When Life is Good, You Have to Learn How to Poop

8= the number of minutes it took to get from my house to President’s Street

7= the number of times I yelled, “go fucker!”

13= the number of minutes it took for me to get to hunt valley from President’s Street (17 miles)

1= the number of rocks that hit my windshield and took a nice chunk

1 million- how  many times I’ve laughed about it

 It’s amazing how switching a job can make you not care about situations that would normally make you want to punch a baby. It’s only been four days and I already feel like I’ve had a spa day, got laid, the Caps won the Stanley Cup, and I was on vacation all at the same time whilst simultaneously drinking from a magical hose with a never ending flow of buffalo sauce.  Happiness.

The job is great so far and if my only hang-up is the bathroom situation, and it is, things are good. You see, I’m not a big public pooper. FTS, known as Foreign Toilet Syndrome, is a crippling condition that I share with tens of other people all over the world. Suffice to say, I have a feeling that the people at the High’s (YES! Totally! I know! They still have them in Maryland) down the street are about to experience a jerky shortage. 

What I'd imagine Mr. High looks like and what comes to mind when I think of High's. (This is supposed to be a fucking caption, I'm learning the blogger app sucks)

I mean, I’ll have to purchase something every time I go in to poop.  The alternative? Stock in Immodium AD, or as I call it....preventative vitamins, is going to reach an all time high.

Anyway, being the good former Angelino that I am, of course I visit TMZ.com. You can never leave behind that special kind of sadness and that tragic set of charms that only comes from living in Los Angeles. I need to know what my celebrities are up to. I read this story not too long ago about Bette Midler getting a bad pedicure and getting an ingrown toenail or something. This was the picture to accompany the story. It was only then that I realized, Bette Midler actually looks like a fucking toe. 

I saw this recently too. What dope thought of this? If I wasn’t blind and could play video games, I’d definitely play Atari! “My friends tell me the graphics are the best.” This is how we know blind don’t  have true friends. Just people they think are their friends, but are just giant jerkasses. “You don’t need two people to play Atari 2600…or even two eyes.” I really hope the advertising genius behind this ad is blind and of course still really enjoys playing Atari.

I thought I’d leave you with an inspirational quote. You’re welcome. Enjoy all the different fonts. Blogger app=terrible, F!

Slices of Truth bombs

I was realizing this morning, I've hit the pinnacle of ridiculous and have begun to surpass it. In my head, my age was blinking like a neon light on the block as I reviewed a mental snapshot of myself at that very moment. If you saw a woman driving down 895 shoving pizza in her face, that was me. I glanced over and made eye contact with the guy in the lane next to me, ripped off a hunk, winked, and accelerated. That's how I bring honey to the bees. Honestly though, I still don't understand why I'm single. I'm really nice.

Yeah, I might look like this when I eat,

And this when I wake up,

And this when I try to wear make-up,

And if I had kids they'd probably look a lot like this,

And my drinks look like this.

But I have a sister, who may be prettier, but does this to her cat.

I get why she's single.

And I have a tough guy brother that sews and makes shit like this for his little dog. Married twice.

I just thought I'd pose the question, but a full conversation on the singularity of Parker is like trying to explain quantum physics to Sarah Palin. Utterly fucking pointless. Like this, Selena Meyer often says it best.

Until next time, I'm off to continue my dumbery so that I can have these realizations and useless introspections to share with the masses. Go internet!

© Kimbo

Bad or Great Letters, Truth, Shit, and Unicorns

I'm feeling vulnerable this week so I figured it's a good time to share. I'm not always good at getting things in life, but sometimes things aren't my fault. Sometimes people are sour to you for no reason and you just have to realize it wasn't you. Sometimes, it's totally fucking me. 

I don't always realize things right away, but like two years later, it's like  a wacky inflatable arms guy slapping bitch slapping me in front of a group of kids and no matter how hard I try, there is no escape. They point and laugh, YouTube that shit, and my pain is viral.

Example: below is letter to what was a prospective employer. A financial firm.

*Didn't get the job, but did have two interviews. I figure they just wanted to meet the asshole who wrote this.

