June 19th.
Big Nasty.

I spent a minute or so watching "The Fast and the Furious" tonight. Lemme just start by saying it is a bunch of mostly white lower middle class homosexuals in Hondas. There is damn little fast or furious in that equation. Pardon me. I shouldn't say such things about the homosexual population. Because I can see the vicious hate mail pointing out that "we are so goddamn fast I could have you bent down, ripped up, and crying in adolescent confusion faster than you can say 'god no father'".

A/C D/C taught us that "Rock and Roll ain't noise pollution". As a scientist (mostly a drain cleaner and napalm chemist) I decided to apply the good ol' socratic method to the band's claim. In all honesty, after hours and hours of tireless research I have decided that honestly, Rock and Roll certainly ain't noise pollution. This has taught me a very important lesson:

Lucy Woodward does not sing rock and roll.

For those of you not familiar with the work of pop diva Lucy Woodward, allow me to enlighten (inflict) you. She is the gentle genius behind the powerful ballad "Dumb Girls".

This update might blow the minds of some of my more loyal readers. I am quite in the mood to talk about women.

This was started today as I was wandering around after drinking through my afternoon in a park. It was right by a huge drain pipe that beckoned to my intoxicated mind to crawl through it despite the pitch blackness that began a few feet into it. I figured that after my experience with some of the most used women in the world I could easily navigate my way through the tube using the skills I acquired in our mattress adventures. However, in order to do that I would require a lighthouse with blaring siren attached in order to find my way back. That was how ol' Terri and I did it after her mishap during the county fair. She was above the dunk tank. It was a "Hit the target and see a model dropped into a pool of sharks" booth. They were just harmless whale sharks, but she landed on one wrong. A Whale shark can grow to 35 feet long...they didn't tell Terri that they could also be nearly 4 feet wide. I still remember the sound she made when she dropped right onto the sharks nose.

To this day I wake up screaming, covered in sweat, with the haunting phrase "this is sooooo much better than Burnz. Hit it big man!" echoing in my head.

So I was spending my time with some limeade and an 8 dollar 1.75 liter of vodka. This gave me some insight into my psyche.

Am I mean? Or neglectful? Do I sleep around? No. So let me tell you why, exactly, it is that I am not quite Casa Nova or Don Juan.

Ladies. I said ladies. Female criteria for a lover man:

1 - Money/Possession - Mmmm, shameful. The primary draw of any man. Yes, any man, at least in America is his financial stature. House? Car? Nice dinner? Big ring? At my age, this is more often expressed as earning potential. Does a darling bohemian with his head in a bottle have much chance of getting anywhere (material anyway)? Certainly not. I am a joke of a percentile of attractive men that should get one good suit and pretend to be a race car driver, a hand model, a dance instructor, or a marine biologist before he ever admits unapologetically that he is the job he is.

The quote that sums this up is by one of America's great thinkers and bastard child of "democratic" capitalist culture. The Burnz: "Remember that poppy piece of shit J-Lo song that said some thing to the effect of 'I would love you even if you were broke'? Notice that the phrase isn't 'I loved you when you were broke'." When it comes to pussy: You are your job.

2 - Looks - Ok. I have little to say here. I don't blame the women on this one. And I am blessed physically. If you don't want to fuck them, then you can love them with your heart and soul but never date/court/marry them. Sex is necessary in any relationship. That ain't society, that is biology.

And that is it. I am not calling women shallow...because their actions speak for themselves. I put this more eloquently while I was talking to myself, lemme keep this ramble train rolling for just a minute.

Women define me by the terms of money, looks, and of course adoration. Job, prospects, future, direction, bearing, smile, hairline, build, chest, stomach, penis size, do I pay attention to them, am I nice to them, do I pay for fucking everything, so on and so on. Lemme site a specific example, and oddly enough the reason that this started going in my mind at all.

