Engrish

Ever wonder why you don't see many overweight Asians? Well this pencil case from Japan may have something to do with it!

People are so quick to blame Joe Camel for popularizing smoking in America's youth, but just think of how many Asian kids have to go to therapy as a result of marketing ploys intended to ridicule fat kids. Psychological disorders are much harder to control than smoking habits.

Aside from all of that, it is kind of a funny little thing to see.

Thanks to engrish.com for the image!

Enemy of the Blog

I've never thought much of people who use blogs as a means to bash people they don't like, but I will use my "double standard" card this month to talk about my boss. For the sake of anonymity, I will refer to him as 'Craig.'

Craig is a forty something year old aging queen who can't seem to dress age-appropriately. He wears hideous shirts and tight pants that accentuate all the wrong parts of the human anatomy. He even does the faux-hawk, which can only be successfully worn by Abercrombie models. He doesn't turn brown when he tans, he turns red - so he always looks like he just ate a cartoon hot pepper and smoke is going to come out of his ears. Craig also loves the sound of his own voice, so he talks for hours about stupid shit that happens in his life. Every conversation ends up being about him in some way.

One of my coworkers had a death in the family recently. When I told Craig about it, he said:

"UM... OK, AND?"

I know everyone deals with death in their own little way, but condolences are universal. I just think he's a total douchebag for reacting that way.

Death by cheez-it

When I got home last night, I was so hungry that I ate everything in sight. I had rice and corned beef, but that did not satiate my monstrous appetite so I reached for some cheez-its. I like to be completely naked when I eat because I'm a messy eater and I hate to get food on my clothes. Suddenly, I start to choke on a jagged cheez-it. I was coughing and gasping for air, but the one thought that raced through my head was "PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!"

Tripping over my gym bag, I grab the first shirt that I see and I put it on backwards. I'm still choking and coughing. Then I debated whether or not I should put the shirt on correctly. After about 45 seconds, I managed to swallow the cheez-it and I collapsed onto the floor. I was laying there, face down with my head in the shirt and my arms not in the arm holes. I didn't get any shorts on so I was half naked and gasping for air.

I've always had a fear of how I'll be found if I were to die alone. That's why I don't chew gum when I'm masturbating anymore. LESSON LEARNED!

How the worm has turned!

When I was twelve, I spent a year in Guam with my grandparents. It was a tropical island with beaches everywhere, a booming tourism industry, and extremely cute military personnel. I went to school with my cousin Michael. We're the same age, so we had the same classes and rode the bus together and all that jazz. I was the good boy and Michael was the spawn of Satan. He'd steal cars, he was in a gang, he lied, he cheated on tests, and he stole money from his parents. I always told him that he'd end up in prison someday as I threw my head back and chuckled with my perfect report card and the admiration of my family and his.

Fast forward thirteen years. I live in Chicago with a so-so job, $200 in my bank account, a handful of friends, and a studio apartment. Michael is now living in San Diego as a criminal justice lawyer. He lives in his own condo and I think he drives a Camaro. What the fuck, dude?!??! He was stealing cars while I was studying for my history test and why am I the one begging mama for money every month to help me with my rent? Is Karma not the biggest bitch? I guess I shouldn't have laughed at him when he got jumped by two ganster girls after PE that one day 13 years ago.

THAT BOY!

I think the 'nice boy' route is starting to pay off for me. I'm starting to feel like a true Chicago boy now that I'm seeing people out on the street and at places I frequent. I'd be walking along and I'll say hi to the security guard at the bank, then I'll walk past the coffee shop and all the baristas will look up and wave to me. I can just imagine the theme from "That Girl" or "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" playing as I strut and prance down Clark Street.

(sung to the theme of That Girl)
RaInbows, cock rings, lattes, THAT BOY!
Night clubs, yoga, soap stars... is THAT BOY!
He's soft like rabbit fur!
He's everything you wish you were!

One of the reasons why I love Chicago so much is that a gay boy can be gay anywhere he goes and it's all the same to everyone. In Houston and San Francisco, you get beat down if you're gay in certain areas of the city. Meh!

Citizens of Rome, Lend Me Your Rears!

I have a new favorite miniseries! Since Showtime cancelled "Dead Like Me" and HBO cancelled "Carnivale," I have been apprehensive about starting up another devotion to a drama. I've been watching "Rome" for quite a while now, and I am very impressed by the detail and realistic look. Once you ignore the fact that the italians have british accents, it's actually very compelling.

Full frontal nudity, bloody battles, sex on the side of a road, a creamy young lad named Octavius, sex in the village, political struggles, and sex in a brothel are just a few of the gems that make this show watchable. I'm glad that people are acknowledging the fact that sex was an important aspect of the decisions people made in the past.

