home is burning

Our golden retriever Moose was a giant, and by “giant,” I of course mean “fat ass.” The mere sight of him brought people to say things like, “Holy shit. That’s a big dog,” or, “Oh my god, your dog is really overweight,” or, “Wow, you guys need to stop feeding him and start walking him.”

“Haha, yeah right,” we’d say while pushing our leftover pancakes and bacon off our plates and into fat Moose’s fat mouth. “We’ll never stop feeding him.”

He was like golden version of Clifford the Big Red Dog with an eating problem, and without that yappy bitch Emily Elizabeth forcing him into trouble.

Moose represented the excess and carelessness of bovine America in dog form – a true testament to the gluttony and laziness in our society. And boy, did he love to eat. Moose wasn’t really passionate about anything else. Sure he liked us and was always happier than pig in shit – especially when he was eating a pig that had been in his or her own shit – but only because we were the gatekeepers of the food.

Moose’s happiest days were when we’d have parties or barbeques over at our house. On such occasions, he would scurry around our backyard like Templeton the Rat from Charlotte’s Web, hunting for food with a giant smile on his giant face. Anytime anyone would set down their plate for even a second, Moose would swoop in and snatch up their burger or hotdog, or both if he had found another fellow fat ass.

“Goddamn, I love hotdogs,” I imagined him saying if he could talk. “Hamburgers too,” he’d add with a mouth full of food, licking ketchup off his face.

If he saw something he wanted to eat, there was little stopping him. His fat ass would somehow muster the strength to allow him to jump onto his hind-legs and thief food off the countertop. He would knock people over to get to a turkey scrap on the floor. He’d eat food straight out of people’s hands, if it were within reach. He would eat food out of the garbage. He was like a raccoon in dog form.

I didn’t mind his eating. I actually liked having a fat dog. I thought it was funny and he’d always make me feel better because I’d think, “Well, at least I’m not eating as much as that fat ass Moose.”

Moose didn’t show much excitement about anything except food until another young, female golden retriever moved in up the street. This bitch lived in the cul-de-sac on Briarcreek Circle, in the home of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Mormon family.

I don’t remember her name, so let’s just call her Lady.

We – being a pack of sinning non-Mormons who liked to say bad words like “shit” and “fuck,” and do things on Sundays – didn’t have much to do with all of our Mormon neighbors. We were always friendly, waving to each other when we’d pass in the car, but I always felt like there was a subtle middle finger hidden behind each cordial wave. They didn’t trust us. So, we had to work extra hard at proving to them that we were decent people, despite not sharing the same set of beliefs they did.

There were a few times when we had run-ins with the Mormon neighbors. The neighbors up the street, the Bess family, and I didn’t get along. They had a younger, slightly tubby daughter, McKinsey, who was the same age as my youngest sister Chelsea. They would play together, but she once told Chelsea that they couldn’t play any more because Chelsea wasn’t Mormon. Chelsea was no older than six at the time, so this was met with great confusion; she couldn’t wrap her head around what she had done wrong. This upset little, sensitive Chelsea.

“Fuck that chucky piece of shit, Chelsea. You don’t need her. She’s a little asshole,” I would tell Chelsea as my mom made us breakfast.

“She’s only six,” my mom would remind me. “Back off her.”

“Age doesn’t matter Mom. If you’re an asshole, then you’re an asshole,” I remarked back, acting like a touch of an asshole myself.

One day, fat fuck McKinsey called the house and asked for Chelsea. I answered. Instead of staying out of their little, six-year-old hissy fit, I said, “Chelsea doesn’t want to play with you any more. She doesn’t like you, so don’t call again.” I hung up, smiling proudly.

There was a call right back from the same number. I answered, with a little more devotion and anger in my voice.

“Listen, McKinsey, Chelsea doesn’t like you. Stop calling,” I yelled into the phone.

Only it wasn’t McKinsey. It was her bitchy mother, Stacey Bess.

Stacey: This is McKinsey’s mom, Stacey Bess.

Me: Oh, shit. Hi. How are you? Weird weather lately, right? Did you see me wave ‘hello’ to you the other day?

Stacey: How old are you?

Wish I Said: [In a super deep, super smart-ass voice] 39. Wanna fuck?

Really Said: I’m 13.

Stacey: Well, I think that’s old enough to know not to pick on a six-year-old child. McKinsey is crying.

Wish I said: Well, your six-year-old happens to be a little judgmental bitch who is picking on someone because she doesn’t believe the same things as her, even though both are too young to even begin to comprehend religion. So I was just giving her a taste of her own, bitchy medicine and teaching her the consequences of being an asshole.

Really Said: Sorry. You’re right. I’m a bad person.

The Bess family and me became enemies. I discovered that Stacey had written a shitty book about working at a school for homeless kids called, “Nobody Don’t Love Nobody.” I know the book was probably about her doing some nice things for people in need and proof that she was actually a good person, but still, fuck her. I hated her.

Once, I walked by their house and noticed that a bunch of boxes of her un-purchased books. I smiled at her and said, “Looks like nobody don’t want to buy nobody’s book.”

McKinsey was banned from coming over to our house. It turned out to be a good thing, in my opinion. Chelsea’s life was hard enough. She didn’t need some Mormon bitch picking on her for fictitious reasons.

We also had an incident where someone in our neighborhood wrote, “Fuck the Marshall’s” on the side of our mailbox. I thought that was funny, and didn’t waste too much time being angry about that. Guess my gay brother Greg and I could have put together a little hetero/homo detective team and tried to figure that one out, but it wasn’t as serious as the fight between the Bess assholes, so we left it alone.

Overall though, we lived a fairly peaceful existence, in a peaceful Mormon neighborhood, in a peaceful Mormon town.

That is until Moose tried to take his interest in Lady to the next level.

Lady was in heat. She hadn’t been spayed yet. Apparently, she was too young or something. Moose had been neutered, but that didn’t keep him from trying to fuck this poor dog. Guess Lady’s pussy scent was just so sweet that he didn’t even need a nut sack to want to tap that shit.

Moose stopped hanging around our house. Instead, he was always up at the neighbors, trying to bang out his crush. He lived up there. If he were a person, he definitely would have been tossed in jail for stalking, and given a restraining order. But he wasn’t a person. He was a horny dog. Nature was telling him to fuck, so that’s what he was trying to do.

And boy did he ever try.

Greg and I would have to go up to retrieve Moose on a nightly basis. It became a chore to do after washing the dishes and cleaning our rooms. We’d get up there and yell at him like he was a drunk dad glued to a bar.

“Moose. Come on home. Your family needs you. We haven’t pet anything all day long. You’re pissing your life away,” we’d say.

“I’m trying to get some puppy pussy from this hot ass bitch. Leave me alone,” drunk on love Moose would say back, if he could talk, that is.

Once, we caught him with his front legs up on their basement windowsill, peering into a room where Lady was playfully and sexily rolling around with one of the family’s kids. He looked like he was about to explode.

