POLITICAL EMAIL FUN ... BE WARNED!!

I am not a political person. That does not, however, prevent me from voicing my opinion when asked or voting in an election when required. Unfortunately, it also doesn't prevent family, friends, family friends, and strangers from sending me emails promoting their own or condemning others' political views.

One such family friend is pretty right wing. And by pretty right wing I mean extremely right wing. He is an educated man. A medical professional. And not all bad. Sometimes he "accidentally" puts me on his email lists. Below is an email thread that did not start with me, wasn't intended to find me, but as you'll see, I got involved.

Opinions are one thing, ignorance is another. Lucky for me, both tend to be funny.

So these emails are laid out somewhat in chronological order. I added some commentary in brackets.
My email is number 3, but keep reading.

(1) ORIGINAL EMAIL SENT TO A FAMILY FRIEND (intelligent, medical professional) FROM ONE OF HIS FRIENDS:

-----Original Message-----
From: ****@mindspring.com>
To: *******@mindspring.com
Cc: *****@aol.com
Sent: Sat, 16 Feb 2008 6:55 am
Subject: (no subject)

> Mitt Romney and Obama are walking in DC,
> discussing issues, when they come across a homeless
> man in a doorway.
>
> Romney pulls out his wallet, hands the man a business card,
> says " Stop by at this address tomorrow, and I'll see about
> getting you a job." He then hands the man a $20 and says
> I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."
>
> They walk on a bit further, and chance upon another
> homeless person. Obama says "I know how to fix this."
> He gives the man directions to the nearest Welfare office,
> reaches into Romney's pocket, pulls out $20, takes $15 for
> administrative costs, and hands the man $5.
>
>
> NOW YOU KNOW the difference between a Conservative and a Liberal !

[MY COMMENT: not a terribly original joke. It's been around for years, just replace the names of the Conservative and Liberal and there you go. Somewhat funny. Non offensive.]

(2) EMAIL FORWARDING ABOVE JOKE FROM FAMILY FRIEND (again, educated medical professional, family man, church goer) TO MYSELF AND APPROX 10 OTHERS I DO NOT KNOW WITH THE FOLLOWING PREFACE WRITTEN BY SAID FAMILY FRIEND:

---
***** <*****@aol.com> wrote:

that milato wants to raise the tax rate for anyone making over 200K a year to 50% and pay everyone on the lower end of the scale $1000 a year to keep the economy stimulated. if he is elected the country will be come a communist/muslim state with a non productive 5 year program.

(3) MY RESPONSE:

>From: Tom OKeefe
>To: <*****@aol.com>, etc .... [yes i hit REPLY ALL, on purpose]

>Subject: Re: Fwd: (no subject)
>Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2008 11:19:48 -0800 (PST)
>
>I think racism, especially poorly spelled racism, is
>delightfully refreshing when lightly sprinkled upon
>the delicate pastry of political debate. (MULATTO is,
>I'm fairly certain, the term you were going for, and
>yes, while it was an official census category up until
>1930 (thank you Wikipedia) these days its pejorative
>(especially when used to show displeasure for someone)
>which is understandable as the term also means "small
>mule" and was used by slavers to describe certain
>options on particular models (again, thank you
>Wikipedia)).
>
>That being said, thanks for the laughs (thought the
>joke was pretty funny), but please leave me off this
>Huckabee mailing list in the future.
>
>Big kisses.
>
>Tom

[MY COMMENT: I made my point, I think. I was even kind enough not to mention to whole communist/muslim state .. cause how could THAT happen?? Communism doesn't allow religion .. right? But his lack of logic, or facts, or anything intelligent to say, was merely secondary to his racism]

(4) EMAIL RESPONSE FROM ONE OF THE RIGHT WINGNUTS (WHO I DONT KNOW) ON THE LIST

> From: "T** K******" <***************@msn.com>
> To: tmokeefe3000@yahoo.com
> Subject: Re: Fwd: (no subject)
> Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2008 20:11:47 +0000

Who the fuck are you?
And why are you e-mailing me?
And please, keep your kisses to yourself, homo.

