October 15, 2007

The Traveling Dingleberries

Courtesy of the benevolent OO-Josh, we took off to Shenandoah Park for the day, despite some trepidation on my part. Was great to escape from the city, and the weather couldn't have been any better.

Left bright and early Sunday, hiked a few miles, and found these huge rocks on a cliff to chill with some cool masc buds and katydids. We were alone for most of the day; no one else passed on the trail we took. Very tranquil. Titan Men should consider using this location for their next flick. And if a fluffer is needed, I'm only a two hour drive away.

Noted:

* Jimbo can discern bear droppings. A skill he learned camping at Lazy Bear 2004, I suppose.

* Craigslist is the new Manhunt. Manhunt is the new match.com. And match.com is over.

* Paul Krugman is a bear.

* What exactly did Katy do?

And here are some photos from our trip:

Hootie & the Blowfish, or Rob, Jimbo, Josh:

Rocks, trees, Mr. Bill:

Rocks, trees, blue sky:

Rocks, trees, blue sky, homosexuals Josh & TJ:

The Watcher in the Woods:

Rocks & Rob:

Rocks, trees, "foliage":

'Sup, masc dude chillin', seekin' activity buds:

Posted by durban bud at 01:25 AM | Comments (25)

September 06, 2007

tourette's

A friend let us stay at his place in LA while he was out of town. He lives in an apartment complex where everyone has their windows open. He failed to mention his neighbor has tourette's. He also failed to mention that most places in LA do not have air conditioning -- which is problematic during a heatwave, but that's another story.

Anyway, we began hearing loud noises that sounded like a cross between a scream and a hiccup. Hmm, very strange. We found out who the culprit was when we were leaving the complex one afternoon. A woman was in the small swimming pool in the front of the building. We heard her scrippup a few times as we walked by. And then we heard her say, "Fucking faggots!" Typical LA "attitude".

Incidentally, Rob thinks I have a mild form of tourette's or tics. Not sure I agree. Butt fuck! He complains that I blurt things out in the middle of the night, like "fanny" or "turd burglar". It's really just cuz I need some attention. Sometimes I say, "I love you," but he says I'm being disingenuous cuz he's trying to sleep. Well, wake up and let's chat about it. Communication is key, they say.

We all have mental tourette's; we're just better at suppressing the urge to verbalize it. I mean, how often have you instantly thought, "That lipo totally didn't work for you" or "I wanna taste your taint" or "Gurl, get some White Strips" or "Angry, toxic, judgmental lesbian!" I, of course, never think those things cuz I'm a man of God, but most people do, sadly.

People with tourette's are just more honest; the rest are tactfully disingenuous. So the next time someone calls you a fucking faggot, say thank you, cuz it's probably true.

Posted by durban bud at 01:28 PM | Comments (4)

September 04, 2007

Entourage

I had the chance to meet Bill Clinton during his last year in office. I turned the opportunity down.

A friend of mine -- who worked in the government and several Democratic campaigns -- called and asked if I would be willing to drive a vehicle in the president's motorcade during one of his appearances in Baltimore. Obviously this was so pre-9/11. I would be driving one of about ten vehicles. All drivers would then get to meet and have their picture taken with him, if they hadn't already.

Um, yeah, that's prolly a bad idea.

I didn't have a problem with the background check and whatnot, but visions of me accidentally running over some pregnant woman and slamming into the president's limo, were weighing heavily on my mind. And the video of this horrific scene would be repeated on CNN, BBC World News and Animal Planet all month. And my parents have been embarrassed enough.

Plus, I would have to wear a suit.

At the time, I rarely drove anywhere cuz I got rid of my car, so reacquainting myself with the road -- in a strange vehicle, in a strange city, and with the fucking President of the United States outside my window -- was a bit daunting. I said no. It was for the safety of our country, trust me.

But I would love to meet him someday. He was smart, and I miss smart.

We make fun of Miss Teen South Carolina for butchering a question, but we kinda elected an older version of Miss Teen South Carolina as our Miss Teen Commander-in-Chief, twice. Bill Maher has the proof.

Posted by durban bud at 11:06 PM | Comments (7)

May 10, 2007

Kermit Goes to Rehab

Since I don't listen to the radio except when in a car rental (not PT Cruisers!), I have to find other outlets for new music. I'm finding the majority of new music I've downloaded I discovered on Letterman. That's where I first heard Brazilian Girls, Shiny Toy Guns and Amy Winehouse. The gays love Amy Winehouse. I assume it's because of her tattoos and blatant alcoholism. I'll admit she is a refreshing voice and style compared to all the shit forced upon us lately.

I went to visit my cousin in rehab recently -- it's a popular trend, y'know -- and listened to Amy's anti-rehab song on the way there. There's some irony there, I think. It's a great song, nonetheless.

My cousin's mother emailed me this link and asked me what I thought it meant. She said he showed her this video before he left for rehab. Hmmm. I'm glad I'm the go-to guy for self-destructive muppet themes. Anyway, it's awfully depressing and probably not a good thing to show a concerned mother -- although it's surely interesting.

Speaking of kermit, our favorite sexpert has tipped us off to this new term:

kermit
"*To kermit is to run away screaming, with one's arms flailing above one's head. The etymology should be obvious."

I have seen this behavior firsthand. One drunken evening a few years ago, I got talked into doing karaoke at Badlands. A bunch of drag queens had just performed a number of Celine Dion ballads, and were very serious with their execution. I got up on the stage and "sang" Green Day's "When I Come Around". I cleared the room. Boys were kermitting out of the place. One drag queen threw her compact at me.

I haven't done karaoke since.

Posted by durban bud at 12:51 PM | Comments (10)

May 09, 2007

Money Laundering

If you could scratch and sniff that photo of me over there, you would likely smell Mountain Fresh Downy probably mixed with a little BO.

I don't wear cologne, but am routinely asked why I smell so lovely and fresh. I wonder if I may be using too much fabric softener. The other day a sales clerk, standing a good 3 feet from me, asked, "What are you wearing?" "Um, Bounce, I think."

When you live with someone, you take on various domestic duties, obviously. One of my roles is the clothes launderer. I don't clean the place very much -- cuz, apparently, I don't do it well. Whatever. That's fine. See - I'm not so anal, ironically.

Anyway, I highly recommend the launderer role. It's a fantastic way to make a little income under the table, while sifting through your partner's pockets. I've made hundreds throughout the years. Shhhhh. I look at it as God's way of tipping me for doing an outstanding job washing someone's man panties. Or maybe it's The Ssscret, continuing to reward me financially.

Sometimes you'll find gum - which is gross. Other times you'll find phone numbers, condoms, pills, "baggies", ben wah balls - all of which make for riveting dinner conversations - but mostly you'll find tens and twenties.

So if you're at that stage in your relationship when you're deciding on roles (cooking, plant caregiver, top, bottom, toilet cleaner, prison guard, inmate, etc) -- make sure you choose the launderer gig. You'll be richer for it.

Posted by durban bud at 09:14 AM | Comments (14)

May 08, 2007

Carrie Underwood Promotes Vandalism

While at the car rental place the other day, some woman with a thick Boston accent had the audacity to say, "We have a number of PT Cruisers available if you would rather rent one of those cahs." What a bitch. Do I look like I would drive a hearse? I just glared at her, hoping she'd realize the error of her ways. Eventually she did.

We got into our normal car and began our tour of New England. I did something I haven't done in years; I listened to the radio. Apparently, there are only about 5 artists out right now. It's no wonder regular radio is on its way out. Here is what can be found at any given moment on the radio: Akon, Pink, Justin Timberlake, Nelly Furtado, Gwen Stefani and Carrie Underwood. Within two minutes, I heard Carrie's song playing on 4 different stations. It gave me time to listen to her lyrics:

"And he don't know...
That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4 wheel drive,
carved my name into his leather seats.
I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,
slashed a hole in all 4 tires.
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats."

Someone needs some anger management classes. Wasn't her last song some Christian inspirational ditty called, "Jesus Take the Wheel Cuz I've Had Too Many Wine Coolers" or something? Now she's encouraging vandalism. What would Jesus think? Would you key his sandals if he did you wrong? Whore.

A couple other lines:

"He's probably buying her some fruity little drink cause she can't shoot whiskey." Cuz "shooting whiskey" is so sexy. Lush.

"She's probably up singing some white-trash version of Shania karaoke." You've just defined yourself while insulting your entire audience -- though they won't understand that.

She's a future Proactiv spokesperson who's causing damage to millions of trucks, SUVs, and PT cruisers around the country. Someone needs to stop this Walmart-loving egomaniac.

I'll probably download her song later today.

Posted by durban bud at 07:50 AM | Comments (9)

April 25, 2007

The Tragic National Zoo

Once again I got suckered into a family outing at the tragic National Zoo.

Here are some photos of the animals from my excursion:

The conditions at the zoo are abysmal, at best, and the few animals that showed their faces looked like Farrah Fawcett from The Burning Bed, only furrier. They looked beaten down, emaceated and depressed.

A number of the larger animals (bear, lion and elephants) all behaved in a non-stop back and forth pacing manner -- reminiscent of Holocaust concentration camps, where victims were forced to move rocks from one place to another, and then back again. I get that they're extremely bored, but this behavior leans more towards a brain disorder from a lack of something.

They're currently rebuilding an area for the elephants, which is great, but, for some reason, the elephants are still there, and the giraffes are gone. They shipped the giraffes off to the Tampa Zoo during the construction - I wonder how the hell you transfer a giraffe all the way to Florida. What kind of container do you put them in? Wouldn't they bump their heads on a highway bridge? And you know when they're ready to bring them back to the National Zoo, the giraffes are gonna be all, "Bitch, I ain't goin' back to Auschwitz."

I did manage to see an orangatan -- I learned the correct spelling is actually orang utan. I did not know that. I thought I would mention that before a certain pretentious gay blogger points it out. Anyway, he or she got its face very close to the cage, barfed something red and started eating it, using a stick as a spoon. They're very efficient with tools, y'know.

A number of animals died in the zoo from 1999-2004, which led to the appointment of a new director. Someone posted this to the Wikipedia entry about the zoo: "In 2005, the National Zoo appointed a new director, John Berry. Under his brief tenure, political celebrities such as Bill Frist (R-Tenn) and Senator Stevens (R-Alaska) have been seen regularly touring the zoo." No wonder the animals are depressed; idiots with bad toupees are patrolling their hood.

The National Zoo is one of the oldest zoos in the country and the conditions reflect that, but, in the best interest of the animals, maybe it's time for a complete overhaul. Send the animals to a happier zoo for a year and start over. Start charging an entrance fee to pay for it. It will prevent your nieces and nephews from asking, "Why are there no animals at the zoo?"

One animal I did see, that's not dead yet, is a meerkat. They're much smaller than they appear on Meerkat Manor!

