Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The Definition of Stupidity

Being the ringleader of a pack of retarded cokehead Guidos, then punching one of them in the face when he spills cranberry juice on your little white Diesel sneakers.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Joys of Strangulation

“Why are you here?”


“Here. I mean, right here. Why did you come over here?”

As usual, I have no understanding of their lack of appreciation for spacing. Bad things happen because of an inexplicable disregard for proper spacing, which is a shame because bad things are all so very avoidable when you try hard enough to have some modicum of regard for someone other than yourself.

People need to keep their distance from one another. This is something they mostly don’t realize until it’s too late and things have gotten out of hand. It’s too late when they’ve worked themselves close enough, for long enough, to irritate the shit out of someone to the point where that someone feels an uncontrollable compulsion to do something in retaliation for this perceived loss of personal space.

In other words, Guy Who Sat Next To Us And Ended Up Getting Choked For His Troubles, it would’ve been best, last Saturday night, if you’d simply sat down on the opposite end of the sidewalk, as opposed to plopping yourself down, unsolicited, in the midst of a group of unwinding bouncers who’d just finished working a rather tense shift at a rather tense club.

In other words, have some awareness of your fucking surroundings and stop being an irritating little fuck for once in your miserable fucking life.

See, some conversations aren’t meant for strangers to blunder into and comment on. Some conversations happen to be carried on between people who know each other. These conversations are called private conversations. When you happen upon a private conversation, especially one involving a group of dangerous men, it’s probably best not to object to the content you overhear. Most times, it’s even more judicious to simply move on.

I’ll make this very simple.

This unfortunate young fellow wandered into our conversation at a point where a black bouncer was using the “N” word to relate a story. The fellow in question told said black bouncer – who is also a professional fighter - not to use the “N” word. He was then – very magnanimously, I might add - given every opportunity to go away (see above) - a series of opportunities on which he failed to capitalize. He promptly informed us that we were all “fucked” because he was “half Puerto Rican,” and “nice with his hands.”

For my part, I asked his girlfriend why she’d want to be seen in public with a young man who’d say things like, “I’m nice with my hands.” This seems as though it’d be more embarrassing than anything else.

This, evidently, caused him to spit at me. As a result, he was given an introduction to the virtues of proper public spacing.

As usual, this didn’t need to happen.

Monday, September 17, 2007

The Program

I'll be back, starting tomorrow, with regular posts. Seriously.

For now, if you want to learn how to train like an athlete, click here.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


I've been busy as fuck with work lately, but things have settled down a bit and I'll (really) be posting here more often. If you've emailed me and I haven't responded, it's because I haven't had any fucking time to myself over the past three weeks. If I owe you a free book, you'll just have to believe me when I tell you I'm mailing them out soon.

I don't have a staff to do this shit for me, so please bear with me until I have the time -- and inclination -- to buy envelopes, address them to people and pay for the damned shipping. I'll try my best to get them out as soon as possible, and I sincerely apologize for the delay.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007


When we were younger, this crazy drug dealer used to come around thinking I wanted to buy weed. I have no idea why he thought I wanted weed. I had never bought weed from him. I had never even smoked weed. Still don’t, in fact.

This crazy drug dealer didn’t know my name, so he used to walk around yelling for me, thinking I would come running to get my bag of weed:

“Yo, Money! Money, where you at?”

This is something we laughed about together because nobody else was there to hear it when it happened. The crazy drug dealer was there, too, but something tells me he wouldn’t find it quite as funny as we did.

Until September 11, 2001, there were two of us who understood the “Money” joke. Now it’s just me, and six years later, it still sucks.