[MY COMMENT: This guy is a doctor. Yep. Looked him up. Fought every urge to respond to him, even with a simple "HOW BOUT A HUG DOC?" just so he would know that I know who he is. I didn't because I don't want to burden my family friend's business relationship with this jackass.
This email is frightening for a variety of reasons .. obviously angry about my email, perhaps because he has racists leanings of his own. His ignorance is pretty clear ... "who the fuck are you?" , "why are you e-mailing me?"- maybe if he read the email he'd find his answers. While he may not know who TOM O'KEEFE is, he could look me up, like I looked him up. He'd also be able to put two and two together and realize my connection to the sender or at least realize there was some connection. This is a doctor people. A DOCTOR. How about the fact that he sent this angry, stupid, homophobic email to someone he doesn't know ? I could do many things with it: send it to the hospital he works at; publish it on the web with his name and e-mail address, cause I figured that out; or send it out to my friends who are, in fact, gay and are not, last I checked, racists, and who would love, I'm sure, to flood his inbox with many, many dirty, dirty things. I've done none of these things. Yet. Frankly, he's not worth the effort]

-----------

What does it all mean?
I'm still figuring it out. It is frightening, the ugly opinions that people have. Ugly not because they are different, ugly because they seem based on ignorance and fueled by anger. I'm not anti-conservative here ... cause I've known some liberals to do the same .. no not be racists or homophobes (probably lose their liberal card) but to react to opposing views with rancor, with anger, with ignorance. Why are people so threatened by those with opposing view points? My head is still spinning here. Especially because I find this email exchange to be pretty damn funny, and was hoping this post would easily supply the yuks ... not so much. So I'll let it go for now.

Just wanted to share.

HELP FROM THE EMAIL GODS

OK, so I haven't published the GIANTS piece yet .. its a work in progress. I did, however, have to publish this email I received:

subject "CHANGE YOUR MALE ORGAN SIZE" which I wasn't even gonna open, cause I don't play the organ ...
its helpful, informative, and a wonderful display of how easy it is to destroy the english language

I believe Dr. Alexandra Alpert is the screenwriter of the current film "HOW SHE MOVE"


"Dr Alexandra Albert" Add Mobile Alert
To: tmokhabi_skyyouth@yahoo.com
Subject: Change your male organ size.
Date: Sat, 23 Feb 2008 10:13:56 +0600

Your girlfriend lived you alone for reason of she had done it with your
mate.

For reason of the size of his male machine drove her mad with him.

Lengthen your aggregate and you'll forget about this troubles once and
for all.

Lots of men the world over have increase. Today its your turn.

http://www.tummpraw.com

GO GIANTS

OK the Giants just won and I'm thrilled. F*ckin thrilled!!! An wrote a post about it, about football, about me, and all that crap but I'm realizing I need to let the beer subside before I publish it.

It'll come out tomorry.

For those who care.

And those who don't are prolly Patriots fans.

GO GIANTS!
GO ELI!
GO NY!!!

I HAVE A COLD

Yep, achoo, achoo, I have a cold, how bout chew? Is it a cold, a slight flu? Seasonal allergies? I’m not really sure, I don’t really care. See I’m an actor/writer/comic type fella which loosely translated means I don’t have a job. That being the case, I don’t have to formulate any kinda excuse to stay home today. Now, mind you, I’m not staying at home. No, I’m working. At a coffee shop. Nope, not making coffee, drinking it and tap tap tapping away at my computer. Yep, I’m one of those guys. You know, we sit at the coffee shop, working away on our little lap tops, looking up every once in a while to scan the shop for attractive women, potential agents or anyone we can impress by displaying our creative writing abilities. I’m that guy. It’s sad to say it, but its true and I’m learning to embrace that part of me, embrace it warmly and lovingly and just long enough to possibly smother the shit out of it.