Posted by durban bud at 10:26 PM | Comments (20)

December 26, 2006

Rocky Dennis Balboa

I accidentally punched a black girl in her boob today. I was in the security line at the airport, taking off my coat, when I heard a loud thud and a muffled gasp. Her face looked 16 years old, but her huge hips and mammoth mammaries suggested a 50-ish Patti LaBelle. I felt bad. I apologized profusely and wished her a "Merry Christmas," as she massaged her bruised bosom.

I'm sure she'll have a nice welt on her titty later in the day. I imagine her standing in front of a full length mirror, naked, inspecting the damage, while cursing my white ass.

Finally on the plane, a Middle Eastern baby cried the entire flight and then vomited. The cabin became infused with the scent of parmesan cheese with a hint of mint and parsley, not exactly Christmas-y.

Babies should be stowed neatly in the overhead compartments or in cargo. If not, they should be given a sedative injection during pre-boarding, maybe something called Infantiphine. It's only fair, and I'm sure it would save a lot of grief for the parents as well.

Anyway, I went from one of the most culturally diverse places to one of the whitest places in America, New Hampshire, to visit the in-laws. Most people don't realize that a small portion of New Hampshire actually borders the ocean, and they do have large beaches. So here are some pics from the short trip to prove it.

I imposed the 3-Day Rule, so I had a fantastic time. Rob is the masterful photographer.

This is Portsmouth, NH, one of my favorite small towns in the country. Cute, progressive, cool, hip, fun, charming. I would move here if it weren't so cold.

This is William Whipple's home. He signed the Declaration of Independence, and subsequently asked people not to squeeze the Charmin.

I have black eyes and can't see.

Posted by durban bud at 09:42 PM | Comments (12)

December 21, 2006

Me Wrap Pretty One Day

I thought I had finished all my Christmas shopping, until I woke up this morning, startled, cuz I remembered my sister has THREE kids. I really wish she would keep her legs closed; it's costing me a fortune. Luckily, the third one is only 2, so buying for him is easy.

So I walked down to the convenience store to buy a jar of apple sauce. When I walked in, there was no one there. I got what I needed and went to the register. Still no one there. I yelled, "Hello!" and stood there for a moment. Two little eyes peeked up from behind the base of the counter. Scared the shit out of me. Her hair was a mess. It was the Korean Lady. "I'm uh so uh sowwy. I'm uh so tiwed." I looked over the counter and saw a little makeshift bed she had made for herself with blankets on the floor.

I guess business was slow today. Geez.

I spent the rest of the day wrapping presents. I'm not a good wrapper. At all. It's embarassing. And my sister always points this out: "Guess we know who this gift is from."

She thinks I should know how to do this well.

She's like: "I don't understand why you can't. I mean, you are gay, aren't you?"
"No, I just told you guys that to make dad cry and get the black sheep label from the family."
"You're weird. Anyway, my gay friends all wrap beautifully."
"Well, I'm not like most gay guys. Don't worry, me wrap pretty one day."
"Huh?"
"Ya know, David Sedaris?"
"No. I figured you would have gotten the gay gene for beautiful wrapping."
"I didn't get many gay genes; I hate musicals too. I didn't get many straight genes either; I hate NASCAR and fixing shit. OMG, maybe I'm transgendered!"

So I finished poorly wrapping the gifts, and took them down the street to my favorite little mail service store. Raj, my new Nepalese friend, always takes good care of me there. He did manage to reprimand me for waiting until the last minute to ship it.

"Where does the package need to be sent?"
"Denver."
He smiled.

I hate Christmas.

Posted by durban bud at 04:59 PM | Comments (10)

November 19, 2006

Five-Alarm Phone Sex

A friend of mine had phone sex with a blogger while he was in his car, parked in front of an apartment building. Apparently, he shot a big load all over himself. Then he noticed the sound of sirens. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a number of firetrucks heading his way. Covered in his own semen, he reached down to pull his pants back up. Five firetrucks stopped in front of the apartment building. He was sandwiched between all the trucks and couldn't get out. So there he sat, alone, scared, stuck -- with sperm dripping from his forehead -- a product of his own sinful lust.

I told him that phone sex is so 1990, and that phone sexing with a blogger, especially, signifies the lack of a moral compass.

He chastised me for including his name in one of my earlier posts. A bunch of his co-workers at his new job googled his name and my post was the first thing that came up. So now they all think he's a slutty alcoholic who has an affection for curb-dropping his friends when he gets horny. I love blogging!

Which leads me to this...

If you're introducing me to strangers at a party, please do not introduce me as a blogger. It's a sure-fire way to kill a conversation. He did this recently, and the look on people's faces was as if they smelled rotten cabbage. They looked at me with pity, until one of them said, "I don't read blogs." I said, "Most people don't." He added, "But if I were to read your blog, what is it called?" Naturally, I said, "The Sean Show."

Posted by durban bud at 03:09 PM | Comments (4)

November 14, 2006

I Once Gave Crabs to a Black Man

I feel kinda stupid. I heard on the news that a bunch of people were coming to town to unveil the new Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial on the mall today. First I thought, um, I didn't know they were building it; second I thought, wow, this is a fantastic opportunity to use my durban bud powers for good, instead of evil. I will take my camera down to the memorial and take photos for my three readers. I will educate them!

Sometimes I take for granted where I live. I am surrounded by pretty carved rocks and shit, and yet I rarely notice them. I sort of lump all that stuff into the "touristy" side of DC, and ignore it, sadly.

Most people fail to realize DC is full of beautiful neighborhoods too, all unique in their own way; lots of amazing architecture, outdoor cafes, fine restaurants and theatres, etc. All the happenings in the government, and the stuff you see on TV, tend to overshadow the actual "city" of DC.

It's rare to spot a tourist in my neighborhood, except, of course, for the gays; they're easy to spot: rainbows on clothing and/or HRC store bags.

I did all the touristy stuff when I first moved here; now when people come to visit, I tell them to enjoy the sights and call me when you're done.

My parents came a couple years ago, so I took them to see the cherry blossoms. Of course, a huge wind storm hit the city a week earlier. I still took them down to the Tidal Basin to admire all the pretty twigs. When we were down there, we stumbled upon something called the FDR Memorial. Who knew?!?

I live a mile away from the White House, and a couple miles from the Capitol, the Lincoln Memorial, the Supreme Court, all the museums, the Vietnam War Memorial, WW II Memorial, and the Eagle; yet I never visit them anymore. I probably should.

The Washington Monument is a sight to behold when you're returning in a plane from a long trip. Nothing says "Welcome Home" like a giant, rock hard dick pointing up to the sky.

The FDR and Jefferson Memorials are my favorites. The Jefferson Memorial is so beautiful at night. It's kinda romantic there, a great place to go on a date and get felt up, fyi. I hear there are lots of boys holding hands and pot smoking.

Anyway, I wanted to take some pics of the new MLK Jr. Memorial until I realized, it hasn't been built yet! Rob broke the news to me when I asked for directions. What the dilio? Shouldn't they wait to bus in all the celebrities until it's time for the big reveal?

I'm glad I didn't go down there. I would have been like, "Oprah, so where is the memorial, and why are you holding a shovel?" And she would have been all, "It hasn't been built yet, dumb fuck." And I'm all, "Don't get snippy, Oprah."

So you won't see any of my photos until 2008, should my blog last that long. Perhaps I'll take some photos along the way, but that would mean I have to venture, like, a mile away, into tourist land.

I guess I need to observe my surroundings more, cuz I do live in a beautiful city (despite, of course, all the gang-bangs, murders, corruption, thefts, rapes, parking drama, cab drivers, angertwinks, mismanagement, DMV, pollution, STDs, George W Bush living down the street, whores, property taxes, crystal meth, attitude, bitterness, bad public schools, high cost of living, traffic, humidity, and the vast multitude of weiner dogs)!

So in the immortal words of our dear Star Jones:
"Take a little time to enjoy the view."

Posted by durban bud at 12:32 AM | Comments (8)

October 12, 2006

The Boxers

My life is a sitcom and I am Andy Dick.

I was running late to a meeting, so I hurried to get ready. I took a quick shower and started to get dressed. I dug through my boxer drawer to find a pair to wear. Apparently, I have been lacking in my laundry duties, as I couldn't find any. I dug deeper and found an older pair I rarely wear. I put them on, got dressed and ran out the door.

After walking two blocks, I felt something odd. My already baggy pants were falling down a bit; so I pulled them up, but I could still feel a cool draft on my upper ass. Um, WTF? Uh-oh. My boxers are starting to fall off. I reached in my pants and pulled them up. Well, that lasted for about a block. The elastic band was no longer elastic. At all. My man panties or "manties" were falling further and further down south the more I walked.

This wouldn't really be a problem if it wasn't so obvious from the outside. With the boxers completely fallen off my ass and having nowhere else to go, they bunched up in my crotch. Again, not a big deal; however, it wasn't just my crotch that contained a nice bulge. It was my ass too.

The street was filled with people, so the idea of reaching in my pants to pull them back up was off the table. Instead, I continued walking with what appeared to be an erection and a cottage cheese ass. Whatever. I finally reached my destination.

Since I was already running late, I bypassed a bathroom to remove my manties and went directly to the elevator. Taking my pants off was not an option at this point. There was no one else in the elevator so I reached in and attempted to rip them off. I made some progress, but the elastic band was posing a problem. I continued yanking the band, trying to get it to rip some, and hoping there was no security camera in the elevator.

I reached my floor and the elevator door opened. I quickly tucked my torn boxers back in my pants. Again, cottage cheese city. Luckily, no one was around. I put my foot by the door so it wouldn't close and take me to another floor. I reached back in and continued pulling the elastic band. It wouldn't budge. I was able to tear off the rest of the manties. I threw them on the floor so I could use both hands to continue ripping the band. It was quiet. No one around.

I gave up with the whole ripping thing. Since the elastic band was now completely stretched out, I decided to pull it up over my head. It might have made more sense to push it down over my pants, but I'm not always that bright, especially when I'm running late.

As I pulled the band up over my face, I looked up and noticed an African-American woman standing at the elevator door. I froze with the band now on my forehead. She gave me a look of horror. I smiled and said, "My boxers were falling off, so I decided to rip them off." Huh? That made no sense. She said, "Would you like me to leave you alone?" "Um, no. This looks bad, doesn't it?" "Well, let's just say it looks unusual." She smiled. I really had no way to explain this away. I pulled the band off my face, grabbed the torn boxers on the floor, smiled at her and exited the elevator.

I am never going back there.

Posted by durban bud at 12:05 PM | Comments (11)

September 07, 2006

The Korean Lady

The Korean woman who runs the convenience store down the street loves me. I made the mistake of telling her that I like the new Diet Coke with Splenda. She ordered a bunch of the 2-litres specifically for me. Well, apparently Coke has ceased making this version due to poor sales, at least that's what she told me.