If he could talk, he would have said, “Holy Christ, I’m about to cum in my pants,” assuming, in this situation, that he could also wear pants.

Our “Moose, come on,” yells would prove worthless, and we’d have to eventually just grab him by the collar and drag him on home. He’d whimper along the way, sniffing Lady’s pussy scent out of the air, and looking back at the house where his dream girl was hanging out.

We were on strict orders to not let Moose out of the house. The neighbors were starting to worry about him. They weren’t sure what he was capable of, with those crazied golden retriever eyes and his endless persistence. Plus, he was technically a non-Mormon since we were. He was not to be trusted. They were getting Lady spayed very soon, so we needed to just hold him back for a few more days.

As any creep really trying to score, Moose found a way out of our house. We made the mistake of putting him in our backyard. Like a devout prisoner hell-bent on breathing free air, Moose broke out, digging beneath our fence, and crawling to freedom.

His escape occurred on the day Lady was officially fixed. She had just gotten home from the vet, and was inside recovering from the surgery.

Moose shot up the street to go back to his usual hang.

“I’m coming for you, my love,” I bet he was screaming in his head, as he ran as fast as his fat legs would take him. He was a boom box and trench coat away from being John Cusack in Say Anything, or a red convertible away from being Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate – a horny dude hell-bent on getting his girl.

I’m not sure exactly how the whole spayed thing works, but I guess she was still putting out some hints of the heat smell, despite having her ovaries and uterus removed. We didn’t realize that Moose had made his break, so he was up there unsupervised, prowling around like a biologically driven psychopath. Because he was on lockdown, our neighbors weren’t expecting him to be up there either.

But he was.

He was camped out in a patch of bushes in their front yard, like a true creep. Someone came out the front door and was a second too late to close it behind them. Moose saw his opening and barreled in, like a running back breaking through a pack of defenders for a game-winning touchdown.

Once inside, Moose, being larger than most dogs and humans, was unstoppable. He quickly found Lady, who was lying innocently on a doggy bed, nursing her sowed up vagina back to health.

“I made it my love,” I bet he yelled in his head.

Then he fucked her.

Good and hard.

In front of the screaming and horrified Mormon family.

Just like he was supposed to.

Some people, like our neighbors, used the word “rape.” But, I’m going to go with “fucked,” because they’re animals, and nature, and all that.

Turns out, Moose went at her so hard that he tore open her freshly sown stitches.

Any peace and goodwill we had been building over the years was lost with these particular neighbors. Not only were we the non-Mormon, sinning neighbors destined for hell, but we also had a dog that fucked the stitches out of their beautiful, family dog, Lady.

“Those Marshall’s have a rapist for a pet,” I imagined them saying.

“That’s what happens when you don’t believe in the Church. You’re animals turn into pussy robbers,” I also imagined them saying.

“Fuck the Marshalls,” I imagined them writing on the side of our mailbox.

We went and grabbed Moose, scolding him the whole way home, acting like he had just murdered a young family, or thought up the Holocaust, or planned 9/11.

“Moose, that was very, very horrible of you. I’d rub your face in the mess you’ve made like it were shit on a kitchen floor, but that would only make you happier,” I told Moose, who smiled back at me, probably wishing he could light up a post-coital cigarette, and call up all his buddies.

“Remember that bitch I’ve been trying to fuck all summer? Guess what…” is how the phone call would probably start.

In reality, I was sort of proud of him, in a fucked up way. He certainly shouldn’t have done what he did, but he really didn’t have a choice. He was a dog. It was also a good lesson in goal setting: if you really want something, stay the course and go for it. I remember petting Moose that night. He eventually looked guilty, like he knew he messed up, but I consoled him.

“It’s okay Moose. She was a hot dog. You love hot dogs, eating them and doing them. You wanted to fuck her, and by God, you did it,” I said. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

Moose’s guilt turned to sadness. He wanted to be with Lady, his love, but that seemed to be impossible in this human world. It was a sort of Romeo and Juliet situation in dog form, but with more rape.

We had to pay for Lady to get re-stitched, and my parents apologized profusely. We promised to keep Moose indoors at all times. We filled the freedom hole he had dug in the backyard and put up protection so he couldn’t escape again.

But that wasn’t enough. They were convinced that Moose needed more of a house-arrest situation. They didn’t want the serial-rapist Marshall dog on the loose again. They demanded that we get an invisible electric fence that would administer a small shock through Moose’s collar every time he tried to run through it. The fence would teach him to stay in his own yard, and not terrorize the neighborhood with his rapist cock.

I felt bad for the big, fat guy. He was losing his freedom, and being forced to become less of the animal that he was built to be. It was very much a One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest situation, or A Clockwork Orange, if you prefer that movie. Moose was captured – an animal encaged in the zoo that was our house.

Moose had a hard time accepting the electric fence. He did everything he could to escape. He was even able to build a tolerance for the shocks. He would brace himself and then sort of sprint through the invisible fence like a runner crossing the finish line of the 100-meter dash. Him being so fat helped with this. He couldn’t feel much through all the layers he had put on over the years, so it didn’t hurt him too badly.

After digging up a fresh set of flowers out of a neighbor’s yard – sort of raping Mother Earth, if you will – we were asked to turn up the voltage so he couldn’t break free again. It soon became too much for even fat, tricky Moose to take. He soon accepted his fate and elected to just hang around the house.

I would occasionally take the collar off and let Moose go dig up some of the neighbor flowers, or go sniff the asshole of another random neighborhood dog.

“You smell that? That’s the smell of freedom,” I pictured him thinking while I watched him inhale another dog’s garbage hole.

But Moose was ultimately a prisoner, trapped by electricity.

Because he couldn’t run around free, enjoying the fuck out of being a dog, Moose resorted back to his original love of eating too much. And he was great at it.

During high school, McDonald’s started selling hamburgers for 29 cents. Kids in high school took this as a challenge to eat as many as they could. One kid ate 15 of them in one sitting, and claimed that his mark couldn’t be beaten. I told him that I knew someone who could. I gathered up 25 hamburgers with my allowance money and put Moose up to the challenge.

He ate 19 of them without stopping, beating the mark by four.

I definitely shouldn’t have giving him that much food. It was like giving an obese kid a bucket of fried chicken and a sack of candy, or giving an arsonist a pack of matches, some gasoline, and a list of people he hates. But Moose took them down best he could. Sure, he stumbled around our backyard, fainted and puked most of them up, but still, it was pretty impressive.

He ballooned to an ungodly weight – somewhere around 170 pounds. Golden Retrievers are supposed to weigh around 60-80 pounds, meaning he was about 100 over. Visitors began saying things like, “Wow, you guys should really walk this dog,” or, “I didn’t think he could get any fatter, but he did,” or, “I feel like I should toss a saddle on him and ride him around. He’s a horse not a dog.”

Eventually, Moose started running into some health problems. Because he had endured so many electric shocks from the fence, he began having seizures. During these uncontrollable fits, he would fall to the ground, foam at the mouth and piss all over the place. They were pretty horrific to witness. Poor guy.