If you get a chance to check it out, Rome airs Sundays on HBO. I'm crossing my fingers in hopes that young Octavian is going to have a homosexual experience with Titus Pullo.

Nazi Twins

I was watching Primetime Live on ABC last night and the first story was about these two 13 year old bitches who sing about white supremacy. Their names are Lynx and Lamb and they go around spreading messages of white power as they do the Heil Hitler gesture to a crowd of dozens. I'm not worried about these whores because they can't even sing. If they had voices like Charlotte Church, then I'd be quivering in my pumas!

One thing I found interesting was the fact that their hurricane relief kit never got used. They included a note in their kit saying that it was intended to only help white people. Thankfully, the workers chucked it away and it now sits at a novelty store that sells other racist merchandise.

It just sickened me when I saw the people cheering for them. I would never cheer for someone who can't carry a tune and has dry, unmanageable hair.

Gattaca Revisited

I can't wait until genetic engineering becomes accepted in our society. Forget all of the moral and ethical issues, because chaos and disorder are natural constants in this universe. We need to get this world to a point where we can compete with other worlds for a bid on universe popularity. I bet that somewhere, far away, an alien race is looking at us and laughing. We're the laughing stock of the Milky Way Galaxy and no one wants to do anything about it! No one, that is... except me!

Once we utilize genetic engineering and stem cells, we can totally make ourselves smarter and stronger than before. While we're at it, we can study George Bush's DNA and make sure that similar strains won't ever come to full maturity. Ugh. Jenna Bush. Blargh.

The main reason why I am concerned about this topic is because I saw a picture of Heidi Klum's baby. I almost died of shock. Tomorrow, I'll post a picture....

Go With the F.L.O.W.

I think that we should resurrect certain shows from the 80s, put a gay spin on them, and put them on the gay networks. One idea I had was to remake G.L.O.W. (gorgeous ladies of wrestling) into F.L.O.W. (fabulous lads of wrestling). Picture cute boys in campy outfits piled on top of each other in a wrestling ring. I do realize that I just described the plots of about forty gay porno films, but you get the idea.

I would really love to be on a show like that. I can be the ambiguous ethnic boy from an island in the Pacific with puka shells and mango juice. My name will be Mango Fandango and my signature move will be the Tropical Punch. I'd be pitted against an equally hot young Irish boy named Blarney Barney. The side story is that we're both secretly attracted to each other and we hide our animal lust by masking it with contempt. Mango Fandango will be in his dressing room one night after a fight and Blarney Barney comes in all vulnerable and loopy from drinking too much beer (because Irish boys love their guinness!). So Mango has to pretend to fight off Barney's sexual advances and they end up holding each other - their undulating bodies motioning toward a climax the likes of which the gay world has never seen! Two young men from opposite ends of the globe releasing months of tension in one moment of pure ecstasy...

Then Mango kicks Barney out of his dressing room and the rest of the wrestlers giggle when they see Barney stumbling out, covered in Mango juice.

From Tennesee, there would be Memphis Bill, whose signature move would be the Tennessee Twister. I can think of so many others! Darkthorn Ravenbottom and Icelandic Ivan will also be featured wrestlers. The point is that resurrecting 80s shows is the way to go. If you can think of a way

Kiddies, kiddies everywhere - bad ass kids, but don't depsair!

A big congratulations goes out to my girl GWEN! She just got a promotion and she just transferred to another theatre in Houston. Gwen kicks major ass when it comes to being ghetto fabulous. If I were a straight thug, I would totally make armies of babies with Gwen. There's nothing cuter than a Blasian baby in a stroller with his or her HOT ghetto fab parents looking all good with their bling.

Once I stop being all crazy, I think I'll make a good father. My kids would never be on an episode of Super Nanny. I just can't believe that kids can get that bad. It made me sick when I saw that little bebe kid biting, hitting, and talking back to Super Nanny. Now I'm not a racialist or anything, but have you ever seen a Filipino kid talking back to their parents? Have you seen a Filipino kid leave a dinner table without finishing all their food? Have you ever seen a Filipino parent cook food according to what their kids prefer? I rest my case.

Here's my plan to bring about a better tomorrow where kids are concerned:

1. Introduce contraceptive Louis Vuitton purses - it will be a special leather that secretes orthotricyclen into the woman's skin. That'll prevent the yuppies from multiplying.

2. Bring back the open handed slap - The next time a child tells their parent to shut up, anyone in the vicinity has a free pass to send that kid flying across the room with a SMACK!

