The Mind of Spaz

Back in the day I had a bit of a problem. Through my mid teen years to my mid twenties bars and alcohol were my friend. I could drink drink drink drink drink and drink summore.  That whole ‘beer before liquor makes you sicker liquor before beer you’re in the clear’ was bullshit to me.  I would take the drinks as they came and we all had a good time ALL the time.

Then you grow up.  You start getting a career. Your friends start getting married and popping out kids.  Shit, one of my friends got his wife pregnant FIVE times. FIVE! Another friend decided the sperm that would win the race would be the one that created a single child that took the same energy and care that five children did.   Shit, maybe all his sperm are like that, I dunno.

So, I did what anybody would do in my situation – I grew up too. I just didn’t want to get married and spit out kids. Hence, my life became boring.

I changed all that on saturday night, at least for a night, by going out with a group of friends that were actually allowed out once in a while, and proceeded to drink a gallon of beer.

That’s right, I drank a motherfucking gallon of fucking beer. And not that cheap wussy american shit either – this stuff had 5.5% alcohol content.

And so I stumbled into my friends basement at three thirty in the morning and proceeded to pass out on the cat.  Don’t get all PETA on me, the cat was like a billion years old and I saved them a trip to the vet for the ‘needle’.

I had forgotten what consuming mass quantities of beer does to you.  I got a reminder about three hours later.

Gurgle gurgle gurgle growl splootch gurgle.

That was Mt. Bowel signalling an imminent eruption.

I rolled of the cat and made my way upstairs for a jolly round of bum pow for the next half hour.

On the plus side, I discovered my anus has a knack for spackling when it’s on beer.

Can’t wait to do it again!

‘Nuff said.

dumb things I do to myself, talking out of my ass

Yea, I haven’t been around much.
Yup, I probably won’t be posting my usual 300-500 word lengthy blog posts that take me minutes and minutes to complete.

I’ve been busy lately. Yea, working two jobs.  Not to make ends meet mind you, because the second job actually isn’t classified as a job because I’m not getting paid.

See? I’ve been telling you all along that I’m retarded and only most of you believed me.  Now ALL of you can believe me for doing WORK and not getting paid.

It can’t actually be classified as volunteer work either, because the only benefit out of this is my own.  And it will ONLY be my own. Screw all you mental misfits and poor folk that need money! Go get a job and quit begging for cheeseburger money outside of McDonalds.

Also, when I go into McDonalds and get you cheeseburgers, don’t give me the look. If you don’t want cheeseburger don’t ask for one.

Fucking bums.

Anyways, in lieu of actual content, have a gander at this lovely poster created with the help of our friends at BIG HUGE LABS.

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According to a study I read somewhere and I couldn’t be bothered to share with you, 69% of Americans are severely obese and 30% or so are considered morbidly obese.

Is that all? I thought there was more.

Regardless, it makes me feel much better about the 10 or 15 extra lbs I’ve been carrying around ever since being gainfully employed and bogged down by a stupid mortgage.

See, but I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can’t stop eating after your belly reaches your knees. Why are you still popping entire pizza’s with a case of cola chaser when you’ve developed boobs on your back?  Why is the chocolate almond bin at Bulk Barn your best friend when your biggest chin reaches your collarbone?

Don’t you think your inability to find clothes that fit would be your first signal to cut back?

Ahh, but there’s the rub.  Rub as in what your thighs do, fatty.  Not only are your heart attack, stroke and death laden body types now socially acceptable, but clothing is now made to accomodate.  That’s right, front asses are now sewn into jeans.

The chinese clothing factory workers must think North America is full of Godzilla’s or some shit.

You know that pretty girl with the size 4 body, perfect thighs, perky tits and legs that go from here to the moon?  You know those skimpy shorts she wears, those tank tops, those half shirt thingies that go over the skin tight shirt thingies that I have no idea what are called but look so good on our size 4 girl?

WHY THE HELL ARE YOU MAKING CLOTHING LIKE THAT IN MORBIDLY OBESE SIZE?

Come on.  Seriously. Jiggling limbs and cellulite don’t look good.  Being able to see the folds through the tight shirts is just mortifying. Yet there you are, all morbidly obsese, waddling down the street like you’re king shit.

When did everybody get the idea that this kind of fat looks good?  If you’re unable to understand that in almost every case if the calories in are higher than the calories out, you’re going to get fat.  And excess fat to the tune of morbid does not look good. At all.  Probably because it’s incredibly unhealthy.

The fat acceptance movement is the biggest case of denial I’ve EVER seen.

So if you go to the zoo and the keepers try to throw you in the hippo enclosure, wear a moo moo.

Because that’s the only thing you should be wearing.

And FYI – wearing all black clothing will never have a slimming effect on you, ok? So just give it up.

politically incorrect, rant clothing, denial, fatty, morbidly obese

Anybody who reads my shitty blog and cares enough to remember my crappy shit might remember that for some reason I decided to build a crappy room in the basement of my crap shack. It used to look like this:

And it now looks like this:

Yea, it’s almost done.  I’m going to cover the water meter and electrical panel, because I both did the plumbing and electrical myself and everyone knows water and electricity probably don’t mix.  Unless someone wants to buy my house. Then the electrocution of the spouse for the insurance money can look like an accident.

I decided that a new room should get some new furniture, so I made this thing appear:

When I say appear, that’s what I mean.  Appear, like magic. Because I got a 36″ wide couch through 30″ wide doors.  And I still don’t know how I did it.

I remember taking the side door off my house.  I remember my friend TJ screaming in pain as his wrist dislocated (wuss). I remember the couch being dropped down the stairs right at me only to be saved by wedging itself between the stairs and the ceiling.

Mostly I remember all the swearing.  Yes, there was a lot of swearing. And as comfortable as that couch is, if I sell the house the stupid thing is staying down there.  Good thing too, because it’s probably the most valuable thing about the house.  I could use the money

dumb things I do to myself, talking out of my ass couch, pain, renovation, shitty house, swearing

I’ve got nothing much but this poster made with the help of the good people at big huge labs.

Enjoy!

talking out of my ass jerking off, long time, spoog