One time, we were coming home from a family vacation, super excited to see our pal Moose. We pulled into the driveway and opened the garage, expecting Moose to burst out of there for a barrage of pets and “Moosey, we missed you” yells. But instead, we opened the garage to Moose mid-seizure, foaming at the mouth and spraying piss straight up into the air. Welcome home!!!

I guess the neighbor’s had won. They had destroyed Moose and turned him into a seizing, obese mess of a dog, incapable of rape.

Moose hung on for a couple more years. His hind legs eventually stopped working, so he was forced to drag himself around with his front paws. He was still happy, so long as we gave him the occasion plate of shit to eat. We probably should have put him under, but he was very special to us, our childhood dog. Plus, us Marshalls like to drag out death as long as we can (see my dad’s battle with Lou Gehrig’s disease, or my mom’s battle with cancer). We try not to give in, even when we probably should.

One day, while at college, I got the call.

“I have some bad news,” my dad said.

“I already know. Greg’s gay. Tragic,” I joked.

“No. Moose has passed away,” he said.

“Shit, that sucks. Guess it was probably his time though. Can’t eat like shit and endure electroshocks for too long without it eventually getting to you,” I said, while fighting back tears and flashing back to the time when an elated Moose had just finished fucking his dream girl Lady, arguably his happiest moment but also his downfall.

“Yeah, he was a good dog – probably the best we ever had,” my dad said back.

“I’ll miss the fat fuck,” I said, wiping tears away like a pussy.

They say that all dogs go to heaven, and even though Moose was an over-eater, and arguably a rapist, I’m pretty sure he’s up there, eating other people’s hotdogs and fucking the stitches out of some hot, virgin golden retriever pussy.

I’m not a big fan of skiing, unless it’s the type of skiing where a hot girl sits between two guys and gives them both handjobs at the same time, and even that’s sort of gay.

A couple reasons why I’m not a super big fan of skiing:

1.) I’m uncomfortable most of the time. I alternate between being my-dick-is-retracting-into-my-body cold, and I’m-about-to-have-a-fucking-heat-stroke-because-I’m-wearing-so-many-layers hot. I can never find a comfortable balance.

2.) While I’m up there, I spend most of my time daydreaming about sitting in a hot tub drinking wine, or writing cock jokes in a warm café, about to order my fourth hot chocolate of the afternoon. Sometimes I’ll even daydream about sitting in a café that’s also a hot tub filled with hot chocolate. I often think, “Fuck, why am I doing this instead of sitting drunk in the hot chocolate hot tub café?”

When I’m skiing, I basically feel like I’d rather be doing anything else. Short list of things I’d rather be doing than skiing:

–Pouring shampoo on my eyeballs.

–Being forced to eat an entire bowling ball at gunpoint.

–Watching a grizzly bear ass rape my mother.

–Attempting to dig myself out of a coffin.

–Converting to Judaism and time traveling back to Nazi Germany, circa 1941.

You’re right. The last one was a little extreme. I’d rather ski than be murdered by Nazis.

3.) When I go with more advance skiers, I’m always forced onto runs that are more dangerous than I’d like them to be. I’m not a bad skier. I’m actually pretty good – a solid intermediate. I don’t mind the cruiser runs where you can just fly down the mountain while humming a tune, but the ones where you’re heading down some powdery, mogul-filled mountain covered in trees and rocks make me want to shit my pants and cry myself to death.

I have a rule about certain activities: “Don’t risk your life doing something you don’t love.” And yes, that means I’d be willing to die masturbating while watching a Utah Jazz game and eating a plate of bacon. Skiing is risky. I could die doing it. A lot of people have (see Sonny Bono). So I try to avoid it, as the last thing I want in my obituary is: “Died while skiing.” It would also lead to some confusing conversations in heaven:

Person in Heaven: How’d you die?

Me: Skiing.

Person: Really? Wow, you must really love skiing.

Me: No, I don’t. I actually find skiing to be uncomfortable.

Person: [Perplexed] Oh, well, why’d you die doing it then?

Me: Because I’m a gosh darn idiot who should have been drinking wine in the hot chocolate hot tub café instead of skiing.

Person: Shit, I’m sorry.

Me: It’s okay. Want to go fuck another virgin?

Person: Yeah sure. [Walking into the clouds] You think they have a hot chocolate hot tub café up here in heaven?

Me: I bet they do. I just hope they don’t have skiing.

4.) There’s a lot of preparation that goes into skiing. I have to gather up all this heavy gear and toss it into my car. When I get to the mountain, I have to cram my fat body into my skinny boots, which often leaves me in tears and saying things like, “This is the last fucking time I’m going skiing.” Then, once I have everything on, I have to waddle to the mountain like a guy in a fat-suit while carrying my skis that can’t seem to stay together, just like me and my ex-girlfriend.

5.) There’s a certain culture that surrounds skiing that I find a little irritating. Most skiers are either rich-bitch fuck-heads looking to blow some cash and get a little color on their up-turned noses, or complete ski bum fanatics who flock to the snow like it’s the other white powder (cocaine). I actually respect ski bums because it’s important to be passionate about something, but I do find their gruff look and chill-ass lingo to be a bit annoying. When someone says, “Bro, I really need to get up there to catch some fresh powder,” I want to whap them on the side of the head with a ski pole.

Honestly, my favorite parts of skiing are lunch and leaving. The two Ls.

Despite my borderline hatred of skiing, every now and then I still find myself up on the mountain, braving the intensely cold temperatures, and praying that I don’t accidentally fall off a cliff or slam into a tree.

It’s a little confusing why I still go skiing, but I guess it’s because of my dead dad. My dad was an avid skier, and a real pro. He could ski just about any run. He grew up a rich kid in Pocatello, Idaho, so his family and him would vacation to Sun Valley, often, taking to the slopes for days on end. He loved it – probably more than he loved me. Just kidding. That fucker loved the shit out of me. But skiing was certainly up there. I think his top five “love list” went something like this:

1.) Me

2.) His wife

3.) Skiing

4.) Having a glass of wine with dinner

5.) His gay son

My dad never forced anything upon any of us kids. We avoided divisive things like religion and politics like they were AIDS – thank fucking God – but skiing was the one thing he really wanted us to love and participate in. And living in Utah – home of the greatest snow on earth as our license plates brag – we were in the backyard of some great skiing. There are seven or so world-class resorts within thirty minutes of our doorstep. So, my dad forced us onto the mountain as much as he could.

And I’m glad he did because skiing with my dad was incredibly rewarding and a terrific bonding experience. He was so happy doing it, like a pig rolling around in it’s own shit, or Scrooge McDuck swimming in his pool of gold coins. I was glad to have spent time with him doing something he loved.

Some of our best conversations took place on the chairlifts heading up the mountain. We’d talk about life and love and all that shit, which is the title of my next book. We’d both open up in ways we wouldn’t when we were back in that grimy, polluted civilization. Guess he felt free and alive up on the mountain. He’d always say these incredibly blissful things like, “There’s no place I’d rather be right now,” and, “Boy, it’s so beautiful up here,” and, “God, being up here makes me forget all of my problems.” I’d blow my nose and ask when we were stopping for lunch, which usually consisted of a plate of fries and a bowl of cheese-covered chili.