I have been writing since I got here, have only looked up on a few occasions to view the following: (1) the armenian guy who is “writing” it seems but spending more time speaking VERY LOUDLY to his friend “working” on the other side of the table; (2) the salt shaker on the table positioned half way between myself and said Armenian guy, such salt shaker practically begging me to lift it up and heave it at captain “I can’t appreciate the volume of my own voice”, only to be dissuaded by the pepper shaker placed next to him, my own little devil/angel condiment team; (3) the fairly cute brunette woman sitting against the wall wearing too much make up and too much pink and conversing with the crazy lady who just interrupted her to find out “where’d you get that adorable computer ... oh Best Buy I need to check that out “ then after a deliberate pause “they have Best Buy here?” at which time I hastened to throw on my earplugs and take on a very unfriendly “don't fucking interrupt this writing genius” posture so that I don’t have to answer crazy ladies geography questions; and (4) the 2 year old little boy sitting with his mom next to me, working on a scone, probably trying to figure out why his mom would feed him a rock made out of flour while his mom holds him in her lap and gently kisses his head, looking, for some reason, quite sad. I kept looking up at them, stealing glances at the kid as he stole glances at me, never once changing his expression of “who the hell are you mr. and why don’t you have a job.” But they left, so did crazy lady and miss heavy eye shadow, and since I’m now listening to the Foo Fighter’s album at a volume which is likely unhealthy for my cold clogged audio orifices, I can’t really here Captain Armenian Volume ... I say “really hear” cause he is still talking so freaking loud that the pepper shaker is giving me the look of “Ok, I changed my mind, throw the salt shaker at him.” But I control myself and keep on bringing the magic. Keep on writing my rant. Keep on working.

Yep, this is work. Arguably more of a hobby, since last I checked I’m not getting paid for this. But hey, it may not pay me in money, in lira, in euros, hell it doesn’t even pay me in peanuts, but it pays me emotionally right? Right? Cause I feel good. Cause I’m writing this stuff and hey maybe someone will read it and say .. get a job. Or maybe I’ll mine some comedic gold out of it, put it in one of my sets and use it next time I’m stage, performing, for free, oftentimes to a bunch of standup wanna bees, alleged “comics on the rise” or just plain homeless drunks. But we all need clowns don’t we?

See? Now I’m getting negative. More negative than usual. And why? Why? Well cause I have that damn cold. Here’s the thing about a cold ... or more accurately, here’s a couple things about having a cold. Now before I get into it, I don’t want you thinking that I’m asking for pneumonia or bronchitis or some awful viral and or bacterial infection. But at least, at least when you have those sicknesses there is some clear outward physical manifestation of the illness. Your vomiting, your number 2 resembles number 1, your have cold sweats, you look green, people say “holy god in heaven what the hell is wrong with you” which is a favorite exclamation of mine. It’s tough to get out of bed, to walk around, to do anything. So your sick. Just plain sick. Have to stay in bed, get your rest, watch bad movies and maybe, maybe if you get the energy masturbate two or three times not because you have a problem but because you wanna make sure the plumbing's still working. But with a cold, a cold, I just vaguely feel like shit. And as an actor with a tendency towards subtle, slight and fashionable bouts of depression, the feeling like shit doesn’t seem like such a big change for me, especially from the outside. There’s a fine aesthetic line between being in a bad mood and feeling like shit. But hey I do feel like shit and I can’t fake the sneezing, the runny nose, the aches the pains ... man its frustrating. Mostly cause it makes me feel like a weenie. There’s a big part of me saying ... toughen up you loser, ignore it, fight it, overcome, stop freaking bitchin about it. That may not be me saying it, it may be you reading this. But I've got a cold, so I can say, with all due respect, “go f yourself.”