WomanX. WomanX meets Burnz. WomanX likes Burnz. She finds him charming (guilty), attractive (guilty), fucking brilliant (her words), affectionate (guilty). But sadly, she is thrust far too quickly into the destructive part of my personality. I am a drunk. I confess: I got wasted and fell asleep, under the influence and while wrought with strange dreams it seems I began talking in my sleep and went so far as to swat at her. Can I defend this behavior? Certainly not. I will confess that there are aspects to my alcohol consumption that creep up on me. No, I didn't hurt her. Nor would I. Do I blame her for being upset about this? Not at all. She has every right to be. Do I think that occurrence should preclude me from eligible stature? God no. Two reasons occur to me here, and they are really just double sides of the same reason:

1. Yep, he drinks and can get strange. Yes, there was an occurrence. Yes, going nowhere, motivation, etc. etc. But he maintains himself. He is otherwise quite a catch. He didn't hurt me, and is endlessly guilty about that one time. But what do I, WomanX, focus on? What is the thing I use to define his personality? His drinking. His disease is what I choose to make his crown of thorns.

Because you lovely lovlies are such darling trash that you can preclude me from breeding status because I drink too much. I only hope that one day you can see the personality I have to cope with in just listening to you. It makes me beg for a drunk that tries to hit me. You just don't see how vapid and insipid you vaginal creatures are.

2. Women hate a man that loves something more than them. Women die for attention. "Wish I were prettier/thinner/smarter". They can't live with you loving something more than you love them. They don't get it when they ask, order, and demand that you refrain from something and you don't do it. It makes them mad. Completely mad. They might as well start paying for their own fireworks display to constantly explode behind them because then it would at least be an overt statement of their compulsive need for your focus.

So when you are me, and you drink, and you lie to drink, and you hide it...They start to feel second string. Play it, fuck it, or frame it however you like in the end they know another siren will forever lure you to the rocks that are not of their quarry. And they become ravenous beasts. I've ignored plenty of people because I was in the throes of a good bender. Plenty of women have felt hurt and snubbed and ignored because I was too intoxicated to listen to them. Poor poor darlings.

They just know that they can't compete. No matter how often I have a few shots and lie to them, they know that drinking is my meat and potatoes. And man, they look at their tits and slit and wonder why. Your partner is your best friend. There's something so much more beautiful in liquor than there is in women. Something that makes it so much a more lovable influence and thus a better partner. And liquor ruined my life. You can call it sick...but that is jealously talking.

The world depresses me. Being a bit of a hopeless romantic has warped me to believe that people have two bits of sense to rub together that might perhaps produce a conscious spark. It seems this is not the case. Lemme expound:

If positions were reversed between me and WomanX. And I found someone as impressive as I am, with the same drunken, meandering, anti-establishment drawbacks I'd have her ass in vegas the next fucking week. And if she were like me, she would go.

However: If I then held the same by-products of WomanX's personality then my new bride would suck me dry and leave me. Assuming she was an accurate replica of myself. I've been treated like a leper, a pit-bull, and more often the reprehensible last option (particularly for my less than lawful friends) when things get out of hand. I make friends slow and enemies fast. What bothers me about it, is feeling somehow rejected by an inferior person. Someone whose potential is high in a consumerist arena. Better earning potential, better house, better cock, pussy, or goat if she wants it.

This is because the world is full of stupid men. Women are in demand. So long as they keep their dresses cut right, the weight down, and the giggling well timed...they are golden. They can keep their life wrapped as tightly as their legs around some "perfectly nice" fella.

You want equality and respect? Earn it.

God, what a horrible guy I must be.

To terminate my lengthy drunken rant is to express that I have had one friend in my whole life. Annie. And I miss her tonight. Diseased and lost and stricken. I miss her company. She was my clever and ever-present buddy. She was a hideous mistake that I have tried to supplant again and again but have never been able to. She was an accident, a mistake, a regret. But Annie was my friend. And fuck everything else I said. I miss my friend.

June 10th.
A little Evil.

I have had a little lovely correspondence with a person who now is in my "Hate hate hate, bitch whore" category. And I didn't even date her. But we had some funny e-mails. Click here to see them.

May 10th.
Recipe for Delinquency.

First, Take one part Burnz. Add it to 1.75 litres of vodka and one gallon of orange juice. Mix vigorously in a 1986 Red Nissan pickup over one hour. Once the mixture has nearly fallen asleep at the wheel, slam sharply with a Blue Honda. Wait ten to twenty minutes and add a sprinkling of police. Let settle in jail cell.

You'll end up with a lovely Totally Fucked Casserole that serves 7-10.

Hello adoring fans. For those of you still dedicated (sad) enough to still be reading this tripe I must apologize for my abscense. I have been spending some marvelous days and steamy nights as a guest of the Colorado Department of Corrections. Not to mention living without a quality keyboard. All in all it's been an adventure in stupidity. But luckily for me, Bob was having a blowout on stupidity and I bought the place out for low low prices. When I last left he still had a healthy stock of psychosis and dementia. I put some on layaway, but they don't typically hold it for felons.