Skiing was, in addition to watching Sopranos and going to Utah Jazz games, one of those solid staples in our relationship. We were a little ski team. Us vs. the mountain. He’d always set ski goals for us. Just small things like, “Let’s hit eight runs before lunch,” or, “Let’s try a whole run without stopping,” or, “Let’s go to the top, and ski all the way down to the base.” Fun, little achievable goals to spruce up our day.

One year, my dad got this stupid little watch that kept track of how many vertical feet we’d ski. At the start of the day, he’d often set a goal for us. “We skied 25,000 feet last week. You think we can ski 30,000 this week?” he’d ask.

“Is that how many we have to ski so we can leave,” I’d remark back.

“Yes. 30,000. We can do it,” he’d say with an excited smile, while setting the watch.

Then we’d do it. We’d always reach our goal. Guess it was probably a pretty good life lesson about hard work, and setting goals, and following through, and commitment, and all that shit. My dad was always super excited when we achieved one of our silly benchmarks.

“Boy, I can’t believe we did it. 30,000 feet. That’s a new record for me.” He’d say during the car ride home as I rubbed my itchy shins, day-dreaming about the hot tub and masturbation session awaiting me at home.

“Can we grab some beef jerky at the gas station? My fat-ass is starving,” I’d say back.

Our record was somewhere around 37,000 vertical feet one day at Deer Valley. We skied all day long. Run after run after run after run. I don’t even think we stopped for our traditional bowl of chili, but instead had a few Power Bars and a banana on the lift. “Man, we’re really skiing hard today. You got to use your poles more, but you’re bending your knees nicely. God, it’s so beautiful up here,” he’d say while puffing in and out the wintry-cold mountain air – completely alive and happy.

“Are we really not stopping for chili?” I’d say back, checking my watch not for vertical feet, but for the leaving time.

He also tried to get all my siblings up on the slopes. His efforts were hit or miss. My gay brother Greg never really enjoyed skiing, and has a tight tendon, so he would always physically struggle to enjoy his day. My adopted sister Michelle enjoyed it, but soon took to fucking her soccer coach and drinking with friends, so her interest waned as she got older and pregnant. My oldest sister Tiffany really loved skiing, though she discovered snowboarding around the age of 12, and converted. She was the one child who definitely shared my dad’s obsession with the mountain. She started participating in half-pipe competitions and traveled the world competing in various tournaments. Eventually, she got good enough to qualify as an alternate for the Olympics, or so the story goes.

Then there was little goof-ball, Asperger’s Chelsea, my youngest sister. Though her primary hobby was and still is dance, she loved skiing. Because of some of her social problems related to the Asperger’s, it was hard for her to find friends to go up skiing with her. So, my dad became that friend, and they’d go often. It was the one thing that they consistently did together. She was never that good, but he was such a patient and loving man that he’d ease down the mountain with her and coach her along, making sure she was nailing all her turns and using her poles to her advantage.

Once my dad died after a horrible battle with that piece of shit Lou Gehrig’s disease, which crippled him and made it so he’d never ski again, I sort of hung up the old skis as well. Because of my slight disliking of skiing, I was sort of relieved when he died. “Well, sucks my dad is dead, but at least I don’t have to be dragged up skiing again,” I thought. (Just kidding. I never thought that. I’m not that big of a piece of shit.)

Plus, since skiing is so greatly associated with my dad, it was too sad to head on up there without him. Skiing was uncomfortable enough. I didn’t need to be freezing my ass off on the mountain while also crying and missing the old man. The only times I still go now is when other people want to. In those cases, I’m fine with it. But I never seek it out on my own.

Chelsea handled my dad’s death pretty well for the most part. Guess having Asperger’s actually helps with the grieving process. But she missed her ski days. When I asked her what she missed the most about our dad, she would sheepishly respond, “Probably skiing and his smile, but mainly skiing.” She’d then laugh and change the subject to either dance practice or something our mom did to piss her off.

Every Christmas, since we have a large, almost Mormon-like family and none of us are making that much money now because we’re losers, we each pull a person’s name to give a gift to. This year, I drew Chelsea’s. Because Chelsea doesn’t have a father because he’s dead, I often try to step in and be a sort of horrible, and sarcastic dad. Sometimes I even make her call me “King Papa,” and will ask her questions like, “So, who do you consider to be your father figure since Dad is dead?” She’ll usually respond, “Probably Greg, or our dog Berkeley.”

“Yeah right, idiot. I’m pretty much your dad now,” I’ll say back.

Since I had her name and am pretty much her new father, I decided that I’d give her a couple of ski passes to Park City so we could go brave a day of skiing, sort of try to mimic one of the many ski days my dad would take her on.

“Jesus, I’m such a great brother and a great person,” I thought as I purchased a couple of discount tickets at REI. “Fuck, I’m actually going to have to go up skiing with her,” I also thought.

When she opened the gift on Christmas morning, she slid the passes out of the envelope, smiled big and said, “Oh, wow. Ski passes. Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said. “Figured that since Dad died like a little pussy, that I’d take you up, sort of be your dad for a day.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” she said. “Looking forward to it.”

“Fuck, I’m totally not looking forward to this. It’s going to be horrible,” I wanted to say. “Yeah, me too,” I really said.

The days after Christmas pressed on – lazy days full of bad eating decisions and catching up on HBO shows. Chelsea was to pick a day that she wanted to go. I told her to let me know a couple days in advance so I could remember to not drink the night before. The only thing worse than skiing, is skiing hung-over, especially with all that delicious snow around that you want to hydrate your desert body with.

She picked Friday, December 30. I agreed.

As the date approached, I started to try to back out. “Fuck, I really hate skiing. This might be the worst Christmas gift I’ve ever given anyone,” I confided in my mom.

“Dan, shut up. This means a lot to Chelsea. She really wants to go, and her dad is dead, and she has no friends. This is all she has going for her, this ski day with you,” my mom said, shooting a load of guilt on my face.

“Jesus Mom. I’ll go. Wow,” I said back. “I was just kidding. I love skiing,” I added.

Since my dad was a really honest, hard working and terrific person, I have adopted a mantra I say whenever I’m stressed or morally confused about something. I say to myself over and over and over again, “What would Dad do? What would Dad do?” It helps calm me down and usually leads me toward doing the right thing and being a better person. I often use it when, for example, I’m thinking of beating off in the middle of the day, or something sick like that. “What would Dad do? What would Dad do?” “Well, pretty sure he wouldn’t beat off in the middle of the fucking day.” Shit like that.

I decided that this whole ski day would require the “What would Dad do?” mantra.