I walked in today to buy whatever caffeine product I was in the mood for. There is a huge line at the register. She sees me and starts yelling, "WE HAVE SPLENDA FO' YOU! IN CAN!" I'm startled, "Huh?" "WE HAVE SPLENDA IN CAN IN BACK! WE FOUND FO' YOU!" She stops checking people out and orders one of her kids she holds hostage at the store to go to the refridgerator in the back to bring me some. People are clearly annoyed and staring at me. "That's okay, I don't really ne--." The kid who must be 9 years old goes to the back and brings out a large box." "SEE! WE FOUND CAN FO' YOU!" I walk away and hide behind some jars of pasta sauce hoping she will continue checking people out. She is still yelling. Please stop.

The store eventually empties, so I come out of my hiding place and head to the register. I feel obliged to purchase the large box of cans. "WE FOUND FO' YOU!" She is still shouting even though I am like a foot away from her. "Thank you. You didn't need to do that." "Well, we know you love-uh the Splenda." Great. Nothin' like being known as the boy who loves his Splenda.

As she's ringing me up, I notice a bunch of bags filled with a yellow liquid for sale by the register. I pick one up to investigate and see a pickle in the bag. I make a look of disgust on my face. She notices and says, "Those fo' black peoples."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Those fo' black peoples. They love in bag."

"We have pickle in jar fo' you over there."

Oh dear. I have no idea how to respond to my little racist friend.

"I make pickle in Korea. They so good. I make you some. I bring in recipe fo' you so you can make."

"Yeah, um, I don't think I want to start making pickles. Thanks."

"Oh, you no like pickle?"

"No, I like pickles. I just don't need to make them." I can't believe I'm having this conversation.

"I make good pickle. They vedy, vedy cispy. So vedy vedy cispy."

"Oh, I do love them crispy," I add for some odd reason.

"I bing in recipe fo' you! So vedy cispy."

I smile and leave.

If I go in there next time and she has a huge line and YELLS at me that she has my pickle recipe, I am never going back.

Posted by durban bud at 01:14 PM | Comments (6)

August 11, 2006

We Are The 80's

I just saw Loverboy perform on Regis & Kelly. Aging sucks. They sounded good, but the lead singer now looks like Violet Beauregarde from Charlie & the Chocolate Factory.

I saw them in concert back in the '80's. I remember pumping my fist to "Lovin' Every Minute Of It", and then someone threw a beer bottle at me, so I stopped.

I used to go to a ton of concerts in the '80's, mostly with my friends, Pam & Reenie.

I went to see Ratt with my sister and a couple other chicks. They insisted on standing near the front of the stage. I told them this was a bad idea cuz we'll get separated, and won't be able to really see the show with everyone standing in front of us. They insisted. We all got separated. Towards the end of the show, I saw my sister being hoisted over the crowd. She didn't look happy. Her Jordache jeans were ripped, her mascara was all over her face, and her nicely permed hair turned into some sort of afro. Told ya so.

My dad took me to see A Flock of Seagulls and Billy Idol. I wanted to look hot for the Billy Idol show, so my mom used her curling iron to give me that oh-so-cool feathered hair look. It was a nightmare. I must have been the youngest kid there, and the only one with a parent. My hair was ridiculed, and my dad became increasingly uncomfortable as Billy Idol masturbated onstage.

I saw the Bangles with Reenie. I asked her who was opening up for them. She said, "It's some group called TBA. I've never heard of them."

I saw Heart a number of times. I still love them. Pam used to crank and sing along to "All I Want To Do Is Make Love To You" in her car. I think she did this to let men know that she is available and kinda slutty.

I saw the Thompson Twins and OMD. That was my first exposure to a gay event. Before the show, I asked the hairdresser at Haircrafters to make me look like Corey Hart. I brought in a picture of him (which is the photo up there ^), and said, "Make me look like him." She ended up cutting my ear with her scissors. I let out a blood curdling scream. She laughed. I had to wear a band-aid on my ear to the show. I looked nothing like Corey Hart, but I did wear a bunch of O-rings. I am was such a fag. The drummer chick from the Thompson Twins gave me her drumstick. I still have it. By the way, Corey Hart was so hot.

The 80's. Good times.

Posted by durban bud at 10:26 AM | Comments (12)

July 10, 2006

My Search For Winona Ryder

I had a surreal dream last night; I dreamt I was hanging out with Tony Bennett and Joey Ramone. Only it wasn't a dream, it was a flashback.

In my silly Things You Don't Really Need to Know About Me post, I referenced my former republican roommate. He was a secret service cop, and he took his job very seriously, maybe too seriously.

He always felt the need to "protect" me. I'll give you some examples:

We were watching TV one evening when we heard a noise outside our patio. He took his gun out and told me to "get down." I complied as he went out to investigate. It was only a rat.

After a night of heavy drinking at a local bar, I knocked over a chair that was on a table as the bar was closing. The bartender rushed over to see what the commotion was. My roommate took out his badge, shoved it in the bartender's face and said, "I'll take care of this."

Another evening, we were driving down a quiet street when a few teenage boys pretended to throw something at my roommate's camaro. God forbid, you fuck with his camaro. He put on the brakes, told me to stay put, lept outside and confronted the hooligans. He flashed his badge and began frisking the unsuspecting teens. I was mortified. He said, "You like harrassing people? Well, I like harrassing derelicts." I put my cap over my face and prayed for him to get back in the car. "Please stop, please stop."

Anyway, not too long after, he took me to one of the big music festivals in the area. A bunch of my favorite artists were playing: Better Than Ezra, Bush, Hole, Juliana Hatfield, etc.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining. I laid down on a blanket as Juliana took the stage. I told my roommate how cool it would be to meet her. He went to get us some beers and was gone for awhile. He came back and started motioning for me to follow him. "Huh? Where are we going? I want to watch Juliana's set." He said, "C'mon, hurry up. I've got something better."

I followed him to a side area by the stage. A bunch of men motioned for me to come over, and opened an area for me to walk through by a fence. "What is going on?" "Just pretend you're a senator's son and I am protecting you." Um, okay. Score! I got backstage! I was so excited, I wet my panties.

Normally, I'm not into the whole celebrity thing, but, goddamnit, today was my day to be a celebrity geek.

Juliana had just finished her set and dove into the crowd. As she walked down the stairs off the stage, I was the first person to approach her. I said, "Hi Julie (cuz, ya know, I'm on a first name basis with her), I'm T.J." She was out of breath and her mascara was running down her face, "Um, oh, hi." Some annoying fan approached her as well and ruined our stimulating conversation. She handed me a camera and asked me to take their picture. The girl put her arm around "Julie" and put on a big smile. Julie stuck her tongue out and I snapped the photo.

By then, I was over Julie. Now who else can I bug?!?

General Public were also performing, so I struck up a conversation with some of their lackeys. "Can I get you anything," one of them asked. "What do you mean?" "Would you like something to drink, like a beer?" "Oh, sure. And keep 'em comin'!"

General Public's people were keeping me nice and sauced. "Did you hear Winona Ryder is here?" "No," I tried to play it cool. THE Winona Ryder is HERE, I thought, from one of my favorite movies, Heathers! "Maybe I'll go say hi later." My panties were drenched at this point. Soul Asylum were the main attraction, and Winona was dating the lead singer at the time. My mission was confirmed.

I was now in the tunnels of RFK stadium. I spent too much time with the General Public boys that I was missing much of the show.

Courtney Love was just finishing up a surprise set, so I ran back to the stage so I could accost her. I was screaming, "Coooourtneeeeey!" Her people shielded her from me, and she got into a jeep. I kept screaming. She flashed a big smile and gave me the finger. Whatever, her loss.

Who next, who next? Oh, there's Gavin Rossdale! At the time, Bush were my favorite band. They filled my Nirvana void. I passed by Gavin several times, and he always smiled and said hello. For some reason, I was nervous to go up to him. I finally did, and asked if he would sign my T-shirt. He was more than gracious and very friendly. After he signed, I asked, "Have you seen Winona?" "Nope, sorry."

I ran into Juliana again. Since I was getting into the whole autograph thing, I asked her to sign my T-shirt as well. She looked at the Bush graphic on front of the shirt, and said, "That's kinda offensive." The image is of a man dressed as a bush. "Huh, it's just a bush," I said to her, not realizing how odd that sounded. She began to write her name. "You're pen's not working," she complained. I patted her on the back, "Don't worry about it." I pulled my shirt away. I know Juliana Hatfield is not giving me attitude, 'mmm'kay.

The Bush boys were about to hit the stage. My roommate flashed his badge again and the festival people allowed me to get onto the side of the stage to watch their performance. I was in major dork mode at this point. I gave the bass player a hug, told the guys to "go get 'em," and watched as they got into a prayer huddle right before stepping out in front of 55,000 people. I did everything in my power not to let myself run onto the middle of the stage and do a little jig for all to see. The whole thing was so surreal.

After their set, I ran back in the tunnels to find my next victim. Alison Stewart from MTV News was back there conducting interviews. I asked her if she wanted to interview me; she declined. I grabbed her microphone and did a number of Beavis & Butthead impersonations. "Allithhhon Thhhtewwwart ithhhh not very nittthhh." I then asked if she would allow me to be in the next installment of the Real World. She was a good sport and we actually spoke for awhile. "Have you seen Winona?" I asked. "Nope."

I was standing in a hallway with my roommate and some people from MTV. Joey Ramone came up to chat, and one of the festival folks introduced me to him. When people would ask who I was, I would say "I'm T.J." and my roommate would say, "I'm protecting him." Nobody seemed to really care or ask any followups. Joey Ramone did say, "Whoa, you must be pretty important." I'm like, "You have no idea."

Juliana came over again, "Do you have a cigarette?" "Nope. Smoking is offensive."

For some reason, Tony Bennett was also on the bill. The alternative crowd loves him, I guess. He came into the hallway. He spoke to a few people, but they left him just standing there. So I said, "You're that guy who really likes San Francisco." Big. Dork. Moment. He smiled and I introduced myself. I followed up with, "Didn't you just win a bunch of Grammys?" Luckily, he did in fact win Best Album earlier in the year. He was very sweet and charming.

Then everyone seemed to disappear except for Joey Ramone, Tony and me. Joey was like 7 feet tall. Tony is about 5 foot. We were all just standing there in silence, so I said, "Have you guys seen Winona?"

By this point, it was getting late with still no sign of Winona. I ran through the tunnels stopping at various dressing rooms to see if anyone knew where she was. Soul Asylum were getting ready to perform, so people assumed she was outside by the stage. I went outside to continue my search. She was nowhere to be found. *Sigh*

My roommate was showing signs of wear, and was itching to beat the traffic as the concert was coming to a close. My search for Winona had come up empty. Oh well.