So you know, there are things like that. Perhaps I have miscues when the word "creativity" is mentioned in an employment ad. But also, I'd like to spend my life doing strange things with weird people.

Too many things in the news for me to destroy, but I don't want to take the rest of your year. However, am I wrong for having this clip pop into my head after reading about the the 10 year old boy who got suspended for making a finger gun? Plus, I know the feeling of the clumsy man hands so it's also an emotional piece for me.

Anyway, sometimes I feel I write great letters too. While some people go unstable, eat chocolate, and yell at their significant others when they get their monthly,  I write letters to congress. America.

This all has made me hungry for unicorns and doughnuts. I'll be right back...and oh yeah, the rest is shit....no, yeah. Shit. That's your takeaway for the week. Shit.

-FIN-

© Kimbo

Voluminous Butterflies and Human Waste

So there rumor's true. I'm not really that into make-up. Don't know how to apply it correctly, effectively, and little do I care. My friends and family pretty much 'take five minutes' rape me. Oh, don't know what that is?  It's a phrase forced upon me more than a priest to an alter boy. "If you just take five minutes." Well, I started paying attention to ads and trying to take interest. I quickly realized, "why the hell would I want to look like a voluminous butterfly. What is a voluminous butterfly?" I'd imagine a voluminous butterfly would be quite clumsy. I bet they get eaten by clumsy unicorns. I don't know if my mind is in the right place with exhibit A or B.

A

B

Bottom line, when I wear make-up, I look like this.

Now look back at that picture and envision eyeliner that doesn't match up with any eye lines. Lipstick? Forget it. I look like some sort of assy clown. I think it's nice when people tell me I don't need make-up though I really don't believe them. It's how I say, "maybe I'll adopt one day." I don't mean it. It's just a nice thing to say.

When I walked into work this morning, one of the Africans was in the kitchen eating a baked potato. Half, plain, piping hot from the microwave and with his bare hands like something he'd just caught in the wild. I literally have nowhere to go with this, but it was on my mind.

I think a lot. Way too much, but there isn't really a thing I can do to prevent that. I'm like a reverse detective. I notice everything you shouldn't. Things like a bird nest on a street sign, but I never know what the sign says. I do always however, notice super asshole things. Please. Somebody please tell me why every time I visit a big box store(Wal-mart, Wal-mart, Wal-mart to mention a few) there are dirty diapers in the parking lot. Is this necessary? Because guess what? There's a goddamn trashcan 20 feet away next to the cart corral. What? You're too embarrassed someone might find out your baby shits and pisses itself? C'mon man! I want to find their driveways and leave water bottles full of grown human waste from long road trips and see how they like it. Perhaps this is my moment, my time to shine and get into politics. I can start DIPL (rhymes with nipple) the Diapers In Parking Lots movement. Florida'd take me.  I'll leave you with that and this salty nugget for today.

After a long break imposed by a professional request (I know, I heeded. Fucking lame) the blog is back. Under an assumed name, I am creating a new journey and I've gone from Kim on the fringe...eh Parker I mean, and I've transitioned to living life to the dumbest. Because I am. That's what I do. You should only write about what you know.

Moving along. During my hiatus, I passed through my days with a vestige of hope that I didn't punch a jerk or a baby. My days were lifted by reading "news" stories about ER visits for things like three-hour orgasms (never been a problem, but not a problem I wouldn't like to have). Better than staying informed, I read the news to make myself feel better. "Woman Stabbed Spouse With Ceramic Squirrel Over Beer" and "Man Killed Stepfather With Atomic Wedgie," makes me swell with hope. In fact I think, "hey, I'm pretty fucking awesome. I'm going to treat myself to some ice cream." Done. Fat and happy. The atomic wedgie murderer IS pretty cute though.

Well, I'll keep the first one short. The bitch is back. I hope you all enjoy this journey as much as you seemed to like the last one. I'll leave you with something to ponder. When you reach the transcendental level of a goat...ask yourself, could this tragedy have been prevented? *NOTE* Photo blurry for effect to simulate the ghost of the wedgie.

© Kimbo