The day before, I gathered all the dusty ski gear out of the garage while Chelsea stood watching me. Neither of us had been in about two years, the last time I had agreed to take her up. Isn’t that pathetic. Sure, I live in California now, but I’m in Utah a couple winter weeks a year. And we’re just wasting that opportunity to take advantage of those mountains. It’s like not trying to fuck as much pussy as possible if you’re a single, heterosexual male in your mid-twenties. Am I right ladies?

As I dug out all the skis, boots, helmets and poles, picking spider webs off of them, I tried to talk Chelsea out of skiing.

“You sure you want to go skiing? It’s hardly snowed at all this month. Record lows. Probably shitty snow. Might want to wait until January and go with a friend,” I said with a convincing grin.

“They make their own snow up there, so it’s okay,” she replied.

Fuck, how’d she know that? “Are you sure you don’t want to go with a friend? You could use those passes on anyone,” I tried.

“None of my friends ski. They dance. I want to go with you,” she said.

“Alright, well help me grab these fucking poles and boots, you lazy little fuck,” I said as I tossed a set of poles her way. The mantra kicked in, “What would Dad do? What would Dad do? What would Dad do?”

“Sorry Chels. I was kidding back there when I called you a ‘lazy little fuck.’ Grab your boots off the shelf over there so we can have everything ready to go, and get a big, fun, full day of awesome skiing in tomorrow. Gosh, I hope we get some snow,” I said, hoping I didn’t over do it there with all that optimistic bullshit.

Chelsea giggled and grabbed her boots off the shelf.

We were all set to go.

One thing I also don’t like about skiing that I left off that awesome list is that you usually have to get up super early. I’m not a morning person. I’m also not a night person. I hate the whole day equally. The only time I’m up before seven is if I’m still drunk from the night before, or if I fucked up real bad and booked an early flight. Skiing requires that you get up no later than eight, especially if you want a full day.

Thankfully, Chelsea didn’t want to do a full day, so we were able to get up around nine.

I dressed with what clothes I could scrape together. I found the top part of some long johns, a pair of worn down jeans, some ski pants, a warm sweater and some thick-ass ski socks I inherited from my dad. “Wish I got his big dick instead,” I thought as I slid the socks on. I toped the outfit off with my dad’s old, gigantic purple and yellow ski coat and headed up for breakfast.

“Is the coat too much, Mom? I mean, I know I’m pretty much her dad now, but is wearing his big, ugly thing going overboard? I mean, what’s next? I’m I going to start fucking his wife too?” I said.

“No, you’re not going to start fucking me. And it’s good you’re wearing the coat. You’ll be noticeable so she doesn’t get lost on the mountain and die,” my mom said as she pulled a plate of bacon out of the microwave.

I chugged a glass of OJ. “Fuck, I hate skiing. Goddamnit. Shit. Fart. Balls.”

“Dan, stop. This means so much to her. Come on,” she pleaded.

“Shut up Mom. I’m doing it aren’t I. I mean, I’m wearing my dead dad’s coat for fuck’s sake. Jesus,” I said while washing down the OJ with some crispy and delicious and awesome and unhealthy bacon. I took a deep breath. “What would Dad do? What would Dad do?”

“Sorry, we’re going to have an awesome day. It’s just a lot of work to get up on the mountain,” I said.

“I know, but…” she started to say.

“I know. She loves skiing and her dad is dead. I got it,” I said, while finishing off the plate of bacon.

Chelsea and I got everything loaded into her Subaru. Before we left, I gave her a big hug and a high-five. “Let’s do this shit,” I said, not knowing if my dad would do that or not. It felt right though, as most hugs and high-fives do.

We got up to the crowded Park City parking lot. We pulled up next to a dad helping his three bratty kids into their boots and gear as they complained and acted like a bunch of rich assholes. I had a flashback of me acting like that with my dad and felt a tinge of weird guilt. Shit, the things parents do for their children is remarkable. I’m such a selfish fuck. I don’t know how to do anything for anyone, unless it some how benefits me. Helping your kids ski? Jesus, that’s some serious parenting. It made me respect my dad even more – taking all us bratty, whiny kids up on the mountain, hoping that we got some thrills and life experience out of the day. I need to be a better person.

I looked at Chelsea struggling with her boots. “Put on your fucking boots. We don’t have all day,” I barked, already blowing my chance at being a better person.

I got my boots on while only saying, “This is the last fucking time I’m going skiing,” a couple of times. The boots. That’s the worst part. It’s really tricky getting them on and off. Never understood why they still make it so hard. Especially in this day and age full of iPhones and fuck-machines.

Chelsea continued to struggle with hers. “What would Dad do? What would Dad do?” I helped her strap on the boots. “But you’ve got to carry your own skis. That’s too much work for me. I know you’re slightly retarded, but you’re also twenty years old.” She nodded in agreement as she picked up her skis.

We were all ready to go. I waved to the dad still helping his three asshole kids into their gear, sort of a “Got mine ready before you, so fuck you,” sort of wave. We grabbed our skis and started our hot march to the base of the mountain.

We arrived at the base and looked at the intensely thick holiday crowds. The Park City crowd leans much more toward the rich-bitch fuck-head type of skier instead of the ski-bum type. Oh well. We sort of fit in with that crowd anyways. I helped Chelsea into her skis.

“Oh shit, Chelsea. Did you bring the lift tickets?” I asked.

“No, I thought you had them,” she said.

“What! No! Oh Boy! I really wanted to ski!” I said sarcastically.

“Oh my God. Shit,” she said back.

“I’m just fucking with you Chels. I grabbed them,” I said, laughing. I handed her the passes while realizing my dad would never have pulled such a shitty psyche-out on her. “Let’s do it,” I added while giving her another hug, high-five combo.

We took the lift up. I put the safety bar down, a real parental thing to do. As we rode up the icy mountain while looking at the smoker’s cloud coming out of our mouths, I tried to converse with Chelsea like my dad would with me.

Me: There’s no place I’d rather be right now. Boy, it’s so beautiful up here. God, being up here makes me forget all of my problems.

Chelsea: Yep.

Me: Yep? That’s all you got? I’m trying to have a life conversation and all you say is “yep”?

Chelsea: [Laughing] Yep.

Me: Fucking forget it Chelsea. Jesus, I hate skiing. I wish I were in the hot chocolate hot tub café. Drunk. Happy. Warm.

I was doing a horrible job of being my dad. I will never be him. I can’t. That was him. I’m me – a sort of lazy, selfish, fat asshole with flashes of decency. I’m no Dad. Fuck, why do I even try? It’ll never happen. I’ll only be a shitty version of him at best.

Just then, Chelsea tapped me with one of her poles. I looked over. “Thanks for taking me up here. I haven’t skied in forever and I like it, so thanks,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, no problem. Glad I could take you,” I said. I smiled back at her. Sure, I wasn’t my dad, but at least little Chelsea had a ski buddy for a day.

“Let’s try to do fifteen runs today,” I said.

“Alright,” she said back.

“You got to keep up and make sure you use your poles and bend your knees,” I said.

“I will,” she said.

“I’ll follow behind you and make sure you nail all your turns,” I said.

