P.S.

Before we go to the movie, you should bring your nickel bag over to my place. Please don't try to suck my dick in the theatre, because, no, I won't buy you another nickel bag.

a bad place

I am too depressed because this is the kind of swill I have to respond to. I am too depressed because I have to respond to someone who thinks he won an argument by accusing me of using big words. I am too depressed because I think about your life, the Refugee, and there is no solace or light in the situation. I am too depressed because you can't understand that I get a "boner", in your playground speak, from a 3 day weekend because I actually get laid on a 3 day weekend. I am too depressed that you can't understand a full work week because you you would start to get the shakes and tremors if you had to go five days without drinking. I am too depressed because intellectual work frustrates you because reading is a difficult and taxing task. Yes, depression, when it comes to you, is common, you dickhead.

But, hey wanna go see a movie?

Use It in a Sentence

3 day weekends are awesome. When thinking about all those who don't have Monday off, I'm loving me a little schaudenfreude.

Schaudenfreude

Most people know what that means, right? I mean, I know the Refugee doesn't, because he's an imbecile. But, most others do, I'm sure. Right? Right.

Weighted Averages

the Refugee does not realize when I am ridiculing him and his lifestyle because he actually has pride. Any rational personal with hope and emotion would be a vacant shell of inhumanity if they were in the Refugee's shoes. But, the Refugee is too calloused by stupidity, drugs and rejection to detect the judgment of the world around him. I suppose, in one way, it's good in that it keeps him from offing himself. But, in all other senses, it's terrible and pitiful. He really saw someone else in work clothes and thought it was funny, the same thing would happen if he woke up in the morning and saw people going to real jobs, but, he'd never get up in the morning, unless, of course, the crack kept him awake. Which leads me to the next observation in the pathetic and sad existence of the Refugee: a fucking nickel bag!?! What self-respecting grown adult buys a nickel bag? Nickel bags are for middle schoolers buying oregano off Rastas in Washington Square park. In fact, after smoking his bowl-worth of a nickel bag, the Refugee offered to perform oral sex on me if I blew my hit into his face. I did it, but refused the gratificaton, because I'm not gay, have several girlfriends and that would be cheating, and don't need whatever foul, festering diseases linger in his wordhole. I think he was disappointed. But, really, a nickel bag? I bet the clerk just laughed at anyone still having those, or didn't recognize it as weed because noone over the age of 16 carries a fucking nickel bag. But, proof again, of the Refugee's stunted development. Hey, the Refugee, go tell the next teenager you're hitting on that you know how to score nickel bags and wine coolers, she might be impressed and kiss you.
Don't get your braces stuck together.

Check out his pink extremities, too. What a scrawny mofo. For someone sentenced to a life of manual labor, you'd think he'd get some meat on his bones. Nonetheless, I applaud the banana foster ravioli and offer whatever helpful suggestions I can. the Refugee tried to fire me as sous-chef, but, I reapplied and was hired because I just interviewed for another position as a policy analyst, and, after I did well in the interview portion, they wanted to see how comfortable I am with quantitative analysis. Turns out, I'm not very comfortable. Who the fuck remembers how to do weighted averages? Fuck, not me.

the Future, but not ours

Speaking of the future, I was just informed that one of my and the Refugee's good childhood friends was accepted into graduate school in the most prestigous economics school in the world. So, our future has changed. We will now live off him.

the Future

Wednesday night. 8 p.m. Dive bar. Tin cans of cheap beer. Nothing to do but envision the future. And there it was, for me, or so thought the Refugee. An apparition appeared before him, a grown man in a button down shirt. This, to him, was a revelation, because I was wearing a button down shirt of the same color - blue. Do you understand the world this man, the Refugee, inhabits? One so closed off to anything resembling aspiration and wealth, a world so bleak and devoid of responsibility, he sees another person who may have a regular job in an office and thinks a strange blip in the space-time conitinuum has opened before him. He blurted out, with the enthusiasm of a man who just underwent a religious epiphany and is bringing forth a previously unknown cosmic truth, "that guy is you in thirty years." There was probably a swear and a stutter in his sentence, but I'll edit for clarity. I accepted his proclamation and nodded kindly. Yes, the Refugee, I sometimes wear nice clothes to go to a thing called a job. So does this guy. You've seen the future, and it's me. Nodded kindly, again, and then began a sad rumination on the Refugee's impending disaster called life. Simultaneously, the Refugee and I pictured a bum who panhandles on the corner of my work and we waited for him to pass. Though he did not, the wisdom of the collective unconcious had told us who the Refugee will be in 30 years, and he smells and is asking for change. Not too unlike the Refugee of today.

You might think that the Refugee's misfortune is due to a lack of trying and ambition. But, this is not true. Surprisingly, the Refugee has dreams, though they will inevitably fail. He wants to own a restaurant and be a chef. In pursuing this dream, the Refugee and I were waiting for his current restaurant to empty so he can use the kitchen and attempt to make a dessert acceptable for the restaurant's menu. His business acumen was so keen that he assured me the restaurant would be completely dead that evening and the kitchen open. Of course, he was completely wrong. So, we waited in a bar, the only other place the Refugee feels slightly at home. We sat and contemplated just how assured the Refugee's failure is. Something like 97% of all new restaurants go out of business within the first 2 hours of opening. So, good luck with sharp sense of people and their desires, the Refugee. I hope the dessert came out well...