I didn't meet Winona, but I did learn something about myself that day. I'm a huge dork.

Posted by durban bud at 11:15 AM | Comments (4)

June 04, 2006

Damien

I met the anti-christ today. He was disguised as a 3-year old African American boy.

I worked out this morning, and afterwards grabbed the Sunday paper and took it next door to the Health Bar to chill out, read and consume some coffee. It was quiet and pleasant, only a few other people were in the restaurant.

A man sat down with a young child and ordered breakfast. His order included protein pancakes for himself and a smoothie for the kid. For the love of god, you NEVER order smoothies for anyone under the age of twelve. A 24 ounce sugar shake is just a bad idea.

I got through the first couple sections of the paper in relative peace, the calm before the storm. And. Then. I hear this uncontrollable giggling, followed by screaming. I keep my head in the paper so as not to make eye contact. Please go away, please go away.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a flash of lightning, or what appears to be lightning. The screaming has now been redistributed to the other side of the restaurant. I lower my paper ever so slightly, and witness Speedy Gonzales blazing all over the place. Jesus, please don't come over to my table, please don't. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!," he yells as he jumps on my booth. Fuck, now I have to pretend like he's cute and adorable.

"Hi there," I wave.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
"What's your name?"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Between screams, I swear I can hear him say, "Your mother sucks cocks in Hell."

He yanks the paper out of my hands, puts his head in my lap, screams, and promptly farts. "You are a disgusting foul creature," I want to say. I would have pepper sprayed the bitch if we were alone.

His baby daddy finally comes over to retrieve him, but not before he throws all of the sections of my paper onto the floor. "Leave the man alone," the daddy shouts. The kid hops off the booth, grabs the Travel section of the paper, throws it at me, laughs and jumps back up. I fake laugh, but I can't breathe from all the ammonia and hydrogen sulfide seeping out of Damien's ass. Is this beast still wearing a diaper?

He starts crumpling the Arts section. That's it, mini-Mephistopheles! Don't you dare fuck with the Arts section! Here, take the Sports page instead. Rip it to shreads, bitch. I don't care!

"Pick up the papers for the man." Yeah, Damien, pick up my papers. Instead, he head-butts my chest.

"He's quite a character," I tell the anti-christ's father. "Yeah, he's somethin'. Sorry about your papers." "It's okay." Not really. I wanted to add, "If we kill him now, we will save all of mankind. What do you think?" But I don't.

For some reason I start channeling Supernanny, and in a lame British accent I mumble, "Someone needs to go to his naughty mat." What? Where the fuck did THAT come from? I scared myself. But I was right. Somebody needed to discipline Rosemary's Baby. He DID need to go to his naughty mat, if his naughty mat was back in hell.

Damien notices two women eating peacefully nearby me. I can see the darkness in his eyes. The music to "Ave Satani" begins to play. A couple crows fly by outside. He's contemplating his next reign of terror. He leaps up and pounces on the poor women. I hear Daddy Damien apologizing to his latest victims.

I gathered my newspaper, finished my coffee and ran home. I took a long shower to wash the diabolism from my skin.

Satan's children are very different. Pure evil is in their eyes. They stalk their prey, and attack without warning.

The anti-christ is alive and well in America, folks. His name is Damien. And he likes smoothies.

Posted by durban bud at 07:35 PM | Comments (5)

June 01, 2006

The Jalapeno Incident

* There can be problems with sharing an iTunes library of songs with another member of your household. And the problem goes somethin' like this: You update your iPod via the household computer. You go to the gym for a grueling cardio workout. You listen to all your favorite tunes on shuffle while running on treadmill. A song comes on you are not familiar with. An excruciating voice starts wailing the lyrics. You pull out your iPod to see what artist is making this noisy mess. You can't make out the name cuz sweat is dripping on screen. You attempt to wipe off screen while still running. You start to see the name. You let out a loud yelp as you read the word FANTASIA. You cringe. You scream. You start to wonder how the hell this artist made it onto your iPod. You try to skip to the next song but realize you have instead started the same song over again. You try to slow down your run so you do not make the same mistake again. Your iPod falls off the treadmill. You lose control. Your legs give out, Fantasia's voice has already made them wobbly. You slip. Your knee hits the treadmill track. A loud noise is created inside the gym. The track pulls you off the machine. You look to see if anyone notices. They do. You smile and remember that Chumbawamba song, "Tubthumping". You hum the lyrics, "I get knocked down, but I get up again, ain't nobody ever gonna keep me down." You grab your iPod, get back up and resume workout. You confront your partner when you get home about the song. You sleep in separate rooms that night.

* I noticed this very attractive guy the other day as I was crossing the street. He was a hot little muscle cub. We stared at each other but as he got closer, my enthusiasm plummeted. He was chomping a big wad of gum. Ewwwwww. That is such a big turn-off for me. If he were a cow, and he was chewing hay, I would be more understanding, but he is a human being (I think), and there is just no reason to chomp your cud like that. None. End of story.

* If you dice up a little jalapeno to add some flava to your lunch burrito, please make sure you wash your hands THOROUGHLY before attempting masturbation, even if the masturbation is going to occur about 3 hours later. Okay? I'm serious.

Lube + Jalapeno Juice = Crotch Hellfire.

And that's all I'm gonna say about that matter.

Posted by durban bud at 11:38 AM | Comments (6)

May 09, 2006

The Hearing Slut-Boy

I took a sign language course in college. I went to RIT back in the day. RIT is also the home of the National Institute for the Deaf, so all my classes there included a signing interpreter. I was kinda fascinated by this unique language. After RIT, I tranferred to AU here in DC. They offered a course in signing; I needed an elective so I took it.

For some reason there was an influx of gay deaf boys in DC while I was taking the class. This provided me an opportunity to put my mad signing skillz to work (and maybe also score some deaf man-butt). I really didn't know that many phrases but I could always spell them out cuz I was the king of the alphabet. My limited signing vocabulary consisted of, "My name is TJ," "I go to college," "I like to drink beer," "Nice to meet you," "I enjoy making out," and "Yes, Jesus loves me, for the bible tells me so." That last one I learned when my parents forced me to go to sunday school as a wee young boy. It was also the one I would pull out if I wanted to clear the room.

Remember when gay guys referred to each other as "Mary"? Yeah, that annoyed me too, but a friend of mine introduced me to the "Whatever, Mary" signing technique (demonstrated right over there <---). I felt I needed to teach some of the deaf boys this new bitchy phrase so I showed them how to do it. They loved it.

I was at JR's one drunken evening. The place was packed with deaf boys. I could see a number of them signing "Whatever, Mary" all the way at the other side of the bar. They would try to speak this whenever they would do it but it ended up sounding like "Whaaa-ebahhh Ma-wee" which was followed by loud deaf laughing. Seeing a bunch of drunk, obnoxious gay guys doing this was priceless. I felt I had contributed to deaf culture. And this made me happy.

I would always close the evening by signing "Nice to meet you." They would usually giggle when I signed this. I didn't understand why.

I went to get coffee at a local cafe down the street. There were a couple deaf guys there signing so naturally I had to involve myself in their conversation. One of the guys was very attractive; the other one looked like Beaker from the Muppets. He's my favorite muppet. When this guy tried to speak I swear I could hear a high pitched, "Me-me-me-me-me."

Anyway, we signed for awhile and I closed with my infamous, "Nice to meet you." They began snapping their fingers wildly with the sign for "No!" Huh? What did I do wrong? They put their two index fingers together and said, "This means meet." They then put their index and middle fingers together (which is what I always did) and said, "This means fuck." Uh-oh. Beaker reprimanded, "You said, 'It was nice to fuck you.'" I got bright red. They couldn't stop laughing. But I could. So basically I was telling all the gay deaf boys in DC that it was nice to fuck them. How lovely. I was now known as the hearing slut-boy. I felt so dirty. I stopped involving myself in signing conversations after that.

In deaf culture the difference between meeting someone and fucking them is one finger. Something to remember.

Posted by durban bud at 08:23 AM | Comments (7)

May 02, 2006

Food Stamps

So here's the thing, somebody needs to create an ATM/credit card machine that lets you swipe your card the same way each time. I'm a fairly bright guy; not lately, but usually. Every time I try to use one of these machines it takes me a few minutes to get it to accept my card. I approach the machine. I see the little graphic of the proper swiping technique. I put my card up to the graphic just to be sure. I swipe. I hear the "Family Feud" red "X" sound and Richard Dawson saying, "Try again."

This always seems to happen at a busy store. I was at Safeway. I go to check out. I swipe my card. The cashier, Laquita (and that was her real name) says, "It did not go through. Try again." So I do. "You selected food stamps. Are you gonna use food stamps?" "Um, no."

My little error has created a major problem for her register. A woman behind me notices what I selected so she chimes in, "Don't be embarrassed; I had to use food stamps back in the day." "I'm not using food stamps," I giggle. To which she replies, "You say that in a condescending manner. You think there sumpin' wrong wit food stamps?" "No, there is nothing wrong with food stamps. I am just not using them for this transaction." "Oh, so you do use them sometimes?" "No, I have never used food stamps." She now asks her daughter for her opinion. "Tamika, do you think there is sumpin' wrong with using food stamps?" "No!" Tamika shouts. "I don't either, Tamika, but I am not using them." "Well, you may have to someday."

The mother chimes in again, "Brotha thinks there sumpin' wrong wit food stamps. Has a chip on his shoulder or sumpin'. All rich people do." "I am not rich. At all. If I do have to use food stamps, I will." "But you jus' said you will never use them." "I did not!" Security! Why am I having this conversation? Please stop talking to me. I take a deep breath and ignore her.

Laquita pages Kyle, the manager, for register assistance. Kyle skips on over. "He selected food stamps." "Are you using food stamps?" Kyle glares at me. A huge line has now formed in my lane. "No, I hit the wrong button." Kyle lets out a big sigh, stares at me for a few seconds and begins to hit numerous buttons on the register in a bitchy manner.

"Brotha hates po' people," the mom tells the manager. I accidentally start speaking like her, "I do not hate po' people." "You sho seem like you do. Ya seem a little racialist too." "Wha-wha-what?!? I am not racialist. At all. Why would you say that? Please stop talking to me." "See? You racialist. You too good to talk to me." How did this happen? I give up. I look around and notice several people giving me dirty looks.

Kyle corrects the situation and asks me to swipe my card again. "Better not select food stamps again," the angry mom mutters. I smile at her, pay and leave. I realize as I am leaving that they will now remember me as the "food stamps" guy. Or Mark Fuhrman. Or maybe a republican.

As I am walking home, a homeless man approaches me asking for change. I ignore him. That angry woman has now given me a complex. Maybe I do hate po' people.

