Public Toilet Shame

I was driving trucks delivering animals and pet supplies to pet stores throughout the mid-west while on break from college. At this low point in my life I had a steady diet of fast food, coffee, and nudie magazines bought at truck stops throughout Southern Illinois. I had been driving all night, eating the usual garbage and drowning it with a thermos full of coffee. The rumble started around 4am. At first it was off in the distance just a tiny purr. Not thinking much of it I continued down the highway listening to some AM station with a host that lived in a Winnebago way out in the desert. He had great conspiracy theorist on night after night that helped make my journeys entertaining and a lil bit spooky. Whoa Nelly, that purr turned in to a ROAR quickly. Zero hour was fast approaching. I needed to find a restroom STAT. My sphincter was doing all it could to hold those angry burritos at bay. She was "GIVEN IT ALL SHE'S GOT CAPT'N" but she wasn't going to last much longer. Those burritos meant business and they had brought back up. Pulling off the highway I found a Shell station. Quickly throwing the truck in to park, I jumped out of the cab, and burst into the bathroom to unleash those unruly burritos. Just missing the back of my pants by inches. Sweet mother of god I made it in time. It kept oozing out of me like a Play-dough Poop Factory. Once those angry burritos made it past the sphincter guard they decided to throw a party. Must have been posted on one of those unsecured Facebook invites because EVERYONE showed up to this fiesta. It was a triple flushed event. When I was done, I surveyed the scene, wiped the sweat from my brow, and went to clean myself. NOTHING. The bathroom was empty. No toilet paper ANYWHERE. It was a one stall dealie with a toilet and a urinal. I waddled out to use the hand towels near the sink. NOTHING there either. WHAT THE FUCK. I'm stranded in my own poo poo in the middle of nowhere. Now I'm getting mad. I took off my boots and tried using my socks, but it wasn't a clean wipe, there was just so much poo poo. I'm slowly getting more angry. I find some newspaper in the garbage can and try and use that. That didn't go very well, I ended up getting poo poo on my hand. This is the point ladies and gentlemen that I fucking lost it. I sacrificed my underwear to clean up the rest. Not happy I'd be finishing up this trip sans socks and underwear, I did what I'm now not very proud of, but will obviously share at a moments notice, I took that newspaper with the poo poo on it and wiped it on the wall then stuck it right in the middle of the bathroom mirror. Then I walked in to the shell gas station calmly bought a pack of smokes and told the cashier she might want to re-fill the toilet paper, got in my truck and hit the road. Never to be seen again.

Open Letter/Resume to Charlie Sheen

Dear Mr. Sheen,

I am writing you this letter today to officially “apply” for a position on your winning team. I too am a winner. We have so much in common; You're living with porn stars - I freakin’ watch them on the internet. You despise CBS – I think their station is for old white people. You played a soldier in a movie – I was a soldier. You were one of the 3 Musketeers – I love eating 3 Musketeers. Also, I have an irrational fear of the USSR overtaking American soil. You were in a movie about the Ruskies overtaking the US—WOLVERINES!

I believe that I would be a key asset to your team. Are you tired of feeling shitty that you had to turn down a piece of ass? Never have to say no to Tara Reid again. Two words: Stunt. Double. Yes I'm shorter, fatter, and much, much hairier, but let’s face it—these bitches be so lit they'll have no idea, and I'm sure after a few weeks of trying to keep up with your winning ways, I will have the body of an Adonis. You could ring a bell or just say “cock double” in to a walkie-talkie and I'd be glad to stand in for you.

The following is a list of my past winnings in an effort to show that I too will have your back like Emilio Estevez’s character in Men at Work, not like Emilio Estevez in real life. I have a brother, and I've always had his back throughout the years. It is part of what makes me a winner.

1979 - At 1 years old - grabbed my first boobie and my winning ways with the ladies had its start.

1987 - 8 years old - Little League Baseball Championship, I played third base unlike the character John Dorn in your 1989 film Major League, I always gutted out the ground balls and never took off a play.

1991 - 12 years old - my best friend Bobby bet me a pack of Topps baseball cards that I couldn't eat four McDonald Big Macs. Obviously that pack of cards was mine, and I'm still winning today because there was a Jeff Bagwell rookie card in that pack.

1994 - 15 years old - Freshman year of highschool, harkening back to 1979, I resumed my boobie touching ways. That’s what winners do.

1998 - Freshman year of college – I’m in college, DUH winner.

2000 - Dropped out of college. Winners don't have time for school when there is partying to do, so I began my career partying full time.

2002 - Still partying.

2004 - Joined the Army – What’s more baller than blowing shit up? You were in Platoon, so I'm sure it was a very similar experience, except I didn't have catering or stunt doubles or access to quality blow.

2007 - Back home alive - THAT IS WHAT WINNERS DO. Started bartending, only winners bartend, we have access to primo shit.

2008 - Back to college, winners never give up, divide and conquer, finished college awesomely, because I am a fuck'n motha-fuck'n winner, that’s why bitch, I mean... sir.