What I find even more frustrating is the “your sick AGAIN!” that I get from “friends.” I put “friends” in quotation marks, because when they are saying this I find them being less than friendly. Cause there’s more than just a little accusation in it .. “what’s wrong with you, why do you keep getting sick, are you on drugs or are you just weak?” So maybe I get a bad cold 3, 4 times a month .. I mean a year. Is it that bad? Maybe it is. I’m healthy otherwise. Had a recent physical, got a clean bill of health. Was very happy about that. Was more happy that the Doctor gave me two little presents before he examined me ... the first was when he told me that, as I wasn’t 40 yet, he didn’t have to check my prostate. Cause celebre, I’m telling you. The second when he explained that they no longer have shove a long, evil looking q-tip up my baby making gun to check for std’s. Nope, just have to pee in a cup for that. But yeah, that “your sick again” man that makes me mad. Cause I try to be healthy. I don’t eat badly - unless you ask my vegetarian girlfriend her opinion on the matter - I work out, I don’t smoke (anymore) I don’t drink (when its inappropriate) don’t do drugs (make me paranoid) and tend to get enough sleep. The most frustrating part is the working out part. I work out allot. Historically, these “working out allot” chapters in my life are somewhat inconsistent. This one has been going on for a good year or so, with variations in intensity. When I was younger, the chapters were prologues at best, which is likely why I was a husky pants wearing fat kid. But now, now that I’m older, and I tend to work out allot, it seems I catch one of these colds right after I up the intensity of my work outs, after I start getting into a good work out regimen, and after I start seeing results. Arguably, maybe my body is telling me ... take care of yourself, don’t push yourself too much, go gradual. And maybe its right. But part of me thinks my body is saying “your fat, you were a fat kid, you’ll be a fat adult, hell you were in college, and I refuse to let you make me non fat. So here’s a cold for you, lay your ass up in bed, eat comfort food, don’t exercise, play video games and get yourself back on the fast track to husky jeans.” But fuck that cold, I’m gonna rest, maybe play some video games, maybe I’ll ease up on the running or the boxing or the weight lifting for a couple days, but then I’m back at it. As god as my witness .. I WILL NOT WEAR HUSKY JEANS AGAIN. Do your damnedest, come at me, I fear you no more.

As a side note, why do we say “catch a cold” like we’re out looking for it. Let’s be honest, the cold caught me. I wish she would just give it up, but she keeps on coming back, every couple months, bitter and angry that I got rid of her and always failing to accept that I never really wanted her to begin with.

So yeah, I have this cold, this slight cough, this runny nose and I’m feeling bad about it. As my sister would say, I’m throwing a little pitiful pearl party for myself - whatever the hell that means. As far as the “friends” who will pose the “your sick AGAIN” question/accusation if I mention my ailment, maybe I'll just ignore their calls, or take those calls and respond with a healthy “yes, thanks for the concern, why don’t you go fuck yourself.” When they counter with a “well you don’t have to be rude,” I can respond with “I’m sorry, its the cold talking, and by the way the cold says those pants make you look fat and you’d never make it on American Idol and your choice in romantic partners consistently leave much to be desired.” Oh cold, you mischievous scamp.

I’ll leave this coffee shop, go back to bed, try to leave myself alone and get some rest. And maybe, maybe, like any good psychotic ex-girlfriend who I make the mistake of sleeping with, she’ll be gone in the morning and I won’t see her for at least a couple months, or the next time I do something stupid like stay up all night and get loaded.

If I Could Talk to the Animals ...

My friend Sean, host of the "look how cool technology and the future and shit is" website (http://hubber.blogspot.com/) is often sharing fanciful stories of the future with me. No, he's not a science fiction writer, start trek geek or scientologist, he works for this pseudo think tank like place called Institute For The Future, or Institute of Tomorrow, or Place where guys smoke dope and talk about what’s to come. Many of these stories are not products of his over active imagination, but rather factual accounts of other people's work. He has his finger on the pulse of the future or up the nose of the future or, I'm pretty sure, scratching the ass of the future. But he knows things and some of these things he tells me. For example, I was sad to find out he does not think cars will fly, that we won't have jet packs, and there's no foreseeable cure for the Irish Curse in the near future. But what will the future hold? Sean told me that some sick bastard is developing technology so that humans can speak with dogs and cats. Which makes sense - in an age of rapidly growing poverty, civil unrest, genocide and overall stupidity how can science better contribute to the world then making it possible for us to speak with our dogs?