We approached the top of the lift. I pulled the safety bar up and placed my ski goggles over my eyes. “Oh and Chels. One more thing.”

“Yeah?” she said.

“Call me King Papa today.”

We didn’t make it to our fifteen run mark, but we had a great day on the slopes. And the best part was that I didn’t slam into a tree and die, and neither did Chelsea.

Fast food is one of the many ways I’m slowly killing myself along with alcohol, self-hatred, Hot Pockets, loneliness and broken nooses. It’s not my fault. Fast food is delicious. Taste-wise, it’s everything that’s right with food smashed into a little shitty bag. Sure, it’s horrible for you. Sure, the amount of fat and grease and cholesterol clogs your arteries. Sure, it’s making me look like I’m from the South, but fatter. But, my goodness, does it taste good. So good, in fact, that I sometimes treat myself to it, and by sometimes, I mean a lot of times. I’ll find any reason to reward myself with it:

“Dan, you woke up today. Sounds like you earned some fast food.”

“Dan, you had a long day of writing and watching your favorite Internet clips on youjizz. How about some fast food to wash down a productive day? You’ve earned it.”

“Dan, you went to the gym today. Sure you didn’t work out. You just went and stood there. But you went. You earned some fast food.”

“Dan, you finished all that fast food super quick. You earned another round of fast food.”

The only part of fast food I don’t like is the crippling guilt and depressing that comes after I finish eating it, you know, that feeling like your destroying that one life you accidentally earned through that one-in-a-billion chance your dad’s orgasm turned into you. Oh, and I’m not particularly fond of all the stinging diarrhea, and the feelings of fatness and bloating that make me certain I’m going to pop and spray Arby’s sauce all over the place.

Despite how bad fast food is for everything but my taste buds, on Sunday night, it may have saved my life.

Let me explain.

I was heading home from a improv show called “Shitty Jobs” at the UCB. It’s a late show, ending at about 12:15. I was about home. I actually drove right passed my house. I was about to pull into my driveway, when I thought, “Dan, you laughed really hard at that UCB show. I think you earned some fast food.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely right, Dan,” I thought back to myself.

“Go wherever you’d like,” I told myself.

“Great, how about we go load our diarrhea-tank of a body up with some Del Taco? Your fat ass loves spicy chicken burritos and chicken Del Carbon tacos,” I replied to myself.

“You’re right. Let’s treat ourselves,” I said, smiling to myself.

I thus headed to the closest Del Taco location, which is on Sunset Blvd. in Silverlake by the hipster haven they call Sunset Junction.

I made an order that would make any fellow fat ass proud: one spicy chicken burrito, two chicken Del Carbon tacos, and jalapeño rings to add that extra little burn to my shits. Did I ask for extra Del Scorcho sauce? You bet. They gave me my five-pound bag of shit. I was a happy camper. The trashy food instantly made my shitty Subaru smell like the worst parts of Mexico. I could feel myself getting fatter just by breathing the air.

I instantly dug in, like a rat starving to death. I finished one taco and most of the jalapeño rings before I reached the first light. I took a deep breath. “Fuck that was good,” I thought as I geared up for the second assault.

I murdered the spicy chicken burrito in like three bites, covering that shit with Del Scorcho sauce while driving with my knees, somehow becoming the master of multitasking. Fuck, I should have tried firing off a text message during this display. The final taco didn’t stand a chance. It was the last fat, slow kid on the dodgeball floor.

I pulled up to my street, the bag of Del Taco already gone, to find my neighborhood surrounded by cop cars. I pulled up to one. “Can I get through? I’m just over on Harold. Behind the Roscoe’s,” I said, trying to hide the Del Taco on my breath like it were whiskey.

The cop looked at me like he was going to fire a bullet into my head just for existing. “Absolutely not. We’re not letting anyone through,”

“Jesus Christ. For how long?” I asked, feeling my confused and angry stomach begin to slowly spin the Del Taco into diarrhea like Rumpelstiltskin does straw into gold. “Seriously Dan? Why didn’t you just eat garbage,” I pictured my stomach thinking.

“Don’t know. Could be hours. They’re bringing in the police dogs,” he said. “Move along please. We got to keep this area clear.”

So, I had no choice. I parked my Subaru and sat there waiting, wishing I hadn’t already torn through that sack of Del Taco. It was about 12:45 at this point. I was tired. I had to shit. I just wanted to go home and masturbate myself to sleep like usual.

The police brought in the police dogs, about eight of them. More and more cops arrived. They had every street blocked off in a four-block radius. They had two helicopters circling overhead, scanning the area with their searchlights. I wondered if they spotted fat me sitting in my car. “Get that fat ass with the empty Del Taco sack out of there,” I’m sure one of the police helicopter dudes thought. Apparently, there were two criminals on the loose. They had stolen a car in Pasadena and been chased into my neighborhood in Hollywood. Some real LA shit there.

I got out of my car and checked in with the cops after about an hour. “Any chance this is going to end soon?” I asked, the Del Taco starting to pound on me like a crowd rushing for the exits inside a burning nightclub.

“Can’t promise you anything,” said the cop, probably wanting to curb me. I looked down the street and noticed that all the police officers and dogs were standing in front of my house.

“Fuck, that’s my house,” I said to the officer.

“Go back to your shitty Subaru and smell your fast food fatty,” I expected the officer to say.

“Please return to your vehicle,” he really said.

So I returned to my car. I had to wait until 3:45 before they captured the criminals and cleared out the police dogs. They finally let me through around 4 in the morning. At this point, I hated criminals. I hated Los Angeles. I hated the police. I hated police dogs. I hated all dogs, what with their stupid tails and their stupid noses and teeth. Fuck them all.

A cop waved me through. I pulled up to my driveway and rolled down the window to talk to a remaining fat cop. “Everything all good?” I asked him.

“Yep, we pulled the guy out of your backyard,” he said.

“Fuck, that’s sort of crazy,” I said.

“Yep. We got him though. It’s all safe and sound,” said the proud cop like he was fat-Superman or something.

I pulled into my driveway. I began to think. If my fat ass hadn’t stopped for Del Taco, I could have pulled into my driveway to this criminal in hiding. I’m not sure if he was armed, but he could have been. Fuck, with that many police officers, helicopters and dogs, he probably was. I could have gotten out of my car and been shot or stabbed or raped or kicked in the shins, or whatever criminals in hiding do to innocent idiots who happen upon them. My life could have ended. That could have been it. I could have died.

I picked up the Del Taco bag off my car floor and rubbed the side as though it was some sort of lover who saved me from falling into a volcano, or pulled me back to the curb before I got creamed by a bus. “Thanks fast food. Not only are you delicious, but you also maybe, probably, saved my life tonight,” I said as I rubbed.

I went inside and took the Del Taco shit that saved my life. “Thanks you Del Taco,” I said before flushing. “You’ve done it again.”

[I’ve shared this with some of you individually, but thought I’d share this with the rest of you.]