Posted by durban bud at 11:49 AM | Comments (10)

April 29, 2006

Home Invasion

So someone tried to enter my residence last night, uninvited. I was home alone when I heard someone turn my doorknob. I ran upstairs and looked out the peephole. There was a figure leaving the front door of our building. It looked like a woman. I wasn't wearing my glasses, so it could have been a fat man for all I know --I'm near-sighted for those keeping score. I made sure the door was locked and bolted it for extra safety.

I began watching several death shows to pass the evening away. The History Channel was showing back to back episodes of some 9/11 documentaries. I thought to myself, "How could anyone watch these morbidly depressing shows. You have to be pretty deranged to sit through that experience again." So I watched them both. I switched back and forth from the Discovery Health Channel cuz Dr. G was performing some intriguing autopsies. After that I switched on over to one of my favorite death shows, Forensic Files. The narrator, Peter Thomas, could make eating ice cream sound frightening. He's the same guy whose voice is sampled throughout that 1985 Paul Hardcastle Vietnam song, 19. After a marathon of that show, Skeleton Stories came on. This is why I should kill my television.

It was now 1:30 in the morning. Again, I was homo alone and resting peacefully in the comfort of my bed.

Then, the sound of the door handle turning occurred again. This time the handle was turned extensively and the door was trying to be pushed open. I thought it may have been Rob returning unexpectedly from a quick trip. This would be plausible except for the fact that he has keys and would have knocked or called if he had forgotten them. There wasn't a knock or the sound of anyone's voice, just the constant turning of the doorknob and the thrusting of a locked door. The sound suddenly stopped.

I was freaking out. I lept out of bed, ran upstairs and peered through the peephole again. The front door to our building was slowly closing but no figure was in sight. It was obvious, though, that someone had made a fast getaway. I contemplated running out to see if I could catch a glimpse of the murderer, but realized I was only wearing my leotard boxers. Fuck it, I ran down the hall anyway but they were long gone.

Who the fuck would try to come into a home at 1:30 in the morning when most people are likely sleeping? If they were going to rob our place, wouldn't they come during business hours when most people are away? If it were a bunch of drunk partiers who hate me, wouldn't they start yelling or banging on my door to piss me off? If someone wanted to have hot, sweaty man-sex with me, wouldn't they have at least called first? This was all very strange. Then I thought perhaps it was hot new porn star, Jake Dakota, finally responding to some of my stalker emails for an unscheduled visit. I did tell him he is allowed to come whenever he wants.

I laid back down and slept the rest of the night without being slaughtered or raped. I awoke in the morning and realized I had left the back gate wide open with the door unlocked. Um, oops. It obviously wasn't Jake Dakota as he would have come through the back door and not the front.

If this happens again, I will taser their ass, tie them up and force them to watch HGTV.

Courtesy Mustang Video

Come to dBud, Mr. Dakota. Seriously.

Posted by durban bud at 05:39 PM | Comments (7)

January 24, 2006

Baseball Caps

So last night I went to dinner with Joe to discuss life, drama, why January seems to be the worst month of the year, and the pros and cons of the latest Raging Stallion video. We walked down U Street to find a decent place to eat and shoot the shit. We decided on a restaurant in the "new, cool, U Street corridor" called Creme or, as I now like to refer to it, Suck My Balls Diner. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant at the time we walked by it so we thought it would be perfect. Joe had been there before and said it was good.

We walk in. The staff is friendly and seats us at a lovely small table. I was dressed in jeans with a long sleeve shirt and a T-shirt over top of it and, of course, a baseball cap. It's cold in DC now (obviously) so I usually wear a skull cap to cover my sensitive, li'l ears. Because of this, my hair was a disaster so a baseball cap was definitely in order after I took off my winter cap when we arrived in the door. Joe is also dressed in jeans and a button up shirt. He also wore a skull cap until the hostess offered to seat us. He had no baseball cap because, well, he has no need for one.

The waiter immediately comes over cuz no one else is there yet, introduces himself and takes our drink orders. Later, we order a couple appetizers and sit there for awhile and talk.

We get our appetizers and order entrees. The small place starts filling up with a few more people. As we are enjoying our appetizers, a petite young woman approaches me.

"Hi," she says. "Can you please remove your cap?" Excuse me? "Are you serious?" I asked, completely taken off guard. "Yes," she insists. What the fuck. Um, is someone about to sing the National Anthem or something, I thought. Or is Nelson Mandela on his way here to be honored this evening? "But I've been wearing a skull cap all day so my hair looks scary." "Sorry, sir." Yeah, me too, bitch.

I am humiliated. I felt like I was on the Waltons and Daddy just yelled at me for eating at the dinner table with a hat on while he was saying grace. Mostly, I felt like John Boy's mole, as if everyone were staring at it while pretending not to notice.

It's winter time and I need a haircut really bad. I don't have long hair at all. I mean, the hair I do have I usually keep very, very short but it's January and I've been lazy so it's kinda scraggly looking.

It wasn't so much the fact that I had stepped into a pretentious restaurant with a "no hats" rule (although a "dress code" was not listed anywhere); it was the fact that they did not tell me this when I got there. There were tons of staff members and virtually no patrons when we arrived and we had been there a good twenty minutes. Perhaps that would have been an ideal time to let me know that my baseball cap was a big no-no instead of waiting for us to order expensive food with several more people now at their tables. I guess my T-shirt and jeans (with a few holes in them) were just peachy though.

I comply with Nellie Oleson and remove my hat. I look worse than ever. Now, I look like the Unabomber dressed like a gay Kurt Cobain. I could have gone to the bathroom to "primp" but I was pretty pissed so if I scared a few people away, too bad. Plus, I'm just not that good at styling my hair. If I do it myself, I end up looking like Squiggy from Laverne & Shirley. I'm no meterosexual. (I also can't shave my head completely cuz I just don't make an attractive bald guy. Some guys can pull it off but not me. I shaved it off myself one day and scared everyone including the beagle we were taking care of at the time. He began to shiver uncontrollably when he saw me).

In defense of Creme, the food was good and the atmosphere was pleasant. However, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth (ba-da-boom). We ate really fast so Joe and I could get the hell out of there and go somewhere else that wasn't quite so judgmental about wearing hats in the fucking winter. We were still friendly with the staff (even Nellie Oleson) and tipped our waiter nicely.

I wear baseball caps a lot. I always have ever since I was a kid. It's second nature to me. Some of my friends get annoyed because they think I look better without them. Some also might say I wear them a lot to hide a receding hairline or balding or avoiding growing up. Maybe I am, subconsciously, but I do it cuz I always have and I like them. My dad does the same thing. He wears them all the time and he still has a good head of hair. In fact, he collects baseball caps (yeah, that's a bit more than I would do but whatever floats your boat) and he's, like, in his 60's.

Of course, I don't wear them all the time, especially at some formal business meetings, certain upscale events, or, of course, sex in a hot tub, etc. But if I am paying you for a meal (or Joe is), don't bug me with silly clothing requests when I have been there for awhile.

Some also might say that a guy in his mid-30's shouldn't be wearing them at all. Fuck that. I agree some things look silly on guys over 30 but, mentally, I am still only 24 so I will continue to do so if it makes me happy and I don't look or feel completely retarded.

I ain't gonna worry about it. I just won't go back there (except maybe in drag). Wouldn't that be funny? I guarantee you, I would make an ugly woman and be scarier than the Unabomber. THEN what would they say?

Posted by durban bud at 01:11 PM | Comments (15)

January 16, 2006

Frosted Mini-Wheats

While everyone was out enjoying a hot and naughty MAL/Blowoff weekend and my selfish heart was breaking into a million little pieces, I was contemplating my one and only barf story from school.

In middle school and high school, we used to have to do those annual state exams to see how many sit-ups, push-ups, squat thrusts, etc. we could do within a minute during gym class. Phys Ed was my first class of the day during 7th grade.

I always did pretty well on these exams. I used to be really skinny. In fact, I used to take supplements to try and gain weight during my later schooling. Wow, seems like years ago. Then I discovered that if you truly want to gain weight just take an affection for beer. Works like a charm.

I finished class and went to second period which was my math class. I sat behind a girl with a big nose who always dreamed of being a figure skater. After sitting at my desk for a few minutes, I felt very nauseous. I put my hand over my mouth and tried to avoid any thoughts of puking. This CANNOT happen right now. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Think of something else. Ignore it. Think of boobies. Think of economics. Think of math, for Christ’s sake. Little sounds started speaking from my belly. Figure skater turned around and smiled at my embarrassing noises; I smiled back. It all happened so fast. If I could have left the room in time, I would have. Then. It let loose. Frosted, Mini, And Wheat all made their big performance debut.

I lost it. Big time. Frosted mini-wheats spilled all over me. Everyone looked at me. One of the single most embarrassing moments I can ever remember. Luckily, I had a friendly math teacher. He told everyone to leave the room immediately. The kids ran out the door and I remember several of them turning around pointing, staring and laughing at me.

I didn't know what to think or do. I sat there just covered in my own breakfast. I felt and looked like Carrie only instead of blood; I was covered in Frosted-Mini Wheats with 2% milk added into the mix.

The good news was I got to leave school for the rest of the day. I also got to stay home the next day so I guess it wasn't THAT bad. (I did also barf in church while singing, "He Lives, Christ Jesus Lives Today," but I'll save that story for another day).

As bad as it was, I learned to masturbate for the first time while I got to spend time away from school (yeah, I know, I was a late bloomer). But remember, the Lord does work in mysterious ways. ;-)

So when you're feeling down and sad, just remember the other times in your life which were far worse and you'll be able to get through those newer "not-so-good" moments.

That is my Dr. Durban tip of the day. I'm here to help.

Posted by durban bud at 01:16 PM | Comments (8)

January 11, 2006

Turleen

I got my mom the Trailer Trash Turleen doll for X-mas. They were spending the holidays with my sister and family in Colorado, so I thought I would give her one little gift to open while she was there, so she wouldn't have to pack and cart back other presents I would have sent. I chose to send her Turleen.

I called my sister's place X-mas morning to wish them all a happy and joyous Pagan celebration.

After my sister gave me a lecture about making fun of white trash, my mom got on the phone and told me she had opened the gift. She then mumbled (so the kids couldn't hear) just what the hell it was. I told her it was doll. She said, "I know that, but I cannot play this in front of the kids." I'm like, "First off, lose the muffled voice; we're not discussing money laundering. Secondly, she is not the Bride of Chucky; Turleen doesn't say anything nasty, really. I'm thinking, just wait until my oldest nephew opens his Eminem's greatest hits CD. I told her to go to the bathroom and listen to what Turleen has to say if you have to be so secretive. Pretend you're doing a bump, Mom.

Of course, my mom loved it. It was a great conversation piece as I knew it would be. Even Ms. "Making fun of Trashy People is Not Very Nice" invited some of her neighbors over to witness the beauty of the trailer trash doll.