3. Clone Super Nanny and have one in every household - She can whip the kids into shape and dad can have a nice voluptuous british vixen to ogle. Everyone wins!

4. Reunite the Spice Girls - Haven't you noticed that the world hasn't been the same since Geri Halliwell left the group? This one is more for my benefit. But it's still necessary.

5. Appoint certain children as supreme leaders of other children - Let's face it. Some kids are just better than others. My nieces and nephew are FANTASTIC and cute as well. So are Joe's nieces and nephews. Could it be that they've all got some Filipino in them? Interesting!!!

ZZZZAP!

I decided last week that I did not want to be a slave to the anti-depressants. I want my happiness to be genuine, not drug-induced. My doctor told me to take 15 mg of Paxil every day instead of my normal 30 mg. Two days after I start the decreased dosage, I began to feel like lukewarm diarrhea. My energy levels dropped, I'm dehydrated, my appetite was all over the place, and I started getting this 'detached' feeling. It was as if I was the star of a movie and someone was watching my DVD but the DVD was all scratched up. I'd be walking and suddenly I find myself about 10 feet from where I thought I was. It's sort of like the concept of "missing time" that alien abductees experience. Sometimes my mind would skip around for a few seconds, and sometimes I'd skip whole chapters. At any rate, I knew that no scratch remover could help me out.

The most disconcerting feeling I'm going through is the periodic electric shocks. It's like someone is following me around with an electric prod and shocking me at random intervals. I just hope I don't get a really bad one while I'm walking up a flight of stairs. That would be uber embarrassing. I always keep condoms and lube in my gym bag (just in case) and it would be weird for the paramedics to find that.

If you know me and you hear that something bad has happened to me, please inform the officials that there is nothing wrong with carrying cherry flavored lube and that I'm allergic to penicillin.

Phrases I Hate Hearing

1. You are SO predictable!

2. You know what your problem is?

3. What are you thinking about?

4. I love Ashlee Simpson!

5. I'm married.

6. We're out of crab cakes.

7. Soap operas are gay. Pass the lube.

8. I don't watch television.

9. What ARE you? (in reference to my nationality)

10. Do you like that? Huh? (during sex)

Cletus and Brandeen on the CTA

I saw one of the hottest men on the train this morning. He had the kind of blue collar look that's turned me on ever since I lived in Texas. His skin was very tanned, probably from working in the sun all the time. He sat next to his girlfriend, which means he's straight and that turned me on even more. But then the girlfriend pulled out a McDonald's bag and they both began to devour the entire breakfast menu. The hot guy was taking gigantic bites and talking with his mouth full of food. Then the girlfriend started breaking off parts of her McMuffin and feeding it to him. His mouth was still full of food and I caught a glimpse of the half-chewed McGriddle mixing with the McMuffin. They totally reminded me of Cletus and Brandeen from The Simpsons.

I did my best to hold down my breakfast, but then he started using the monopoly game piece to pick his yellowed and crooked teeth. It was like watching a trainwreck in slow motion. I just couldn't take my eyes off of them. He started to bite his nails and they began to bleed, so he asked her for a napkin. She picked one up off the floor and he used it to wipe his mouth and soak up the blood on his finger. Blargh! Then he just left the McDonald's bag and the bloody napkin on the floor as he proceeded to read the Red Eye, or as I like to call it... "The Yokel Herald."

As if he and his girlfriend couldn't be any more gross, he snorted his phlegm and SWALLOWED IT! Then he wiped his nose with his hand and looked at it. Thankfully, I was getting off at the next stop. I made a mental note as to where the nearest trash receptacles were, in case I had to suddenly vomit.

Ah, I love public transportation!

Dream Dates, Happy Plates

My ex-boyfriend Sam was featured in an article in this month's Instinct magazine. He was the guy who went on a date with the guy who got stood up by his blind date. I usually have bad experiences with my exes, but I wouldn't dream of trashing Sam on my blog. We parted as friends and we're still friends. I wish I could say the same about other men I've dated. Ahem, *BRADLEY*

I've always wondered what it would be like to go on a blind date. I would think that the success rate of gay blind dates is kind of low. I don't often generalize or stereotype, but I get one "double standard" card a month so I'll use it today. A lot of gay men are very closed-minded when it comes to dating. It's always dinner and a movie or coffee at the Starbucks. I don't want people to see me eat on a date. It's not a pretty sight. I will fuckin devour every last bit of food on my plate just like I did when I was a kid. Mama always wants a happy plate! And movies... who wants to sit in the dark and stare in one direction for two hours when on a date? That's the kind of stuff you do AFTER you start going out because it gives you time to catch up on sleep or fantasize about being a WW2 fighter pilot. You can't do that fun stuff when you're interacting with a guy.