Now I have been thrust into living with three women. Needless to say that is better than sex in cell block C.

Tonights bit-o-madness comes to you courtesy of the grotto atop a lovely coffee house. I bring to you: GhettoFormers. Another good idea from the people at Burniventions that is dying on the vine as I type because I couldn't develop more than this one at the moment:

Optimus Trim: He changes from a gold chain wearing OG into a chopped down monte carlo with a windsheild banner that says "Mexican". He has phatty hydraulics and the tightest coffee can sized muffler you ever saw. Now with real crack swallowing action when the five-o bust down on his ass for driving through beverly hills.

April 24th.
Don't want none of this.

There is nothing more beautiful in the world than a woman that can absolutely whoop your ass. On the cosmic scoreboard I am not sure if I am ahead or behind for using the term whoop. However, I imagine that were I a gladiator I would be bleeding from a serious trident wound (recommended by 4 out of 5 dentists) for that word. And that is less attractive than your mother.

Your mother: For that Spartacus would have impaled me with a whole goddamn iguana. For once, not as foreplay.

We established a long time ago that a woman more dangerous than yourself is beyond lovely. 2(Lovely) might be the best way to represent such a maiden. Or 4(Lovely)/2 if you are so inclined. Seriously. Or more seriously anyhow. Picture this:
You are in a bar. You are walking back to your seat besides your lovely love when you slap the end of a pool cue from some man wearing a leather vest and adorned with a "Born to drown kittens" tattoo.

Him: "What the fuck is your problem, man?"
You: "Fuck you."
Him: As his two burly friends come up behind him "You're dead now little man."
You: Stands your ground, grinning.
Your little love bucket (LLB): Sitting at the bar. She sighs, takes a shot of whiskey and rolls her head to either side, popping her neck like a string of firecrackers. Stands up, pushes past you. "What's the fucking problem Bruno?" (she happens to call everyone Bruno, you think it might have been her first boyfriend's name. Could be worse, could be Milton or Sera).
Him: "I'm gonna kill this white boy. Stay out of it Sera (no relation) it ain't your business."
LLB: "He's my business." Now cracks her knuckles without ever putting her hands together.
*Pause for the fact that Manic Monday is on the jukebox and everyone loves a good Bangles song*
You: Standing behind her "Wuzzzup now bitch? (use varying numbers of z in this statement)"
Him: "All right baby." Swings pool cue at her.
*Slow motion action* LLB grabs the cue in mid swing, yanks it out of his hands and then headbutts him. Then grabs one of his friends by the hair and smashes his face into her knee. The final standing thug breaks a bottle on the pool table and lunges at her. She grabs the broken bottle end in her teeth, bites it off and chews. Then spits glass back into the final attackers face. He runs. *Resume normal speed.....wait, let LLB jiggle a little in her tank top and black leather pants. Ain't she a wonder?* She knocks on the bar and a drink slides down into her hand. She pounds it.

Now that is a woman. You could never stop picking fights with her. She'd be sitting in the breakfast nook eating a grapefruit and reading Cosmo, or Guns N' Ammo or whatever the hell it is bitches read and you'd peek around the corner then rush in, yank her chair out from under her, break off one of the legs and try to beat her with it. Note: If any of you ladies make me live in a house with a nook, tough or not you are getting hit with a chair leg.

What brought this thought upon me? I saw a girl sit there eating biscuits slathered in lard, butter, and bacon grease. God was I hot for her. It was right before a bull riding competition though, so I only assume she was trying to add a little extra weight before she tamed Cameron "Surprisingly Calm and Understanding" Widowmaker. Don't let the name fool you, he ate a rodeo clown without chewing.

Happening with me you ask? Had a good Monday...at least what I recall of it. Bad tuesday followed after a sleepless night. Bad wednesday with a whole domestic violence thing. Not mine. Call Guinness. Actually call them anyway, I ain't got around to filling the whiskey still. Sponsorship is required.

Ain't never easy being a gasoline teddy bear. Not that it is damn easy being a mixed metaphor either.

April 14th.
Double Barrel.
Also: I lost at least 140 lbs. in 23 seconds. Ask me how!