Here's the best part: I knew my mom would have to pack Turleen for the trip home. Well, every which way she would pack Turleen, the doll would start talking. She said she wouldn't shut up. She kept repeating, "Bubba Junior, get off your sister." She said it took almost a half an hour to get her in the proper position so she wouldn't speak.

As they were carrying the suitcase through the airport, my mom said Turleen would start speaking or laughing or burping while they were walking down the halls. Both of my parents were mortified. As soon as Turleen seemed to shut up, she would yell, "Pour me a double, I'm drinkin' for two." My parents (who are so conservative looking) sat in their seats waiting to board the plane while their suitcase continued to speak and burp occasionally.

Do something sweet for your family for a change. Whether it's their birthday or Flag Day, Turleen is the gift of a lifetime.

Posted by durban bud at 12:24 PM | Comments (6)

January 03, 2006

Mama Cass

Fat jokes can be funny. They're like gay jokes. One or two may cause a giggle but that's about it. It's an easy way to get a quick laugh cuz it's still acceptable to make fun of fats and gays. That's why Letterman & Leno do "Brokeback Mountain" jokes every fucking night. The writers are running out of clever writing.

And aiming fat jokes at gay men is just a sin. I think it's in the Bible. I believe it's in the Book of Luke, Chapter 12-14, Verse 34-35 or something close to that. It says something like, "and those one in teneth who possess such fabulousity and hot muscle bearishness shall never be made aware of any physical flaws regarding belly protrusion for it is an abomination unto the Lord, 'mmm'kay? And can I get an amen?). We're already insecure about our looks and life enough (even if we have 6% body fat).

Went to a New Year's small gathering with some friends. Joe was the host and it was wonderful. Bob came over and my Rob. Joe also invited Wayland Flowers & Madame a gay couple we did not know. They were, um, lovely.

I made an innocent little joke in front of everyone that I had gained a few pounds during the holidays and my mid-section had now made me resemble Mama Cass and that I need to hit the gym hard if I am to make it to MAL in a couple weeks. It was a fucking silly joke. Wow, was that a mistake. First off, my apologies to the Cass family. I meant no disrespect. I enjoy poking fun at myself also. I'm a good sport. If I can dish it out, I can take it (especially when I know what they are saying isn't that extreme; I may be beefy but I ain't fat).

Well...we decided to have a bite to eat around Joe's dinner table and then play games there. He bought his dinner chairs from a relatively new furniture store in DC called Muleh a couple years ago. Muleh has freaky furniture. Sorry, it may appeal to some but not for me. That's irrelevant though. Joe purchased four dinner table chairs from that store. Only one chair from the set still exists to this day. Of course, who do you think broke the 3rd one? Yep, I made my Mama Cass joke and sat down in the motherfuckin' Muleh chair. This is what I and everyone else heard next: "CRRRRRRRUNNNNNNNNCH." Joe. My. God. Is this really happening to me? I mean, I'm not fat. The holiday weight gain is not THAT bad; now I'm thinking it is BAD! I'm breaking fucking chairs with my heavy body weight (and also oddly humming "California Dreamin" as I fall to the ground)! I am Chris Durban Bud Farley. Or so I now think.

Joe informs me that two of the other Muleh chairs have also broken recently from other "non heavy" people. He can't take them back or call the place to complain because the chairs were purchased on his ex's credit card. Well, I will complain. In fact, I will never shop there. I know some of you have bought things there and I do appreciate their uniqueness but would you sit on a couch that looks like a bird's nest.

We decide to start the DVD movie game (which I think I'm gonna kick everyone's ass at). I should have made sure all movies featured in the questions were post 1980. I'm sorry, I don't know old movies.

The game was not the point; the incessant fat jokes littered throughout the entire game and visit (for that matter) were the point. And they came from that couple I had just met!!! They were relentless. I can poke fun at myself; I usually do on this blog. You can poke fun at me, a lot of people do (which is fine if it is funny and clever); I will laugh but after 20 of the same type of jokes from a couple guys I just met, I probably will stop laughing. If, after fat joke #21, you can't say something witty then you really need to hang up your New Year's Eve comedian shoes. "According to Jim" is funnier than the same one-liners they were throwin' at me. The others that were there can confirm this. They agreed enough was enough (although no one said a word, I guess that would make it even more uncomfortable).

I played along and tried to fake laugh at every single one of their jokes. I asked Joe if he had any ham sandwiches to serve the lovely couple. Unfortunately, he was all out. Finally, the game ended and the sweet couple left. I'm sure these guys are very nice (except to me) and I'm sure they would be awesome to hang out with.

The rest of us had an enjoyable time. Seriously, we did, until, of course, we saw Dick Clark. I'll just leave it at that. After seeing that, you can joke about me all you want. He's a real trooper for going out there in public so I have nothing to complain about.

But I will find something.

Posted by durban bud at 05:43 PM | Comments (6)

September 14, 2005

Suitcase Sally / The Night the Lights Went Out in Sitges

Suitcase Sally

My friend Ira (on the right) needs his own sitcom. Things happen to him that really need to be written into a teleplay.

Anyway, as we were loading up our bags to head to the airport for our long excursion, Ira began freaking out when he noticed Rob and I had only brought one suitcase each. We've been to Europe before and don't really like or need to lug around a lot of bags. One big bag is perfect for us. We just took the essentials. Some of our clothing could be worn more than once and/or washed while we were there. Not a big deal.

Well, Suitcase Sally started to freak. "Oh my God! I knew I packed too much! I'm so embarrassed." As he popped the trunk open to put our bags in we saw what he meant. The music from the shower scene in Psycho suddenly played in my head. There, before us, were the largest bags we had ever seen. Apparently, he thought he was traveling on a revival of Madonna's entire Drowned World tour or something. They were also bright red. Ira is a person of one. We weren't quite sure why he felt he needed so many bags. I could picture The Waltons or The Jacksons or The Wayans family packing that much, but again, it was just Ira, party of one.

We arrive at the airport. There appear to be no problems. A few of the airline staff snicker, a couple people stared and some kids pointed when they saw his luggage but that was it.

As we're on the plane at maximum altitude, I couldn't help but notice the plane kind of tilting to one side. It was obvious where the big red bags were stowed.

We arrive in Barcelona. and head out to the taxi waiting area to go to our hotel in Sitges. The taxi drivers would see me and Rob with our one bag each and motion for us to come over. Then Ira would come into their view with his push tractor carrying all of his bags. They would let out a slight scream, gasp, curse and hit the gas hard as they could and speed off. This happened a number of times. I'm not kidding. No matter what we did, no one would stop. What were we going to do? We thought about taking 2 cabs but again, Ira's luggage would not fit in the trunk.

We had to rent something large. We decided to ask a man driving an 18-wheeler type vehicle. Surely, that would be big enough. And luckily it was. But it cost us 90 Euros. Oh well.

For the rest of the trip we informed people ahead of time that we would be coming with a "wide load". Most of the hotels had rented large cranes to move Ira's bags up to his room (kinda like they do with grand pianos). This worked out great as you can see below.

The Night the Lights Went Out in Sitges

As we arrived in Sitges, Ira asked to borrow my hair trimmer. I use it to keep my goatee nice and tight. Ira doesn't have a goatee (or hair for that matter), so I was concerned what he was going to use it for. He promised not to use it below his waist, so I let him use it.

About an hour later I notice the lights and TV in our room begin to flicker on and off. Hmm, this is odd.

The phone rings. I pick it up:

Me: "Hola"

Phone Caller: "Ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, pant pant pant, trimmer, pant pant pant, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, hot, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, blew up!"

Me: "Sir, I cannot understand what you are saying. Plea-"

Phone Caller: "Ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, pant pant pant, trimmmmmmer, pant pant pant, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, so hot, ahhhhhh, yai, yai, yai, yai, blew up!"

Me: "Sir, please calm down and take a deep breath so I can understand what you are saying. I do want to help you, but you really need to calm down." Suddenly I was a 911 operator. Secretly, I wanted to slap the caller like Cher did in Moonstruck, "Snap out of it!"

Then I thought maybe it was housekeeping so I said, "I'm sorry if you are calling about turning our bed down now, we're not interested at this time. It's too early. Thank you."

Phone Caller: pant pant pant, "YOUR trimmer just blew up while I was using it, pant pant pant , and shorted out the electricity in the building!" he finally said slowly and in an accusatory tone.

Me: "Oh my God, Ira is that you?"

Ira: "Yes."

Me: "I was wondering what was going on with the lights. MY trimmer blew up? What the hell were you doing with it?"

Ira: "It got really, really hot and made this popping noise, and then the lights went out. Your trimmer must be really old."

Me: "Are you okay?"

Ira: "Yes, I'm fine, but I only got to shave part of it off so now the other side looks ridiculous. Has it ever gotten really hot for you?"

I didn't want to know what he was referring to regarding that first part so I didn't ask. "It doesn't get really hot unless you use it for a long time. Did you use it for a long time?"

Ira: "No, it happened quickly."

Me: "Does the staff here know that you caused the blackout?"

Ira: "Yeah, I called them. They are sending someone up."

Me: "If they ask where you are from, please say Canada, okay?"

Ira: "They're here now. Gotta go."

I almost wanted to run to his room to see the expression on their faces when they saw what exactly caused this dilemma.

He calls back.

Me: "Is everything okay now?"

Ira: "Yes."

Me: "Did the guy who visited your room speak English?"

Ira: "No."

Me: "Did he understand what you were doing with the trimmer?"

Ira: "Not sure. He did pick up the trimmer, but dropped it cuz it was so hot. I think your trimmer is fried."

Great, I thought to myself. Ira probably used my goatee trimmer on his ass hair, and it took so long to shave it all, so my poor trimmer overloaded, freaked out and blew up.

Me: "Did you show the man your new hair pattern?"

Ira: "Shut up."

Me: "You told him you are from Hamilton, Ontario, right?"

Ira: "Shut up."

Rob chimes in, "What kind of adapter did he use with his converter in the European outlet?"

I ask Ira this question.

Ira: "I used the one that I use to charge my camera with."

Rob: "Um, Ira. That adapter should not be used for appliances like hair trimmers! Check the voltage amount it holds. You can't use that adapter for things like that over here."

Ira: "Oh."

Mystery solved and the lights went back on fairly quickly. However, my trimmer did not come back on.

I'm sure the folks at the Hotel Calipolis in Sitges will never forget Ira. Nor his luggage.

And this was just the start of our trip.

Posted by durban bud at 01:30 PM | Comments (7)

August 22, 2005

Mango Was There

Went to the beach one last time this summer. We're gonna be gone for a long time starting this weekend so we wanted one last hoorah there.

Stayed at Tim & Donn's beautiful house in town. They are wonderful hosts and great guys.

Saturday morning we spent on the beach. Perfect weather. The water was nice. There were finally big waves we could play with. Spent about 4 hours out there.