When I'm out on a date, I like to demonstrate the full spectrum of my "Richie-ness," so we'll do something that I really suck at doing, followed by something that I'm really good at doing. That means we'll go to a karaoke pool hall because I can't carry a tune or sink a ball, then I'll shag his brains out.

Miss Cleo ain't got NOTHIN' on you!

I know a girl who always tries to finish my sentences because she thinks that it'll make me think that we share a cosmic connection. Her name is Julia, and she can get quite annoying when she starts up with the whole empath thing. I'd be telling her a funny story about some stupid thing like what I had for lunch:

"Yeah I love sushi, but I felt so weird after eating it because I usually have it with..."

"Wasabi?"

"No, with my friend John. We used to have sushi every week in Houston. It makes me miss him even more.."

I really WAS going to say wasabi, but I changed it to "my friend John" because I didn't want her to think that she was right. That would be her signal to do it ALL THE TIME. Good lord, can you imagine having to endure her guessing game during every conversation? Let's not forget the fact that she's interrupting me, and I hate it when people interrupt me. It's just rude. Only monkeys interrupt people when they're talking.

I guess I'm being too critical, but I just wonder why people do that sort of thing. It's not like I give out prizes if you can tell me what I'm going to say next. She should go on The Price is Right. Then maybe her guessing skills will be put to good use. In the mean time, I will have to continue altering my stories to make her wrong. It's tough love, trust me! Would you rather I tell her to shut her big bazoo and let me talk? I'm not one of those interrupting monkeys you see at the zoo.

I Was a Teenage Shaygetz

I'm a big hit with my Jewish friends. Last Tuesday was Rosh Hashanah and it reminded me of being in Houston with them. If there was a movie about my life in Texas, it would have been called "The Fornicating Faygala." I loved being with a Jewish boy. Something about gay Jews makes me really hot. Maybe it's the nose. Maybe it's because their kisses tasted like rugalach. Whatever it was, I couldn't get enough of them. This weekend, I think I'll go up to Northbrook to hang out near the temples.

Speaking of noses, Ashlee Simpson was on SNL this weekend. Whenever I see Ashlee Simpson, I want to douse myself with gasoline and set myself on fire. She is so... blargh. I just can't stand her. People say that I'm jealous of her, but I'm not. I'm jealous of Mariah Carey because he can sing and dance and looks drop-dead gorgeous. Since Ashlee Simpson has none of those qualities, I can't be jealous of her.

She was totally lip syncing both of the songs because she was jumping up and down and marching in one spot like a soldier on crystal meth who just had a really bad nose job. The vocal track was totally the same and you couldn't hear her taking breaths. She had the mic up against her mouth so it was hard to see it. Ugh, I can't believe I'm analyzing Ashlee Simpson like this. I'm such a shlemeil.

In the name of the Mother, the fear, and the sinning son... hey, men!

So I'm talked to my mom yesterday to thank her for the money she sent me and she starts telling me that her new husband is bipolar. I think she's getting back at me for the time when I told her I was gay. I didn't know how to react to the news that my stepdad is a ticking timebomb of emotions, so I decided to tell my mother something that would trump her bipolar card. I said: "Mom, I'm a Buddhist."

Note to self: Never ruffle the feathers of a hardcore Catholic who just sent you money.

I've always had a problem with the Catholic Church. Why do they have to be so scary? I don't think any other religion uses fear to keep its followers. Think about it... look how huge the old cathedrals are. They're gargantuan structures with scary chandeliers, uncomfortable seats, bitter wine, and a choir of young and ripe boys waiting to be plucked. Well that last part isn't so scary.

But then there's that one thing that Sunday school teachers and desperate parents use to control their kids. It's the Catholic failsafe called Hell. I can't count how many times I've heard the phrases "Don't touch your no-no spot or you'll go to hell!" or "Don't swear at church or Satan will take your soul!" or "If you peek at the boys in the locker room, you'll go to gay hell!" I bought into the whole "Hell" thing for a long time, then I realized that Hell is a state of mind. Like when I have to listen to my boss talk about her cats. That's hell.

I don't go to church anymore. I'm the biggest sinner in the family and I'm sad to say that the fear conditioning they imposed on me has stuck. I'm afraid that I'll be struck by lightning if I come within ten feet of a church. As long as the lightning bolt doesn't impede my ability to deep throat, I'll be fine.

Woah baby!