The world is full of crazy people. Life is all about not letting too many destructive, crazy people into your existence, while staying on the good side of crazy yourself. As I always say, “Crazy needs a stage to dance on. Don’t build it.” (Fuck, I’m so good at coming up with super profound things to say. I should really be writing for the fortune cookie industry, or the porn industry.)

I thought I’d always follow this “Don’t build the crazy stage” advice, but I sort of fucked shit up when I created an OKCupid profile in hopes of meeting some one so I could curb some of my gosh darn loneliness and endless depression. My signing up for OKCupid marked my re-entrance into the muddy dating pool, but I would have probably stayed on the sidelines, resting on my towel and drinking Arnold Palmers, if I knew a giant diarrhea shit was going to be clouding up the deep end.

Let me explain:

Earlier this summer, I had a date set up with a girl named Jasmine. She went by Jazz because that’s fun, and life is short, and why not? LOL. Hehe. . I missed this date (as I reported in my “Not OKCupid” post) because I was too hungover to do anything but lie in bed sweating and wishing I didn’t have an addictive personally that gets me too drunk about once a week. In the excuse, I told her that I had some Hollywood meeting. I, of course, didn’t. I never have Hollywood meetings. I don’t even know what that means. After the cancellation, she blew up at me. In case you didn’t read the previous post or don’t want to refer back to it, here’s what she said:

–

Aug 14, 2011 – 1:55pm

Frankly, that’s bullshit and you know it is. I’m positive you are sitting at home right now with the smell of chicken wafting in your window. I don’t have much free time. Once I set a schedule, I stick to it. If you wanted to meet up with me you would have made it a priority. It’s not like you have an important career meeting on a SUNDAY that unexpectedly popped up hours ago. I see why a good-looking smart funny man like you can’t meet someone in real life. You have one foot on the court and one ass cheek on the bench. Either stay on the bench, or get out on the court and play with all your heart. I had to ask YOU out. Women want to be pursued. You have more going for you than most men in LA, and many women would love you, but you need to step it up and grow a pair. I wish you the best of luck in your life Dan.

Jasmine

–

I probably should have never responded to her, but I decided that she was hot enough to at least make one more attempt at. I am, after all, not gay, and not trying to get pussy is gay, so I continued building her a stage for her crazy to dance on. I sent her this to try to get a second chance:

–

Aug 15, 2011 – 2:18pm

Obviously, I really fucked up and I’m sorry. I totally understand if you want to shut the door in my face, but I legitimately did have a meeting. It’s the film business – stuff like this happens, and I’m at a point in my career where I have to take any opportunity that comes along. If you could see it to forgive me, I’d love to take you out. I totally understand if the answer is no, but it’s pretty rare that a pretty girl with the name of my favorite basketball team comes along, so I had to try.

–

Fuck, I actually felt bad sending this desperate bullshit to her. The, “It’s the film business – stuff like this happens,” line is probably the doucheist lie that anyone has ever created in the history of douchey lies. But oh well.

She found it in her crazy heart to give me a second chance. We set something up.

A few days before the date, she sent me a message saying that she had received a promotion in Chicago and was moving. She didn’t want to start up a relationship and then have to leave, so she cancelled. I understood that, having suffered through the pains and constant masturbation of a long-distance relationship just a few years before.

I was actually sort of relieved she backed out, as I get so nervous and worked up before dates that I often wonder if the stress is worth it. “I can find some other way to get the cum out of my body,” I usually think as my heart races and my palms sweat. Plus, given her crazy response to my initial cancellation, I though she might be a serial killer.

A few weeks passed. I went on a few other dates with less crazy girls since Jazz’s last message, so I didn’t give her a second thought. Then I got this message out of the blue from her:

–

Sep 7, 2011 – 11:03pm

My promotion was delayed. I hesitated to contact you because I am not the gal who jerks men around but I want to meet you. As my father says, “Du vet inte vad som kan hända innan aftonen.” It is Swedish for life is unexpected. Do you embrace that?

–

I decided that I just wouldn’t respond to this one. The fact that she wrote a bunch of gibberish in Swedish was something that I didn’t exactly embrace, or understand. I also figured that his gibberish didn’t exactly translate to “Life is unexpected” just from a word-count standpoint, unless Swedish people are super verbose. So, I did a little detective work. I typed, “Life is unexpected” into Google Translate and it came back as, “Livet är oväntat.” Her dad must suck dick at Swedish. The translation for “Du vet inte vad som kan hända innan aftonen” came back as, “You do not know what can happen before the evening,” which is sort of abstractly similar to “Life is unexpected,” but sounds creepy – like something a murderer would say to their victim before cutting off their genitals and slashing their throat.

Me not responding really pissed Jazz off. I guess that whole thing about silence being a powerful tool is true. She sent me another message on 9/11. While the rest of the world was off remembering the horrible terrorist attacks, Jazz was in her evil lair cooking this bit up:

–

Sep 11, 2011 – 2:36pm

Let me get this straight. You are ignoring me. YOU are ignoring ME. After I was so nice to give you a second chance after your crock of shit excuse for standing me up. You are so pathetic. I am fabulous. I am hotter than a red hot chili pepper. I know this. A man like you would be LUCKY to go out with a woman like me. I told you. I am in LA indefinitely. Don’t you want to try a piece of me? I’ll give you 24 hours to write back, then I vanish forever… tick tock. You hear that, Dan? That is the sound of your life passing you by. Do you think you get endless chances with hot blondes? Because newsflash. You don’t. We could all be dead tomorrow. Write me back, biatch!

xoxoxo

Jazz

–

Wow.

I loved the “tick tock. You hear that, Dan?” part. It made her sound like a super villain. I guess even the evil need to date. I also loved the anger. It was clear that this girl had never ran into a stranger off the Internet that didn’t want to fuck her. I really didn’t care that I had pissed her off. I feel like the world would be a better place if more hot girls were treated like shit occasionally.

Though I’ve certainly had fantasies about fucking super villains and was curious to potentially see this crazy bitch in person (we still had never met), I decided that I needed to tear down the crazy stage. As I mentioned, I had been going on dates here and there, so I decided to blow that up and use it as an excuse for why I didn’t respond. I wrote back to Jazz just before the 24-hour ticking-time bomb exploded:

–

Sep 12, 2011 – 11:18am

Hey Jazz,

My apologies for the delayed response. I’m apparently really good at pissing you off. I started seeing someone a couple weeks ago, so wouldn’t feel right about meeting up. I’m sure you are no doubt fabulous and any guy would be lucky to date you. I wish you the best of luck with your promotion.

Best Wishes,

Dan

–

This message, though I thought it was polite, apparently was equivalent to kicking a hornet’s nest inside crazy Jazz’s head. She thus fired this back:

–

Sep 12, 2011 – 8:05pm

Well, well, well, Dan, I smell bullshit again. If you were dating someone, why would you keep your OKCupid profile active? That’s just RUDE. Frankly I think you wish you had a girlfriend and you are just scared of what a powerful woman I am. A million to one you are sitting at home right now masturbating to some cheesy porno starring a less attractive version of me. The line between love and hate is fine, my friend. You are really good at pissing me off. But, it makes me think you’d be just as good at getting me off. I am an animal in the sack. I would have sucked your cock like a lollipop and then deep throated it like a snake eating a rabbit. But your loss. Best of luck with your imaginary girlfriend (or boyfriend). I’ll pray to the universe to bring you good fortune.

xo

Jazz

–

I liked how she still managed to include a “xo” at the end, showing that she still had a couple remaining hugs and kisses for me underneath all the rage.