Foreplay

Don't worry, myself and the Refugee are still on good terms. the Refugee is an emotionally stunted man, with neither power of articulation nor communication. His spit-spewing, seemingly hate-filled tantrum was actually kind of cute and endearing. It's the equivalent of slap and tickle - his best expression of affection. The emotional equivalent of a fourth grader hitting a girl because he likes her. Come to think of it, he must be stuck in a childlike mental state. That explains his attraction to way too young girls, stunted intellectual growth, and inability to maintain healthy relationships.

Just because you've been rejected by the world's economic structure, mother nature gave you a good hard spanking, and women cross the street when you come their way, doesn't mean I will reject you too. You are my Valentine, the Refugee. Bake a heart-shaped cake and give it to yourself and have it be from me.

Ouch

My tattoo hurts.

the Refugee Wants to Molest Your Adolescent Niece

If I were a more patient and charitable person, I might actually read the Refugee's post. But, I'm too involved in life-changing introspection to participate. I'm sorry, the Refugee, that sentence contained too many syllables for you. I'll condense: I'm thinking. You're too drunk for that (thinking), I understand. Too stupid, too. At least you're no longer underlining all your text. Unfortunately, however, you got rid of the underline rather than moving it up a half-inch and crossing out everything you write, which would be way more appropriate and humane. You spill such filth and bile it disgusts me. You are a terrible friend and dispense no encouraging words, even though you try to drag me into your world of blue-collar permanence by making me look like a convict. The only reason I'm not ashamed to know you is because of mozarella-mushroom-spinach paninis with tomat0-garlic-basil dipping sauce. That, and you're the type of asshole that gets a joke TATTOOED on your torso. Everyone needs one humongous jackass to throw objects at and laugh, and, for me, you're that jackass. Probably for a lot of other people too. It's a shame your stuck in a vicious cycle of inebriation and low wage, dirty labor. But, you should've gotten yourself an education. Instead, put things on hot metal and then make it look pretty and call that a career. I understand, now, why you can't understand giving financial priority to things like books and physical fitness over booze and permanent markings. You need the booze to cope with your backroom, servile existence. You need the tattoos for identification when your found drunk and unconcious beneath some bridge and wearing one shoe.

Because I have a job that requires sober attention and thought, I must end this posting. But, I will post more and more often, I promise. If only because a blog with my name, dominated by a stinky boozehound with a penchant for the birthday girl at a sweet sixteen party, is more than embarassing.

Why Is This Day Different From the Others?

Warning: the Refugee is a public health hazard that should be quarantined and then disregarded and left for dead. Instead, he works in a kitchen and prepares food. Well, my food no longer, unless he comes in a hazmat suit and gets a liver transplant. The dirty drunk can get you intoxicated via proximity. And, whatever to his calls for prayer, god forsaken him long ago and then sought fit to destroy his home. Can't say I disagree.

Also, phhhhht to the banana dish. I've heard talk of this before, but have never seen or tasted its fruition and doubt its existence. In addition to being contagious and pathological about spreading filth and disease, the Refugee is a proven liar. One thing he cannot lie about, however, is his income. No golddigging female would ever believe that the Refugee, with his clots of dirt and foul stench, could ever rise above the minimum wage and maintain stable shelter. Look at the ridiculous times at which he enters posts that (barely) resemble the English language, he probably hasn't seen daylight since I awoke him to make gumbo for people who, at least sometimes, drink non-alcoholic beverages and are not objects of shame for their parents. Now, away from super-depressing topics like the Refugee's existence and onto something better: me.

Yes, it's true. Today, I turn 27. What the implication is for this marking of growth, I do not know. But, the way to celebrate will be an act of solidarity with my savage and blue-collar acquaintance and fellow bloogie: permanently mark my body with a tattoo. Perhaps. I might get queazy once I see the Refugee and remember that I want to be nothing like him. Perfectly fitting though, that the one time in his life that the Refugee prays, it's for somebody to get drunk with him. Smote him, please.

A Contest

Last night, in his State of the Union address, the President raised an important issue which is tugging at the strings of our social fabric: man-beasts. "Tonight I ask you to pass legislation to prohibit the most egregious abuses of medical research: ... creating human-animal hybrids"

Is this another example of Bush pandering to his bigoted base, furthering intolerance against a helpless and already marginalized group of manimals? No centaur ever done me wrong. Or are these manimals running amok, what with their opposable thumbs and razor-like claws. Also, what are the culinary implications? Does cooking and eating an animal-human hybrid equate to murder and cannibalism? What do you think would be a delicious mixture? A prize for the winning man-beast recipe. (Helpful suggestion: the tastiest part of the human is, supposedly, the palm.)

Ignorance is Bliss

I usually perform a small task while the Refugee does hard and tedious labor so he does not feel like a servant who makes our meals and is then sent back to his ghetto. This way, the Refugee remains slightly less aware of just how shitty things are for him. This works much in the same manner as the escapist television programming to which the Refugee is obviously and hopelessly addicted. Glut the poor sucker's mind with vapid deviations and he will never ask for more; thus, the present social structure is firm, and justifiably, stable. The way god intended. Much like the way the Refugee thinks I "accidentally" cut the kiwi "wrong". While my manner of cutting the kiwi did not create an even distribution of seeds and sweetness, I assure you I got the good parts and the Refugee did not. Accident, indeed...

To add a flavour of excitement to your lives: Who's ready for some football food? While the crowd lounges and drinks beer and watches football and probably engages in a little domestic violence with the rest of the drunken public, the Refugee will be slaving away to cater Superbowl Sunday in Seattle. The menu will include traditional, gluttonous football food which has made all us Americans so goddamn fat, and maybe a few nontraditional items. Pictures of food and lewd behavior are promised.