Now I'm sure the people at PETA are all excited about this prospect so that the little four legged furry critters they've been devoting their lives to can finally turn around and say "thanks, thanks for all you've done." And I hope, just a little bit, that our grateful canines also manage a "now that I can speak for myself maybe you should go and, I don't know, grab a shower, get a haircut, save yourself." No, no, no, I'm not here to rail on PETA people, I think most of what they do is good and sound and in light with God's plan or Man's plan or someone's plan that I as of yet have not been made privy to. But I'm all for the ethical treatment of animals, of plants, and in some cases people. I do, of course, have issues with fanatics. Fanatics of any cause be it animal or vegetable or mineral. Thus, if a vegetarian chooses to be as such for ethical or health or celebrity reasons I'm fine with that, I'm just not a big fan of being persecuted for eating a hamburger. Maybe I shouldn't eat a hamburger, maybe I should try a veggie burger, or maybe just not eat. Maybe I should try and get such burger from a farm that treats its animals with dignity before they kill them, perhaps giving them a 21 gun salute before cracking their skulls. But don't try and tell me that its just flat out wrong to eat animals. Here's the thing, if you can show me a Lion on the Serengeti opting for a bean patty over a tasty gazelle maybe, MAYBE, I'll buy the "animals shouldn't be food" argument.

But holy crap I'm getting off topic. Allow me ...

So yeah, someone's inventing a Dr. Doolittle machine. Not sure its the actual name of the invention or "process" or "system" but it works for me. This is a frightening prospect isn't it? Now if this invention will merely monitor, calibrate and then "explain" the vocal sounds and behaviors of animals, translating them into likely commands or expressions .. as in "I'm hungry," "I'm thirsty," "I just shit on your bed," then it makes sense. Doesn't make sense that one would spend the time and money on such an invention cause, despite the increasing prevalence of animal therapists I think dogs and to a lesser degree cats are fairly easy to comprehend. But, BUT, BUUUT, if this invention could somehow allow animals and humans to communicate like, well, like humans .. well then prepare yourselves my children cause the end of the world is near.

Its a difficult concept to comprehend, but then again so is the celebrity of Ryan Seacrest. The fact is, lets allow ourselves to believe it COULD happen. Believe that animals could communicate with us, that we could communicate with them, that we could understand each other. Sure, sure, most animals have tiny little brains and would be unable to handle the higher functions of reason, deliberation and complex communication. Perhaps those animals could run for political office, star on a reality show or keep Paris Hilton company. But assuming they could talk .. really ...REALLY TALK .. well for fuck's sake I'd think that pretty much proves there is no God. Why? Cause what's the next step? Animal equality? Animal suffrage? Maybe, maybe .. but what's worse .. WORSE ... bestiality would take center stage on the world consciousness.

Now come on, I know your thinking .. "gross, now your just trying to get a rise out of me." And I agree, it is gross, its ungodly, its unspeakable. But if discussing bestiality gets a rise out of you, get help, go to a therapist, stay the fuck away from my dog. But think about it, THINK ABOUT IT. Those who practice bestiality, those who think about practicing bestiality, those who can't get human dates, would start fighting to legalize it. Their argument ... "IT WAS CONSENSUAL."
I know, I know, its sick and twisted and wrong but you know, YOU KNOW, some backwater, white trash, troubled soul will be exploring his options with the neighbors dog on some lonely, hot, sticky summer night and convincing himself that the dog was totally into it cause in his opinion, be they dog or human, "no really means yes."

And why stop there .. why stop with the disgusting concept of animal human sexual congress, lets go further to animal/human love, animal/human marriage, animal/humans in the baby carriage. I don't think anyone wants that, and if they do, excuse me for saying so, they should be put down like Old Yeller. But they'll be out there, forced underground (though not forced underground by the sweet and swift hand of death) to form sad, sick membership organizations such as NAMALA - The North American Man Animal Love Association. Groups that, lets be honest, deserve to hold their meetings at ground zero on a nuclear test site. And despite how awful their desires, how grotesque their dreams, how offensive their mission statement, the ACLU will be right behind them, defending their asses in court.

So, yeah, the Dr. Doolittle machine, maybe that shouldn't happen.