Here is what you are getting my little pecking chickadees. You are going to start with a little Ben talk, followed by a little Burnz talk. This can only conclude one way...that is the invariable statement that Ben needs an online nickname. And here comes the love, the funk, and the endless intoxicated challenge (Snacks encouraged).

Ben: (he's got rhythm, he's got psychosis, he's got an axe. Who could ask for anything more?): I don't think I get hangovers anymore, unless I am perpetually living with one. Is my mouth SUPPOSED to taste like this? It is like waking up with a can of old sardines and bits of sandpaper floating around in there instead of saliva. And, honestly, I have no idea where these grass stains came from, and who cut me? Excedrin is only good for ephemeral headache relief, and I am really starting to build up a tolerance to it. Just one more thing to turn my liver into a toxin factory, right before it shuts down. Dual action, motherfuckers.

Another thing. I really fucking hate Saturday. It is such a cop-out day compared to the other 6. It is like the homeless uncle member of the sacred seven, Wednesday being, of course, the only available female, and she is gang-banged by everyone but gay ass Tuesday. I hate Tuesday because I always second guess the letter succession of its "ue." Could it be "eu"? It is a mystery. But at least it has more personality than fucking Saturday, even if it comes along in the form of a dainty handbag, an extensive shoe collection, and Richard Simmons workout tapes. There, that is as cliche a statement as I could come up with regarding faggots. See the level you have reduced me to, hotmail, do you? DO YOU? PUNK?

And my living room is starting to smell like a putrefaction experiment. How old is this sandwich? Does it really matter? Of course it doesn't. Cause I got 180 proof bile that steamrolls any form of botulism or pussy-assed salmonella you can throw down in an african petrie dish, Tyrone.

What in the fuck is up in the hizzy anyway? I have been out of the loop so far and so long that it has no chance of lassoing me back in. I guess it is watching-the-news happy hour time. Thank you, Saturday.

Enter Burnz (looking smug and a little too stuck up. Eating a sandwich and casually swinging a 1000lbs. test chain.): I am totally with you on the Saturday issue. On top of that, I want to add the sick fuck that configured my e-mail processor to auto-capitalize days of the week and the word God. Did I spell it wrong? Naturally it also capitalizes "I" but that is how it fucking well should be. However, while saturday nances all around the town with a can of red paint and a fire hydrant with a condom stretched over it just in case saturday can't find a transvestite he likes it could be worse. He could be named after a celestial body.

In that sentence I was going to say "transvestite hung like a T-Rex" but then I noticed that dinosaur depictions are completely androgynous, lacking any aperture that could be capable of laying eggs or fertilizing said eggs. Are we to believe they spat up or wept out their children? I wanna lift a Brontos tail and see where the damn ovaries be at! Except for the lack of there ever having been a Brontosaurus according to the scientific community. Notice how funny it is that I refer to paleontologists as scientists? We are talking about a group that hasn't told us where the big dinosaurs make little dinosaurs. There is going to be hell to pay when those raptors come in for an abortion (and being reptiles that means we'd get to have a big ass omelet afterwards) and ol' doc Primrose (no relation to blues singer by same name) can't find a place to put the rusty hanger.

Should I be avoiding the abortion humor? It might be a waste. Because it might not be funny. Although I have found that it is always funny when it is you and 14 sex-starved blondes in your choice of male, female, fengrat, percepine, or any of the other 4 genders that will arise from the plutonium I've been tirelessly dropping into all Brita water filters. Then I can find a nice fengrat and we can settle down. Buy a little cottage on the edge of the wasteland and while away our cares making sweet love. Maybe get a dog, or a two headed lamb. Then she can just COUGH ME UP A YOUNGIN' TRICERATOPS STYLE.

Original point being that those Romans that created the calendar could have done a little better. "Name one for the sun, one for the moon, one for the almighty Tuesda, one to celebrate being wed, one for being thurs....'like thursting for the weekend', and one for those kicken' chili fries down at Beef and Queef where you get a free syphilitic hooker with every 13 ounce porterhouse, and then one for sat...cuz you'll just sit on your ass all day.

Now, because it is my site, a long fucking story.So be warned:

What has been going on? Here's the rundown. Girlfriend took a trip for her school (Geology major did I mention? Yeah just when you thought it was safe to call Paleontology stupid...). So while the pussy's away... I goes out Friday a little while back and go to Denver, bout an hour from where I live. Figure I would hit a club, hit a fag, hit a cop, hit the floor, and otherwise strike out. But fate was good to me that night.