2008 - Got married, only one time. I know real winners have four marriages tops, but this winner picked a fucking winner. What now? I win, quit hating.

2011 - Wrote this bitching letter asking to join your posse. That’s what winners do.

I am also very good with children. I see myself kind of filling the role of Richard Pryor in the 1982 movie The Toy, with your family. At first I will suffer many indignities as your children's “toy,” but gradually they will be taught what it is like to have and to be a good friend. Those are life lessons taught by a winner for winners. A win - win all around.

Take me under your wing like you did Corey Haim in your 1986 film Lucas. Unlike that character, I know when to run with the ball. Hand me the ball Charlie. I will score our team a touchdown, because I sir, am in fact, a winner. That's what winners do.

Thank you for your consideration,
Jason K.

I am just digging this song tonight,

Its the right vibe, capturing the mood I'm in...



I think it is the right background for tonight's thoughts.

I'm going to share the beginning to some short stories I've been working on... and I really just would like to know your thoughts, I imagine them being short stories in a collective of really strange works with great illustrations, kinda a homage to Shell Silverstein, well, any way, here ya go. Its a work of run-on sentences, you know, the best kind of sentence. We'll start with 3, I'll post more depending on the reception.
Lemme Know what you think.

The first one is called:

Underneath,

crouching in the shadows waits the beast, while rain falls, as static fuzzes on the tele, he bides his time, waiting, watching, inching ever closer, breathing intense, tightening his form for the upcoming demonstration of his might, the foretold lore that this menacing giant is now forever tied, click click click sounds his twitching anxious claw as the moment grows near and the young boy eating the giant lollipop will be no more, just wait till he goes to sleep. There are monsters under your bed.

Patches

She will be a spot of sainthood in the endless universe, I remember her rhythmically stroking the side of my head as it bounced on her lap in tune to the purple haze pouring and oozing itself out of the speakers onto the floor, filling up the room like smoke from our pipe,
she was much younger then, whimsical and catty, with a patch of gray beginning to take root, the kind of gray strand that lets you know she's been somewhere,
past the screeching of subway wheels, and the hustle of the street deals, over the oceans which fed the countless showers in tubs stained black in ports from Japan to Rio. The pictures in her mind, the stories burned in her lobes, shared through a whisper and a smoke, a snack at the table, a morsel of knowledge tossed towards the hungry, she doted heavily on us back then, amazed us with her spunk, all packed tightly now into her trunk at the end of the bed, in which she know lies listening to sweet jimmy, or maybe the stones, always waiting on a friend, we don't see much of them around here anymore.

Abelia ‘Kaleidoscope’

Surly midgets with heads full of lice wait in line to greet the king who carries in him the ruby life, while pragmatic blind orphans swim in the yard with suits of green and orange signifying their pending demise, only through understanding the power of the rubes can the flower bloom under the feet of the giraffe

and thats that. "it is what it is", as everyone seems to be saying these days...

Hey did you know its freak'n cold out?!!!
LISTEN TO THIS.... AMAZING version.

Labels...

My goal is to update this 2-3 times a week. One funny posting and maybe one rant/serious posting.  I'm sitting here tonight wondering what to write about, I keep going back to a posting I posted on Facebook a few weeks ago about labels.  Tonight I'm submitting that posting here, I feel that it is an honest enough rant/issue to be re-posted here with an update. Here you go.

My Dog is Gay

QUICK THOUGHT:  Its pretty easy to wipe away a smile, however its virtually impossible to wipe away a dingle berry.  Could you imagine not being able to wipe away dingle berries because your arms where too short to reach your ass?  Welcome to the T-rex's world.  I bet they had TONS of dingle berries with those tiny ass arms, cuz lets face it, no one was wiping their asses for them, they had sharp teeth.  

On to today's post...

My dog is gay.

Its true. 

"How do you know he's gay" you ask.

Well, fucking other dudes was my first clue. Seriously.

"That doesn't mean anything, dogs are just asserting their dominance" you reply.

True. Some animals, including dogs DO assert their dominance in that way, but that would probably mean both genders where up for grabs, and homie don't play that.  This hasn't been the case, he has chosen his taste to be all male, all the time.  He lives with a female dog and basically ignores her.  

There have been other signs: the fact that his favorite toy is a giant phallic looking pool noodle, he runs around the back yard with that giant blue penis in his mouth, 


Or maybe his love for wine coolers.  One night I spilled my New Castle beer and tried to get him to lap it up, he wouldn't have none of it... but later, in the same evening, someone spilled their berry cooler and he was all over that shit.

"He liked the sugar as opposed to the bitter beer and the rest of that's a horrible attempt at humor" you quip.

Maybe. but remember, he fucks dudes. 

or maybe the fact that his two best friends Boris and Natasha  (my inlaws dogs) LOVE him, but he only wants Boris, and even though Natasha tries to lick that doggy stink star, he won't go near her, she practically throws herself at him every weekend, he just wants Boris's junk, he loves those Russian men.  