TAG I'M IT

I've been tagged. No, a savvy street punk hasn't snuck up to me in ninja fashion, brandishing a spray paint can rather than a lethal dagger, and used my body or my possessions as a canvas for some new truly inspiring depiction of his or her name or "handle" or whatever the hell they call themselves. I've been tagged, as in "TAG YOUR IT." Thing is, I wasn't playing TAG as far as I can remember. I haven't played that game in quite a long time. As a child I was never fond of it. And by "it" I mean the game as well as being "it." Cause what "it" is or was or is supposed to be was never really explained. All I knew is that I had to avoid the person who was "it," if that person did in fact touch me I then became "it," everyone would avoid me like the plague and the only way I could get rid of such plague was to tag someone else, making them "it," then running away - completing and perpetuating the viscous circle of "it"edness which never, never ends.

Despite my clear distaste for the game, today I have been tagged. Via cyberspace. Through a blog, of all things. I had been working up my own theories as to why blogs, in and of themselves are evil, and now, NOW I have proof. My dear friend decided to tag me, blind-sided me, "called me out" so to speak. Here she is ...http://myysocalledlife.blogspot.com/ ... with friends like this ...

So here's the deal, I'm supposed to reveal 7 secrets about myself, then tag 7 other people (preferably bloggers) so that they can continue to spread this personal information virus. What will happen if I don't do this? Will some creepy, pale black and white preadolescent emerge from the image of a well on my tv screen and inexplicably kill me before I say "how can you emerge from such a shitty movie?" if I don't tag someone else in 7 days? I don't think so. Will I be subject to the scorn of little miss "my so called life" - prolly, but likely not much more scorn than I already deserve. But hey, as she said, I need some new material, and I aim to please. I especially aim to please attractive women. Some may say I aim to please, sometimes hit the mark, only setting my self up to serve as a major disappointment to those attractive women in the sometimes far, sometimes near, always inevitable future. So here I go.

Who will i tag? Don't know lots of bloggers, but it seems that everyone on MYSPACE likes to prattle on endlessly about their lives, their loves, their overwhelming need to expose those things best left private - so I'll tag a couple of them. In fact, they should be reading this .. so here's the tag for the following persons ....
EDEN, MICHAEL, ALICIA, CHLOE, MARISA, MICHAEL O, and BEANSIE who also happens to have a blog linked here .. THE PITTS CREW .. my dear friends - enjoy yourselves. Let the circle of the game of life of tag or something or other continue bringing us all within its downward spiral as it creates a giant sucking vacuum of information bound to unite the entire cyber universe in one big gigantic digital yawn.

MY SEVEN SECRETS

(1) I am not wearing pants. That is not true, I am actually wearing pants, I just like to say "I'm not wearing pants." Making such a statement is really only effective on the telephone or at the computer when the recipient of such message has no way of knowing whether you are actually wearing pants. Of course, the statement is somewhat effective if told in person, but usually only if the speaker is, in fact, not wearing pants. Truth be told, if that's the case, saying your not wearing pants when you are not wearing pants is fairly pointless, since most discerning eyes could or at least should perceive another's pant less or non-pant less wearing nature. So if I am wearing pants, what's the secret? The secret is I like to prattle on about nonsense. If you know me, then you know this is not really a secret.

(2) I have a wedding gown in my closet. Again, if you know me, you prolly know this already. So you know I was engaged to be married .. strangely enough I was engaged to be married on JUNE 19, 2005 - two years ago today .. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. You also know that I called off the wedding. You also may know that what I did was the right thing, unless you happen to be of the school of thought that "the right thing" is getting married to the wrong person, trying to tough it out, then hiring a divorce attorney to make all that ugly bad marriage stuff go away. Not me. Anyhoo, I have a wedding gown in my closet. Actually the closet in the office, the spare room. Spare room, spare wedding gown. The real secret may be - why the hell I still have it? I'm not sure. I may use it in a show I'm writing. I may keep it as a trophy. I may keep it so I can try it on if I ever reach my target weight (ok, that's a lie, she was a size 1 people). So what's The Secret? Besides a book and video by some Aussie woman that gives easy to swallow pat answers for the question "how can I have everything I want without working for it?" .. no this secret is, I don't know why I still have her wedding gown in my closet.