I have a feeling that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' baby will be the harbinger of the apocalypse. I'm a little bit psychic and I got this uneasy feeling when I heard that she was going to have a baby. It's that feeling like when you know that the mexican food you ate is definitely going to come out of you in the worst way. It's that latent premonition that you'll be on the crapper, cringing in pain and bracing yourself against the sink and the wall.

Scientology children will definitely be outcasts in the real world, so they'll have to go to a special scientology school. I imagine the teachers wearing druid cloaks and it's gonna be like "Eyes Wide Shut" meets "Harry Potter." There will be virgin sacrifices in fourth period, right after a lecture on alchemy in the north wing.

It is kind of hot to think about Tom Cruise having sex. He's got one of the cutest asses, even though he's nuttier than a payday bar. He'd be too scary to have as a boyfriend. You couldn't have nice furniture because he'd be jumping on it and prancing about in his underwear and a pair of shades. "Tom! Get off that sofa! This is why we can't have nice things!" I'd like to have Prince William as a boyfriend. You can tell that he'd be a huge sex machine because proper british gentlemen just love their afternoon shag sessions. And he's related to a queen, so he won't have a problem having sex with this one. Ha ha. Mmmm... royal sex.

Red Sox, White Sox, all I care about is cocks

My brother-in-law is from Boston and I live in Chicago. You can imagine the hell I'm going through having to deal with him hounding me about the rivalry between the Red Sox and the White Sox. He calls me up and yells "RED SOX BABEEEEEE!" and I'm like, yeah whatever. I live on the north side, so I kind of have to be a Cubs fan... but to be honest, I'm a Giants fan. I used to go to Giants games when it was called Candlestick Park. Now it's 3com park or something like that. Wouldn't it be funny if Trojan sponsored a sports arena? They'd do condom demonstrations on baseball bats.

Although the sound of a sports announcer giving the recap of the day's sports makes my head hurt somethin' fierce, I was able to watch the recap last night while I was folding my laundry. Then they showed this average joe commenting on the White Sox, and he kept saying "we" like HE had something to do with the victory. He was all stocky and gross and the only popup he'd seen in his life was in a pastry shop. I'm sick of people taking the credit for what the players do. Fans have gotten so over-the-top lately that they're starting to make the teams look bad. Remember that guy who interfered by trying to catch the ball at the Cubs game?

I'm perfectly happy sitting with my beer, oggling the men in their tight uniforms. Baseball players have the hugest bulges in their pants. Yes I have a one-track mind. What's wrong with that?

Word Play

People say that nothing rhymes with 'orange,' but they're wrong. Just read this short little poem that I wrote:

I had a winter coat,
a lovely shade of orange,
and I ripped it when it caught
on the stupid broken door hinge.

This has been on my mind since I saw that children's show, "Pinwheel," on Nickelodeon. One of the puppet children was going ape shit because he kept saying words that rhymed. Hey, I actually think that rhyming is cool. Everyone should do it. But the woman who was with the puppet had to go and fix everything for him like Bush tries to fix other countries. She told the puppet boy to say a word that doesn't have a rhyme (orange) and he was cured. There's a rhyme for EVERYTHING. You just have to think outside the box.

COUCH - SLOUCH
TWINKLE - SPRINKLE
CHLAMYDIA - NAMIBIA (hey, close enough!)

Yeah, uh huh

People just talk to me in foreign languages, expecting me to understand what they're saying. I have the sort of "ethnic" look that gives people enough comfort to bombard me with foreign tongue. I'm all about foreign tongue, don't get me wrong! Especially when they wiggle it. Ha ha. Ahem.

Anyway, this woman starts speaking to me in Spanish while I'm waiting for the walk signal at the crosswalk. I expected the light to change really quickly, but it didn't. I just chuckled in response to what she said and I hoped the light would change over so I could walk away without being rude. Then she says something else and it seemed to be a question, so I just shrugged and said "eh..." like I was unsure about it. Then she laughed and started talking some more. She finished up with a big laugh and I pointed to her with my hands like two guns and went "ah!" And she got a big kick out of it. Apparently, we had a whole conversation and I didn't know what we were talking about.

The ability to form responses based on a person's intonation and body language is invaluable in the world of gay men, especially in a bar or club. If you work it the right way, you can get yourself invited to a nice little three-way with a circuit boy named Jake and his roommate Miguel. I met Jake and Miguel in Houston a few years ago at a club. The music was so loud, but Jake kept talking to me. I didn't want to be rude, so I just pretended that I heard what he was saying and nodded or shook my head. Before I knew it, we were on our way back to his place and Miguel was there half dressed. You can imagine what went on next, so I won't bore you with the details.