He has a harem of women dogs, or as he calls em, his "fag hag" (its ok he's gay, he can say that), yup a lot of chubby bitches (it's ok THEY'RE dogs, thats the proper term) 

He is like that hotty you women see with the nice abs, cute butt, and great car, but you can't turn em....

The most obvious sign, aside from humping bro's....  his affinity for ass-less leather chaps and a riding crop. 

"Riding crop? why didn't you say that in the first place, he IS gay, but seriously a post about it? Do you not accept him? why do you even bring it up" you inquire.

I love my gay dog, and I accept him and I support him.  In fact, we've been thinking about bringing him to the Pride Parade, in his ass-less chaps and a rainbow collar, I, of course, wearing the t-shirt I had made that reads "I ain't gay, but my dog is".  

Moose is free to be himself, our home is a safe zone.

My wife wanted to buy him a gay asian man for his birthday, a gaysian, if you will, but we were worried that "here is 50 bucks, please eat my dog out" would get lost in the translation. 
Could you imagine? us with tears running down our faces eating our dog meat stir fry? 

"b.b.b.b.b.b...but it taste so good... i cant... stop" 

or 

"he... he... he... wu wu wu would have wanted it this way" ... 

Still crying 15 minutes later when we go to taco bell because we're hungry. 

how many stereo-types can I fit into one post? 
Who am I, Daniel Tosh? 
oh wait, i forgot... 

THEY CANT DRIVE.

"Gays or Asians can't drive?" you interrupt. 

Women. 

(touch em all)

"wow Jason, tonight's posting is way different than yesterday's" you said dejectedly as you skip to the next blog, never to read me again. 

Hey kid. I tried, they can't all be winners, I reply, while trying not to make it too obvious that this was an attempt to make you forget yesterday's cheese.

A poem for my Dad

One night I was in a "write off" with a friend, we were practicing some "stream of consciousness" stuff and really throwing it back n forth at each other.  When this little gem came out, it wasn't the best writing of the session, by far not the best, but out of me, its the one that truly had the most meaning behind it. 

I find it kind of soothing and mood setting to have this link playing in the back ground when this is read. 



Before I write the poem here, I want to give some background.  For those of you not aware, I lost my dad several years ago, he was murdered in a hit and run while walking across a street. I could argue that I lost him years before that day, he left our family and was meandering down in Florida, but that's a story for another time.  I at one time had a relationship with him.  Mostly me trying to prove to him that I'm not a "fag" and vying for some type of positive recognition, even after he wrecked us with alcohol.  If you can't beat em, join em I thought at the time.

There I was taking my drunk, barely socially functioning, alcoholic, dad out to the bars near the little shack he holed himself up in after his time of destruction in my mother's house had finally ended.  It was sad sight, this person I thought of as a big strong man, a measly 150 pounds with dark circles and a shrunken face, crying into his whiskey, that I had to buy for him.  Shit, have I told you that I had to bail him out of jail once? Fucking insane, I drove down to the city to get him out of Cook County, but in my infinite "father/son" wisdom, ever seeking his approval, we stopped at a bar on the way home. Yup, a bar, on the way home from bailing him out of jail, for being.... (drum roll please) ... a fucking loser drunk. That's the father/son dynamic for you. Give me some recognition, ANY recognition, here HAVE a fucking drink, "will you like me now!?" my eyes pleaded as I continued to over fill his liver.  Why did I even care at this point? I had already moved out, I was living in Georgia for most of his shenanigans, but when I came back up to Chicago of course I thought, "well, I'll make a difference" ... I'm a fucking idiot.  It wasn't always that way, he always was an abusive asshole, some of you won't ever believe that, but beyond that, we knew that he loved us, and he tried his ass off to provide for us as best as he could, till he just couldn't anymore and his demons took over.  I could point fingers, ask where the help was, but I've done that, I'm past that, it was fruitless and sad.  In the end we could only point the fingers at him.

So that night during the "stream of consciousness" write off, I tapped into that, found a piece of me I didn't know still gave a shit, its not the best writing, but none of this is, my point isn't to show off my writing skills, ever, with any of these posts, but to just be honest, be funny, and have a confession here or there... so here is the poem I wrote for my dad, years after he passed away:

"Cheers"

We went mad together, we grew sad together.
only you knew what we had together.
not much since the body went cold,
I kept waiting for a twitch, give me a sign,
You expected the world, but wouldn't give an inch
I anticipated your movement! a breath of life!

please tell us that everything is FINE!
that key had long been taken from your ignition,
standing in front, I cried out,
Show your hand!  if only I had seen the warning,
been privy to the signs,

read the writings
Paul Simon wrote them on a subway wall
or a tenement hall,
I settled for the calm,
the peaceful blue sky before a rain soaked day,
those clouds moved in swiftly,
ushering in the night's mystery
the executioner's time to dance,
clinking our glasses without much foresight,
that was the last we shared,
was that a lie?
I can barely remember it right...

My Wife Might Be Crazy or I Really Just Pooped the Bed

nevermind