Her name is Lauren. Comes in in a long black (not goth, so no worries there) dress. This long, fine hair, and ....wait for it.....wait for it....Fuck Me Boots. Yessir, the leather love of my knee high life, the 3 inch heel FMB's. I'm up against the bar trying to drink until I wake up to find my wallet gone and a note taped to my skull saying "Matt, I just can't live like this. Get some help. I Love you, The Brain". And just as the brain is picking up her suitcase, we see Lauren coming down the stairs and the discussion goes:

Brain: "By tomorrow, I'll be gone Matt. You're killing both of us. I still have some soul left, and I want to pain wildflowers and get fucked by an investment banker."
Me: "Unnnnnnnghhhhhhhghhhhh"
Brain: "Goodbye"
Me: "Whoa....wait a minute. You might want to get a look at this before you go."
Brain:"Oh shit...."
Me: "Holy mother of god shit. Where can I get one of those?"
Brain:"Right there idiot."
Me: "No, I mean do they have them in those claw game machines at Denny's?"
Brain:"God I wish you were gay."
Me: "Why?"
Brain: "First, fags have the taste to go to Perkins. And secondly then I wouldn't have to do all the repression of those nights you are too drunk to know better. Remember Paulo? Esteban? Greg?"
Me: Holds 100 proof southern comfort on ice in one hand and jose cuervo double shot right where he can see them "Okay Mr. Bitchy, you wanna get this?"
Brain: Unlike a woman, learns when to shut the fuck up.

During that exchange Lauren had kinda glanced around the room and sauntered up to the bar. Not really close to me, but not not far either. I slither out and snag a spot next to her. After I drain my glass. And I do it again for good measure. Swagger up, lay my glass down and demand of the bartender "how the hell did this happen?" loud enough for Disneyland to hear me. Little banter with the bartender about my empty glass. Blah blah blah. Drag her into the conversation.
To bartender: "You think sobriety makes you special around here? All right sundance, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day soon I'll be sober, and you will just see what happens then." To her: "Do you believe this? The sheer audacity." Figuring I would get a polite nod or whatever and generally brushed off. Works out good though. She talks. Wackiness ensues. Turns out she was late meeting one of her friends and it looks like they left. They? What do you mean they? A/S/L? Oh, girlfriend from college... Get to talking, she's clever, she's fun, she's straight, she's single. Numbers are exchanged.

Single successful bar hookup for me. I just can't do it man. The bartender trick is a good one, but it is skanky pussy being thrown at you. She was classy and bluntly said there was no way I was getting back to her place that night. Which was when I created a pyrotechnic distraction and jumped through the window, rolled to my feet, slipped behind a pole with my handy dandy tool that is not a toaster, a blender, a slicer, a dicer, or a fat reducing grill. It is the little lotion bottle from a hotel. I satisfied myself and reentered the club just as the commotion was dying down.

She had no idea I had been gone.

Fast forward: Go out later. Meet at a mall halfway between us, then go to dinner. (Black blouse with a steep neckline, white shirt underneath, kinda a gypsy skirt flowing thing, mostly dark colors....and she wore some stuff too). We talk, we drink, we bullshit. We hit that part of the night where you ain't going home, but you are sick of where you at. What does she suggest to me? What does she suggest to me that we do?

She says: Get a handle of Vodka, some orange juice, then just shamble around looking for a park or something and get a little blasted. We ended up back at the mall, but they have a fireplace and a couch there, so it was nice.

I think I got broken up with by the other one though. Gee, whiz. I was supposed to see her but...

Tossed my number to a chick I work with last night, but I think I am getting a big nothing on that. And I was mad charming....even though I might have smelled a little more like the great pumpkin after he has been refined and bottled. Which is one of many drags on my saturday.

Might be getting a new job. Funny thing is it is for a christian organization, and I had to tell them about my personal relationship with jesus christ. I gave them such a line of shit it blew me away. They are testing me this wednesday. Fuck it, I can be a whore for better money and benefits. Sober today, and pissed about it. But I was on such a bender. Wake up feeling like shit. I am just not having any fun or getting any love today. I might just have to have a nip later to take the edge off.

So there, I am quite done.