats exactly what this moronic hillbilly bellend had going on. The driver was tail gating the holy shit out of me while screaming like a banshee and waving his hands around like a Hitler during one of his speeches.

The problem at hand I was faced with was I had 2 choices and had to make one on how the hell to best handle this road raging dickbag. On one hand I could keep driving until I hopefully lose the fool and that would be that problem solved. OR I could pull over and my friends and I could beat this wannabe bad ass into the ICU. Blinded by his road rage the pick up truck prick had failed to notice he was one middle aged outta shape man versus 3 twenty somethings figuring a fight would relieve the eternal state of boredom for a bit. I decided to attempt and avoid a fight due to the fact that inevitably the cops would be called followed by us getting arrested and the other guy getting a ride to the nearest emergency room. Unfortunately in such a small ass tiny town its next to impossible to lose anyone especially if they’re bumper fucking your car into next week.

Finally I drove behind a shitty strip mall to reach main street when low and behold there are 2 cop cars sitting side by side as they do when the officers are chatting about the bullshit they pull with tax payers money. FOR ONCE I figured the cops would be helpful in deterring the Pick Up Truck Fucker to lay off his wannabe vigilante war path and we could be rid of this son of a bitch. At first my idea seemed to have worked as I drove past the parked cop pow wow and the Pick Up Pecker pulls right up to the pow wowing police and starts ranting like a Meth head on a bender so I figured well hell that douche bag is the cops problem now.

I pulled out of the shitty strip mall onto main street and managed to drive 2-3 miles before I look in my rear view mirror and see BOTH cop cars driving up on me quite seriously with lights on and all that fun shit. I pulled over confused as to what the hell I did other than save some ungrateful asshole from eating soup through a straw for months on end. That and I wasn’t speeding and I obeyed all traffic signs and shit because well there were 2 cops present so what the hell am I getting pulled over for?!

Thats when I officially met Patrolman Pud Whacker a 25 year old just graduated from the police academy and so fresh out of the wrapper he stilled smelled like a new car. Patrolman Pud Whacker asked me what the pick up truck deal was all about so I explained the situation in full. Now I was the picture of refractory when I was younger as I didn’t give a shit about the game and went out of my way to shit all over the so called rules. Patrolman Pud Whacker essentially dismissed the Pick Up deal and just plain started to hassle us “young punks” at which point I all but lost my shit. I vented my increasing anger at this ass backward situation where for once in my/our lives we didn’t do the wrong thing by letting the pick up driver act the fool without inflicting grievous bodily harm.

Patrolman Pud Whacker broke right into the snide superiority of a cocksucking cop who just hit the streets and is getting an erection from the new found authority (My guess is Pud Whacker was a punk bitch who was bullied and beat up all through high school so now being a cop is his way of settling his the score with society) Anyway things between Patrolman Pud Whacker escalated quickly to say the least as our voices rose and I let the profanity train go hurtling on its way to obscenityville. I was viciously arguing that messing with us instead of dealing with some reckless revenge driver’s road rage was exactlly why America is fucked as well as why no one trusts nor likes what the American police force has turned into.

So to be a MEGA prick and also prove my point Patrolman Pud Whacker preceded to walk around my car in a malicious 360 of dickdom writing tickets for every and all traffic infractions he could find wrong with my car. At the end of our lovely 15 minute roadside shit storm I was handed a literal fist full of tickets that totaled $1,200 and change.

Summery: Cops are Crooks so handle things yourself because cops can only hurt you they don’t help anyone BUT themselves and now in 2016 cops aren’t just crooks anymore their cold blooded power tripping killers.

LSDeity

I don’t believe anyone knew his actual name but as kids we called him Smiley Jesus. You would only see him bare foot leisurely wondering through my and surrounding neighborhoods in summer. Besides the bare feet he also preferred to be shirtless wearing a red pair of 1970 high school gym class shorts like a personal uniform. Obviously looking like the traditional white version of christianity’s Jesus along with his penchant for constantly smiling earned him the nickname Smiley Jesus.

I found out from my father years down times long twisting road a basic backstory biography about Smily Jesus. First off he didn’t find ANY OF THIS OUT for Smiley Jesus NEVER spoke a single word as far as any of us knew he just paced around smiling and not bothering anyone at all.

My father had found out from some of our neighbors that Smiley Jesus occasionally mowed various peoples lawn for cheap. My father admitted he had hired Smiley Jesus to cut our lawn BUT said it was by far the strangest social interaction of his life. My father went on to explain that Smiley Jesus only spoke a sentence or two max and was unable to answer basic questions pertaining to cutting lawns he would just stare vacantly not saying a single thing. Also in spite of the reference no one told my father Smiley Jesus’s real name ,and he never found it out on his own. Some how the two of them managed to do business so to speak a few times over the summers.

Now a friend of our next door neighbor was in fact also a dear friend of Smiley Jesus’s family and knew what his story actually in fact was. Again his actual name was not mentioned as he was referred to during the conversation as he and the story’s bottom line was this. Smiley Jesus was a strait A student (that was a member of even fucking club and School events) a well rounded over achiever who upon graduating high school was accepted to Princeton University back in the late 60’s. Smiley Jesus excelled in chemistry (on a rocket scientist level) and had access to a full laboratory ,and he for some unknown reason started manufacturing LSD. That was until one batch he made was systematically fucked up, or in plain english a “bad batch”. Apparently Smiley Jesus didn’t know about or decided not to use a volunteer genie pig and tested his product personally. Needless to say he totally fried his fucking brain and destroyed any possible future he had.

I’m ending the story there with no wise life lesson or tragic hero sob story, or cautionary tale shit. The guy made a bad life decision and fucked over his life.

The Coolest Cake I Ever Encountered

I’ve never really liked sweets as I have always preferred salty over sweet. Don’t get me wrong now I am in the end just a human ,and once in a blue moon even I need to score a Snickers. But just like you I’m part of the birthday party propaganda machine so on my birthday I would always get the traditional cake and so be it.

Now back quite a few years at this point my wife and championship tag team partner’s cousin Jameson (please drink responsibly, what? if your changing names have some fun with it for christ’s sake.) and his first wife Opal threw me a 30 something (don’t recollect which 30 though) birthday party at their house. After quite a few rather strong beers and pot smoking it was time for the whole cake fiasco. The first cool thing about it was no one said some stupid shit like ” OK guys its time for the cake!” or everyone up and disappears into the kitchen all of a sudden. Basically we were hanging out on their back porch when a tray comes down in front of me from behind me. Once the tray hit the table I saw it was entirely covered with various colored Jello Shots. Heres the kicker and coolest part my wife along with Opal had taken those cheap candy letters you can buy at the supermarket and spelled Happy Birthday Less by placing the letters on top of the appropriate jello shot.

See plenty of people know my aversion too sweets but don’t take it into consideration where as my wife and Opal did ,and as a result came up with the kick ass Jello Shot “Cake” concept.

“Hack My Network and Die” the T-shirt incident

There was a period of time in my life where I relished randomness. One way I indulged was going to thrift stores and buying t-shirts that ranged from mundane to what the fuck? One such shirt was for a tech security company whose slogan “hack my network and die” across the chest. I was wearing said shirt yesterday when I went to pick up some grocery odds and ends and as I was getting into my car some random ass stranger woman asked my “If I hack your network you’ll murder me?” to which I replied “I believe I would be obligated to murder you, but I would sincerely apologize before I did.” then I shut the door and drove off leaving this woman standing even more confused then before in the parking lot. I live for shit like this.