(3) I'm not nearly as confident as I appear. I know, you've read my blog .. surprise to surprise.

(4) I will always see myself as the fat kid. Yea, you may see me as that too. Damn those last 5 to 10 lbs. They follow me around like they're on my ass. And if you know me, you know they are not on my ass, because I'm Irish and as an Irish man I have no ass. It drops off like the continental shelf only its not as firm, its not as deep, and it is not nearly as interesting. But I was a fat kid - wait ok not true. Not compared to kids today who are on the verge of morbid obesity. I was neither obese nor morbid - hell I was desperately afraid of death .. I thought the Paul McCartney tune "LIVE AND LET DIE" was actually "LIVING MEN DIE" and it scared the hell out of me, as well it should, cause it is a true statement. So no, I wasn't obese, I was chubby. I was stocky. I wore husky pants. HUSKY PANTS. My pant size was neither large nor extra large, it was DOG. And while I seem to be of average size (keep the Irish/penis size jokes to yourselves) I'm softer than I'd like to be, something I work on, but I'd be stretching it to call me fat - in the realistic, living in the now, obeying the laws of physics and gravity sense. But in my mind, yeah, fatty fat fat.

(5) I'm a pussy. It's true. My therapist called me a pussy last week. Now, mind you, he meant it as a compliment. So yes, I paid a man $120 to call me a pussy in an effort to make me feel good. Sounds wrong doesn't it? In his defense or my defense or the defense of something, I called myself a pussy first. He tried to use it as a compliment, meaning that I am sensitive. I'm a sensitive guy. The problem is, or the good thing is, or hell the thing is ... I'm partly sensitive and partly alpha male or insensitive or an asshole, however you wanna describe it. And sometimes these two sides of me battle it out and the insensitive side calls the sensitive side a pussy and the only way I can handle the inevitable fall out is to pay $120 to some beverly hills therapist to tell me, I am not insane. I don't know, perhaps if I was sane I wouldn't need to pay someone to tell me that.

(6) I've recently realized that my parents aren't and weren't perfect. Now there's a lot of you out there who rebelled as children, always questioned your parents, railed against the machine. Not me. I was a good boy. I was a smart boy. I was a momma's boy. Clean cut and polite and smiling in my Husky sized pants. Now, through the help of the therapy described above and the benefits of time, I realize my parents weren't and aren't perfect. There are things they did regarding the creation, educating and molding of the questionable piece of art known as ME that I wish they would have done differently. They couldn't, of course, because they are who they are and were who they were. But its odd to sit back and reflect on the job your parents did, when the job they did was you, and think .. "oh yeah, you fucked that up just a little."

(7) OK, here's the big one, the big secret, the big confession:

I play .. well I've been known to play ... Ok this is hard to say, don't judge me, shit here we go ... I play World of Warcraft. There, I said it. I'm ashamed.

There you go gang. More than you prolly needed to know about me. Here I lie exposed awaiting your judgment, and scorn. I also await your own deep dark secrets. Upon reading those secrets I will excitedly await the next time I see you in person so I can embrace you for the total, complete, HUMAN human being that you are - and while I embrace you, you will know that I truly know you, that I truly love you, and that I am totally mocking you behind your back.

It may not be funny but it may prove I'm losing my mind

OK, so yeah, I'm publishing another MYSPACE survey I answered. I know its neither interesting or insightful, but sometimes I do it to get my "writing juices" flowing ... I know, that sounds gross. I have been writing lots of stuff and NOT posting it .. don't cry, you'll see it soon enough. But I'm posting this because it may very well be evidence of me losing my mind. Not necessarily the answeres laced with bitter humor that just scream for me to get professional help, but the fact that this morning I wrote this, and just looking at it now, I don't remember writing the answer to 13. Not the last part of it. I honestly don't remember writing that ... but I know I did. So, yeah, losing my mind.