We all left back to the house for a pre-happy hour party (or to take naps and shower). When we arrived back at the house we noticed a few more gentleman had joined us. I did not know them. Most of the men staying at the house were older and had facial hair (I guess it's a requirement to stay there) but there was one person who stuck out like a sore thumb and that, my friends, was Mango from Saturday Night Live (or, at least, that's who he resembled). Now, I don't care if you're nelly or twink-like. I don't care if you're masculine and brute-like. I DO care if you're ignorant. So if you are nelly AND ignorant, I WILL make fun of you.

Most people congregated in the kitchen while chatting so I went into the living room to start a new discussion area. It worked as a few people followed me. Rob immediately joined me when he found out Mango's boyfriend was an extreme-right wing republican. My partner is extremely knowledgeable regarding politics and history. If you debate him about any political/history issue, he will shoot you down and make you look foolish in front of your friends. And it will be funny. Go ahead and try it if you want. I'm always up for a good laugh. However, because he is thoughtful, he decided to just remove himself from the situation.

Again, I don't care what political party you belong to but if you are ignorant (e.g. extreme right AND gay), I will make fun of you.

Anyway, we were chatting with this other guy we had met. He seemed nice, very intelligent and articulate on political issues. Normally, when drinking is involved, I stay away from politics and religion. I've learned my lesson in the past. He began discussing his days in the military and how he killed someone. Thanks for the buzz kill, buddy. What do you say to something like that? I said, I think I need another drink(s). Excuse me for a moment.

I chugged about 3 beers and decided I could handle the conversation now so I went back. They were discussing how China will be the new super power in 10-20 years. I'm like, "Yeah, but has anyone seen the new Green Day video?"

Then the power went out. Apparently, the baby jesus was listening to our conversation and punished us. It was bad timing because Tim & Donn were getting ready to make a huge meal. The house music in the background was now gone. You could here a pin drop. Mango appeared sad because Deborah Cox and Kristine W. ceased to over sing their fierce anthems! Dear god, what was Mango to do! The worst part, however, was that Mango's voice was now audible from where I was sitting. Ironically, Mango's drink of choice was (or is it were) Mango-tini's. For the record, I did not have one single mixed drink during this "pre-happy hour" party. I learned my lesson the last time I was there. One mixed drink at their place is really equal to about 7 and a half normal sized mixed drinks one might find at, oh, let's say, the Olive Garden.

I heard discussions of rimming, vaginas, scat, queefing, more vaginas and then I heard Mango say the following, "I do not want to turn 30. When you turn 30, your life is over!" And then I think he smacked his own sassy 28-inch waif waist ass and snapped his fingers. It got deathly quiet.

Oh really, Mango? Please remember everybody in the room was over 30, if not 40. This queen is 27. 30 is just around the corner, bitch. Luckily, I was on the other side of the room (and I was at somebody else's house) so I kept my mouth shut and tried to be somewhat respectful. However, were I at a different place, I would have snapped his skimpy li'l Flashdance leotard and said,"You LIVE in Richmond, Virginia and are a dating a far-right republican, YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD!"

Mango left soon after. Whew! People started clapping from across the street. Angels wept. Marc, Tom and Tony began square-dancing. The power came back on. The sun came back out. A mini-marching high school band passed by our block playing Celine Dion's, "A New Day Has Come." It was all very surreal but cathartic. I guess the baby jesus didn't like Mango either.

We had a wonderful dinner and met some of Tim & Donn's awesome friends. Apparently, they didn't know Mango either. He was a friend of a friend or something.

We met Tim & Donn while naked in a hot tub. You can meet some real quality people this way I am learning. We sure did. You should try it sometime.

Posted by durban bud at 08:19 AM | Comments (6)

August 08, 2005

Whip Smart

Went to see Liz Phair Friday night with the boys. It was an acoustic show with just she and her partner, Dino. They were phenomenal. Started with Polyester Bride. Ended with Fuck & Run. Bob is remixing one of her new songs so we went backstage after the show to say hi. I got to bug her. She was a good sport. She caught me singing (read: butchering) Whip Smart so she helped me finish the chorus. I've decided I have a huge crush on her. Please don't tell Rob. I think she is probably the only woman I could cross over to the dark side for. Again, please don't tell Rob. New CD, Somebody's Miracle, comes out October 4th. Please support my new girlfriend. And, yes, I will be her whore. I don't care.

Saturday morning we all went to the beach. AWESOME time. Met up with a bunch of people. Here's what I remember (in no particular order): warm ocean water, handstands, sun, sushi, thunderstorms, putting sunscreen on Joe, dolphins, Tim & Donn, beer, Bob waiting for us at 6pm sharp, hugs, dinner at Sole, sushi, ice cream, running out of the Sandcastle so no one would see us staying there, good times. My lips are chapped.

Love my friends. Seriously.

Oh, by the way, if you spent money on seeing a movie called, "The Dukes of Hazzard," please stop reading my blog and stay away from me. We would not get along. Thanks.

Posted by durban bud at 09:59 AM | Comments (6)

July 29, 2005

Circle Chomp

I was the unwilling participant in a circle chomp the other day at the gym. I was minding my own business working out alone in a corner when this nelly, leathery figure decided to lift his weights next to me. No problem, I thought. Then I noticed in the mirror this enormous wad of gum snapping loudly from his mouth. He was going to town on that poor thing. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Snap, snap, snap. I thought perhaps he was related to Britney Spears or maybe worked at the DC DMV.

If you want to chew gum, that's fine. But please do it in a somewhat civilized manner like, oh, I don't know, with your mouth closed. It is possible, people. Insert gum into mouth. Close mouth and chew. Continue chewing your little heart out while your mouth remains closed. I don't need to see what's in your mouth or how many fillings you have or what color the piece of cud is. Also, please remember, if you do chomp your gum like a cow you will be one flatulent motherfucker in a couple hours. Remember that, people. All that poor air you are inviting in needs to go somewhere. If you see your friend doing this you might want to avoid them later on. You've been warned.

Another man shows up with his friend and they are both chomp, chomp, chompin' away. They pick up their weights and force me into the corner even more. They were chomping AND talking. "Did you [snap] happen to see that Blowout show the other [pop] day? Gurl, that Jonathan [snap] Antin queen is [pop] such a bee-yotch!" Chomp, chomp, chomp. Ssssnap, ssssnap. "Oh my god, I hate [pop] that show. That guy is sssssuch a dicky head." [snap]

I looked around and saw yet another man chomping away. Was this a new gym policy no one had told me about? I appeared to be the only one gum-less. Then I thought I was being Punk'd but, luckily, remembered that I am not a celebrity.

I was trapped by the circle chomp. I was feeling claustrophobic. My face was getting flushed. Must remove myself from frightening situation.

I went to the gym for a nice workout and ended up in a Rice Krispies commercial starring Snap, Crackle, Pop and me. Ugh.

Posted by durban bud at 09:18 AM | Comments (8)

June 25, 2005

Disease of the Seas

I'm going on a gay cruise. There, I said it. And I can't wait. I need a vacation. I always say that but I really NEED one especially after my last one. And I'm not just talking about long weekends somewhere or a week spent with family. That to me is not a real vacation (especially if there are babies involved). A real vacation is spent with friends or lovers, lasts at least two full weeks and involves NO drama whatsoever.

Now I know what you're thinking, a boat full of gay men is going to involve lots of drama. I'm sure there will be drama but it will not involve me. No, sir. No way. Been there, done that. Nope. I will have no part of it. This is not a circuit party event for me. I know there will be that element there but I will read a book, hang out in the water, enjoy a meal with friends, meet new people, play ping-pong with muscle bears, chill out and relax, enjoy new places and have hot sex with the wife my partner. That's all I want.

I've never wanted to go on a cruise. Just never appealed to me. However, when I heard there was a cruise going to TWO places I've always wanted to go AND lasts TWO weeks, I knew I had to kill two birds with one stone. By the way, that's a terrible expression.

I took a mini "vacation" back in March to San Francisco. We have some friends there and Rob had a conference so I hitched a ride. We try to go at least once a year cuz we do love it there. I also realize the weather is hit or miss. It was definitely a miss this time around.

We get there late one night and check into our hotel. I wake up at 3 in the morning to the sounds of severe nausea. Apparently, Rob has contracted some stomach bug or food poisoning or tape worm or demon possession or something. Welcome to San Francisco! He is a wreck. This occurs every 20 minutes for the next 12 hours.

Luckily, Rob starts feeling better the next day so he joins us while we continue to walk around in the cold rain. We went out to dinner with our friends, Matty and Michael who are terrific (and have a beautiful place there). We also got to attend a party by the infamous Todd and we got to play with the beagle. It was worth the price of admission just to spend time with those guys.

The last evening there we went out to dinner to a place called "Home" but a more appropriate name would be "Outhouse." They seat us in this large room and then it hits all of us at once. The wonderful smell of feces. We ask the waiter what the deal is. He tells us that a sewer line has broken and they are "working on it." Ew, okay. Can I have my chicken pot pie to go, please? Thank you.

Rob and I head back to the hotel and pack for our early departure at 6am. Then. At 3am I awoke to an unpleasant feeling. Bye-bye, pot pie! I realize I have picked up whatever Rob had at the beginning of our "vacation." Every 20 minutes. I am terrified. How the hell am I gonna fly home today? Rob could barely move when he had this illness. Now I have to go the freakin' airport and interact with humans. Calgon, take me away!

I suck it up and do my best to get through it. I just wanted to be home in bed with my blanky and pacifier.

We inform the flight crew of my dilemma. The head flight attendant asks me, "Are you really sick or just hungover?" What did you say, you insensitive slut? I wanted to throw my flask of gin at her head. Instead, I said, "I'm really sick." She asks if I think I am able to make it through the flight. I told her I thought I could. Actually, I didn't know but the thought of having to reschedule my long trip home would make me puke even more. "Well, I hope so cuz we don't want to have to divert the plane cuz of you," she said in a snotty tone. Then I added, "It's worse than having a Manhattan Furball." She said, "Huh?" I said, "Nevermind. Long story."

She gets me a ginger ale and a "sick sack." I guess that's a more pleasant way of saying barf bag. I never ever thought I would be one of those people that has to use them. She then hands me a Hefty trash bag. I am humiliated. I am seated in the middle of the plane. I look like death and I am holding a sick sack and a Hefty trash bag and I am shivering while wearing a sweater and winter coat. How'd ya like to be my neighbor on that flight? I pictured that scene from "Stand By Me" when there was a domino effect of vomiting. That would have been kinda funny actually.

I tried so hard to hold it together. I really did. But. As soon as the plane took off, I put to use that sick sack AND Hefty trash bag.

At that point, the flight crew knew I meant serious business. I even handed the insensitive slut crew member my Hefty bag of pot pie remains just to spite her. She declined and added, "Please deposit it in the bathroom." "Okay," I smiled.