Speaking of losing my mind, I'm reminded of one of my favorite freak out movies .. JACOB'S LADDER. Why am I reminded of it now, do I think that my day to day experience is merely my mind going through its final death throes .. no, because "CLIMBING JACOB'S LADDER" by Huey Lewis and The News was just on the radio and ... hey, its Huey Lewis.

OK, have fun.

Take comfort in the fact that I deleted half of this ridiculous survey.

DONT WASTE YOUR TIME WITH THIS ONE

1. Describe your ex in two words:

HULK ANGRY

2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
Yeah the pen-knife. It allows me to hold in my hand the timeless debate .. "is the pen mightier than the sword" the answer is yes, especially if the pen is also a sword or knife or something sharp you can poke somebody with after writing them a letter saying "your a jerk."

3. Look at your planner for May 14th, what are you doing?
Coming over your house. OK, that's a lie, I won't be going over your house, I'll just STILL BE THERE, cause I'm there now, outside, with my pen-knife, writing you a letter. I'm just kidding, relax, I left my pen-knife at home. Brought my pencil-spoon though. So I can draw a sketch of you like Jack made of Rose in Titanic, and afterwards we can, you know, spoon. Isn't that romantic? If you like that, I'll show you my crayon-fork, we can color pictures and then, when the moment hits, we can ... i don't want to spoil the surprise.

4. What does the 4th text in your inbox say?
"Go screw yourself - mom"

5. What was the last thing you highlighted?
I highlighted my growing insanity by getting wildly drunk, showing off my private parts and shaving my head. No wait, that was britney spears.

6. What color are your bedroom curtains?
Sex color. That's right. The color of sex. Or the color of lonliness. I get confused. Oh wait, now looking at them, yeah, they are the color of tears. Wait, there's something in my eye.

7. What color are the seats in your car?
I hate this question. I refuse to answer this question. Why do you care what color my curtains are or car seats are or that I'm color blind and can't tell and you are just freakin mocking my pain and my handicap and that's not cool and not funny cause for the love of god this isn't SOUTH PARK and its not always funny to make fun of people. Grey.

8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
I had a black cat and I had a white cat and they lived together in harmony. Though one time, in the heat of an argument the white cat said something derogatory about the black cat and all of a sudden Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson showed up complaining and trying to get the cat's on Oprah or something and I said, listen guys, nobody wants to hear about a couple of pussies arguing with each other so just go home.

9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
Me. I tried to mail myself to someone who would love me. Even stamped FRAGILE across my forehead. But I was returned to sender cause I didn't have the proper postage. And as I was returned to myself I realized, I did get mailed to someone who loves me ... ME. And isn't that a great lesson?

10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
People live in Wyoming? Weird.

11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
Cause its fun to do. I do it all the time. Sometimes naked.

12. Who was the last baby you held?
Baby Jesus. Held him in my heart. Then, like most babies he cried a little, spit up on me and pooped his pants. Kind of tough to keep holding him, but what else can I do?

13. Do you know of any twins with rhyming names?
If I did, and the parents also made them dress alike, I'd have to go up to the parents and smack them both on the head. Multiple times. Till they cried so much the twins would start laughing. Then I'd give the twins new names. I'd name them both after me.

14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste
Like it? I love it? I'm gonna marry it. We're gonna have very tasty plaque free children.

15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
The kind with wheels and doors and a prostitute inside.

16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida Gators
Nitany Lions.

17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
That would be last year, when I was "asked to leave" because the guy dressed as Bugs Bunny when he would dress up like a girl bunny was "freaking me out" and, strangely enough, I started dancing with him, but the park "security" said that my "kind of dancing" was lewd and unwelcome in the park and that I "should get some professional help," so I'm taking funk classes taught by J-Lo's ex husband's housecleaner's husband's girlfriend.

18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
Yeah but I don't know where it is. Oh there it is, on the wall. And on the floor. And the ceiling.

19. Closest thing to you that is yellow?
Your cowardly heart. And my crayon-fork, its yellow.