They cleared the back row for me. That was nice of them. However, the rear seats do not recline. I literally looked like a propped up corpse. At least I was close to the bathroom. The odd thing is this whole event happened very discretely, believe it or not. Very few people noticed. I'm a pretty good patient.

It was a really weird bug because it was so well-timed and only involved yacking my guts out (thank god). Because Rob had the same exact symptoms we knew it would last a total of 12 hours. We were only on hour number 5 of my version of the illness and we had a layover in Denver. Wonderful.

I remember sitting there in my state of rigor mortis thinking that I did not feel particularly relaxed from this li'l vacation.

So I will really enjoy my next longer vacation. Rain or shine. The Disease of the Seas will be taking off at the end of August. I'm looking forward to it!

Posted by durban bud at 03:30 PM | Comments (5)

June 05, 2005

Whorehouse

We moved into a new condo two years ago and had (pretty much) the entire place renovated or updated except for the bedroom. That was a mistake. It is now starting to bother us a lot. With the exception of the bed all the "furniture" is old (mostly stuff we acquired during our high school/college years). My nightstand is a makeshift stacking table and Rob's is some plastic Ikea storage thing. We desperately need new ones. Actually, we desperately need our bedroom completely renovated. It is disgusting. If Candice Olsen is reading this, please call.

We heard that a new furniture store opened up in the area and was having a sale. Out of respect for the store I won't mention their name but I will give you a hint. It rhymes with whorehouse. We had shopped at whorehouse before and bought a couch. It was okay even though all the cushions became flat after one year. Maybe I was eating too much Chinese food or drinking too much beer. I don't know. I complained and they replaced the cushions. That was nice of them. The new ones became flat after 6 months. My warranty had run out. At that point we didn't care anymore. We would just sit on the floor or the chair and let our guests sit on the couch until we could afford a new couch. It was fun to watch them wiggle in their seats after about 10 minutes. If we really didn't care for the person we would invite them over to watch "Dances With Wolves" or "Schindler's List."

Despite that experience we decided to check out their nightstands. After all, they were having a sale. The store was beautiful. The furniture was gorgeous. We spotted a nightstand we liked. A pleasant man came over to us and asked if he could help. We said the typical, "Thanks, we're just looking." He said "Well jusssssst let me know if you need anything" and then I thought he said "Toodles."

The nightstands we liked were about $30 off each. We weighed the pros and cons and decided to get just one cuz we're cheap bastards. We alerted the pleasant man (who we shall call Mr. Potato Head). Mr. Potato Head said "Sssssuper, would you like to have it delivered or would you like to pick it up at our warehouse in Laurel?" A sudden chill came over me. I used to work in Laurel. Laurel is about a 30 minute drive into hell. I said, "We would like it delivered." He said, "Okay, there will be $90 flat fee for delivery." Huh. There must be a mistake. He must think I said we want the bed and that we live in Florida. "Ummmm, we just live 8 blocks from the store, can we pick it up here?" "No. You need to pick up furniture at our warehousssssse in Laurel." Another chill. Please stop saying that word. He disappeared to his computer for a moment.

Mr. Potato Head comes back and says, "We are actually out of sssstock of that particular model. We should be getting sssssome more in ssssstock in about a month. I would advissse you to purchassse now caussse there is a long waiting lisssst and you want to make sure you don't lossssse out."

Okay, ssssssso let me get this straight. I could purchase the nightstand that is $30 off. Pay a $90 delivery fee even though I live down the street or drive all the way to Hell on Earth, Maryland to pick it up. I could pay for it today, get put on a waiting list and maybe get one in a month. Sounds like a sssssssuper deal! Sssssign me up!

We said, "I think we'll pass." I was waiting for Mr. Potato Head to try to appease us so he wouldn't lose a sale but he just walked away. Whatever. We left.

Whorehouse does have some nice things. So does Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma and Mikasa. We've decided that we will have a party for our upcoming gay anniversary and "register" at these places so we can get all new things for our bedroom. So all you married muthafuckas who got the chance to register start saving your pennies. It's payback time!

Posted by durban bud at 05:31 PM | Comments (7)

May 20, 2005

I Am a Baby Mama

The other evening Rob and I went out to the patio to grill some Italian sausages (insert tired lame joke here). As we walked out I heard a bird flapping its wings loudly as it took off. I then heard something I've never heard before come from Rob. In the most delicate of voices he said, "Ohhhhhh, it's a little baby bird. Must have fallen from its nest." It wasn't what he said, it was how he said it. I knew I had heard that voice before but couldn't immediately place it. Then it hit me. It was Michael frickin' Jackson. Rob had somehow channeled him. I was frightened. I was waiting for him to say, "Sharing your bed with a little baby bird is the most wonderful thing you can do" or even "You mean you don't like to climb trees?" Luckily, he went back to his normal voice once we assessed the situation.

A baby bird had somehow fallen into our patio. Our patio is the perfect place for any injured bird to land. Please do not let this get around. The walls are high enough to offer protection but it is also open so other birds can come play/talk/console it. We had heard the weather was really windy last weekend so we assume that's when it happened.

As Rob and I walked out, the mother bird was trying to feed the baby. We scared her away. The baby began flapping about trying to fly. It could only get up about a foot high and then fall back down. It made it up onto our flower bed and took refuge under one of Rob's hosta plants.

We were concerned the mother would not come back so we sat there and waited. She finally did come back with some food in her mouth but she could not find the baby. Rob and I are watching this whole drama unfold through the sliding glass door as if we were watching a horror flick at a ghetto movie theater. We were yelling at the screen, "She's over there under the plant! Go get her!! What are you, stupid???? She's right there. Dumb bitch!!!" After about 5 minutes of looking around the mother flew away.

We would check back every few minutes to see if the mom had returned. No such luck. Rob (channeling a slightly more masculine MJ) said, "Oh, no. What if the mother doesn't return?" I told him I was sure the mother would return and to take an Ativan.

It was getting dark. Rob took out some ham and crackers and a little blanket for the poor thing. He did some research online and discovered the bird is a starling. We have since named it Clarice.

The next morning we found Clarice nowhere near the blanket and Rob had realized that he had, instead, fed a whole army of ants. Great.

To our amazement, the mom returned. We watched her feed her chick on a number of visits. It appeared she was trying to get the baby to fly. The baby was obviously injured from its earlier plummet into our world so it couldn't keep up.

Yesterday morning, the mom made its last visit. She made some squawking noises and took off, leaving the poor baby all alone. What a bitch.

I hate birds. They are filthy and disgusting and I have no use for them unless they are on my dinner plate. I got suckered into its pathetic life and now feel bad for it. I was watching it move around the patio and it kept looking up, sometimes chirping. You knew it was looking for its mom saying something like, "I can change mom. Please come back. I promise I'll be better. Praise Jesus."

Clarice seemed more and more weak as the day progressed. I was eating lunch staring at it just sitting there. I felt a calling. It looked hungry. I had to try and help. I took a little piece of chicken (oh, the irony) and went to it.

Clarice did not move away from me. She knew I was its only savior. I held the piece of chicken over its beak, waving it back and forth. Suddenly, its beak opened. It scared the hell out of me. It looked/seemed very vaginalistic. I don't know what that means either but it seemed that way. I dropped the food towards its sharp bird mouth. I missed. Damn. I tried again. Missed. Shit, I'm not good at this. The bird kept its beak open while I was fumbling around. I could tell the bird was thinking, "Dude, this really isn't that difficult. Just stick the fucking piece of chicken in my mouth and be done with it." That made it worse. My hands started to shake. I was embarrassed. Finally, success. It swallowed the whole thing.

I realized that it also needed hydration so I soaked some dog food (which was left over from a previous "Save the Animal" experience) in water and began feeding it. Clarice now loves the Alpo.

As soon as we open the patio door now, Clarice runs over to us. I am now a baby mama. The bird has imprinted that it is one of us and I am its mommy. It even lets us pet it. It comes when we call it. This is all very odd to me.

I want it to learn how to fly and move out of our place. I don't need this responsibility. Barbecues will never be the same if we have our own feathered Kato Kaelin joining us each time. We read that starlings can live to be 20. That won't be happening here.

Update: Clarice passes on.

View pics of Clarice here.
View Baby Mama lyrics here.

Posted by durban bud at 08:26 AM | Comments (3)

May 04, 2005

Corporate Book Stores & Their Employees Suck

It was a beautiful day on Sunday so I thought I would go to the closest book store to purchase "Stories From a Moron" by Ed Broth (Jerry Seinfeld) and sit in the Circle and read it and giggle a bit.

I stopped by Books-A-Million to get it (right by the Circle). I looked in their "Humor" section but could not find it. Everything in that area is completely disorganized. For some reason books about painting and animation are mixed in with other "Humor" books by Jon Stewart and Ellen Degeneres. I couldn't find it so I decide to go to the 'Customer Service' area. Shockingly, no one is there so I stand in the check out line with 10 other people. Finally it comes to my turn. The check out lady (we shall call her "Lateesha") looks clearly annoyed that I have a question and not a purchase. I told her the name and author of the book and she looks it up on her handy dandy computer. She says, "It looks like we do have some in stock in the Humor section." I inform her that I have looked there but it is hard to find anything. She tells me to look again and if I cannot find it that means it is all sold out. Ummmm...okay. I walk back over to the "Humor" section thinking this isn't very funny. I look again. "Authors listed in alphabetical order" the sign says. Okay, let's see: Jon Stewart, Dave Barry, Ellen Degeneres, Erma Bombeck, that guy who wrote "He's Just Not That Into You", Gary Larson, David Sedaris, etc. Hmmm, no Broth. I decide to march right back up to Lateesha and tell her I still can't find it. I thought maybe, just maybe, she would go to the section with me to help me locate it. No such luck.

I decide to walk 8 blocks towards downtown to Border's BOOKS & Music. Surely they would have it. I mean this is a book written by Jerry Seinfeld. I arrive at the store and locate the 'Information' sign. A petite young woman is standing there (we shall call her "Emily"). I give her the info and she types it in. For some reason when I say the word "Moron" she looks at me as though I have just asked her to look up a porno. In fact, her response suggests she really believes I have asked her to look up "Fuck My Tight Juicy Ass" or "How to Take a Fist With Very Little Lube." She says, "Ummm, no we DO NOT carry that and NONE of our other stores around here will be carrying that title either." "Huh," I say. "It's a book by Jerry Seinfeld." "I'm sorry," she says. What the fuck. I decide I hate Emily.

I haul my ass back to the circle, lay down on my blanket feeling defeated. I realize I could easily order from Amazon but I wanted the book that afternoon. Of course, when I get back home I look up Borders.com, do a search for the book and there it is. I could have it delivered the next day they say. Corporate online book stores rule.

Posted by durban bud at 11:44 AM | Comments (7)