At this point, I started to think it was a friend just fucking with me. Girls just don’t talk like that, mentioning sucking cock to a stranger and what not. I contacted all my friends who I thought could have perpetrated this little goof. None of them came forward. It’s still possible that it’s just someone fucking with me, but the fact that we had a date set up before she went crazy makes me think she’s a real person.

I was having fun reading her really well-written, villainous dating responses. Plus, she almost had a preternatural sense of sniffing out my bullshit, so I tried to keep the conversation going. I sent her back this:

–

Sep 14, 2011 – 10:06am

Jesus Jazz, sorry I pissed you off so much. That was not my intension. Sounds like I missed out on a really wild/weird blowjob. BTW, that’s pretty cool you speak Swedish. Beautiful country.

–

Then she said this:

–

Sep 14, 2011 – 10:13am

I give mind-blowing blowjobs your head would be spinning for DAYS.

–

I thought of a few things to keep her going and even thought about taking her up on the mind-blowing blowjob, but ultimately decided that I’d leave this one alone. I had had enough crazy.

We haven’t had any contact since.

In fact, she’s deleted her OKCupid profile. I have no idea what she’s up to. Maybe she moved to Chicago. Maybe she’s off visiting Sweden with her dad. Or maybe she found some one else on OKCupid. That’s probably it. She’s probably off swallowing some dude’s cock like a snake does a rabbit. I bet she’s happy. I bet he’s happy. I bet they’re perfect for each other. Life is great. Life is grand. Life is wonderful. As Jazz says, “Jag ger sinne blåser avsugningar.” It is Swedish for, “I give mind-blowing blowjobs.”

I’m still single.

Chelsea talks about how she doesn’t like to talk to people, myself obviously excluded since I’m amazing to talk to. Then she recalls the fall of her friendship with some bitch named Hanna. Enjoy!!!Social Issues

Getting over my last girlfriend has taken longer than it’s supposed to. I guess, as a result of the breakup, I started associating relationships with heartbreak and endless sadness forever and ever. I thus started fearing them like one of those weirdo talk-show guests on Maury fears something silly like feathers or cotton balls, but at least those people have a shot at getting laid again, assuming they’re not trying to fuck a bird or a Q-Tip. As a result of my silly fear, I’ve fucked up and self-sabotaged a variety of potential relationships with great girls over the last three years. I’m such a boner and am on track to be alone forever, or until I die an unnaturally young death from being so lonely.

However, I’ve recently been trying to build up the courage to wander back onto the dating field. I know it’s embarrassing and makes me some sort of fuck up who masturbates in his mother’s basement while fantasizing about which Pez dispenser to add to his ever-growing collection, but I actually joined a dating site called OKCupid. It’s a horrible place where girls fresh out of relationships usually go to move on and curb some of those dreadful feelings of loneliness. These girl’s profiles are silly and vague. On 90 percent of profile pages I’ve read, the girl will boast that she likes to travel and hang out with friends. Who the fuck doesn’t like to travel and hang out with friends? Tell me something I care about, like your breast size or your blowjob techniques. AM I RIGHT FRAT GUYS!!! High-fives all around!!! Fuck yeah!!! I’m going to be alone forever.

Since joining this Satan’s cock of a site, I’ve really only communicated with a couple of girls. I’ll usually aim really, really high, or, at least, too high for a fat, depressed writer. I usually toss out a couple of Hail Marys a month to the hottest girls on there, but, even in the confines of a virtual dating site, I find coming up with things to ask them to be awkward and forced. I’ll often go with, “Where in Los Angeles do you live?” or, “I really like your profile. I like to travel too. Where have you gone?” or, “Do you like guys who masturbate in their mom’s basement and collect Pez?” I usually won’t hear back, or, if I do, I’ll fuck it up and write something about having a dead father, or still being in love with my ex-girlfriend. The absolute OKCupid dream is to get one of these “Hail Mary” hot chicks to actually initiate the messaging conversation.

Recently, the OKCupid dream came true. A hot blonde girl named Jasmine messaged me about my eyes being great. My eyes are probably the one part of my body that are a 9 or a 10. The rest of me is about a 4 or a 5, making me average out to about a 5.68, but whose really keeping track? God I’m lonely. Anyways, Jasmine and I got chatting. She told me she went by “Jazz.” The Utah Jazz are probably my favorite thing on Earth besides getting too drunk and my gay brother Greg, so having her name be Jazz instantly made me attracted to her. It’d be like I was fucking my favorite sports team. We shared a few stories. We talked about her recent trip to Australia. She too likes to travel. What a surprise. I mentioned that I live by Roscoe’s Chicken ‘N Waffles, Birds and Big Wangs, in an area of Hollywood I like to call “The Chicken District.” We eventually agreed to meet up for a coffee date to check each other out in person.

The big day rolled around, and I was super hungover from drinking too much the night before. I had helped a friend move, and the moving of furniture turned into us moving a whiskey bottle to our mouths, which was probably a subconscious form of self-sabatoge. I figured is would be a mistake to show up to a date super hungover and feeling like shit. All that “You only have one chance to make a first impression” stuff. I consequently decided to cook up some bullshit and see if I could re-schedule.

I wrote:

Hey Jasmine (Jazz, Love that I can call you Jazz, Haha),

I had a meeting unexpectedly pop up in Santa Monica so I have to cancel, unfortunately. I’m really sorry. Any chance we could re-schedule? Let me know. Again, my apologies.

Dan

She wrote this back:

Frankly, that’s bullshit and you know it is. I’m positive you are sitting at home right now with the smell of chicken wafting in your window. I don’t have much free time. Once I set a schedule, I stick to it. If you wanted to meet up with me you would have made it a priority. It’s not like you have an important career meeting on a WEEKEND that unexpectedly popped up hours ago. I see why a good-looking, smart, funny man like you can’t meet someone in real life. You have one foot on the court and one ass cheek on the bench. Either stay on the bench, or get out on the court and play with all your heart. I had to ask YOU out. Women want to be pursued. You have more going for you than most men in LA, and many women would love you, but you need to step it up and grow a pair. I wish you the best of luck in your life Dan.

Jasmine

So, I guess my fear of relationships continues. Maybe some other hot blonde will message me on OKCupid in the future. Can’t wait to see how I’ll fuck that up too.

Chelsea and I talk a little bit about college, and practice her turning down alcohol. Conversation with Chelsea-College

I practice a couple of jokes on Chelsea on our way to the Natural History Museum. Jokes

Chelsea lists the top five things she liked about our DD (Dead dad). Missing Dad

Chelsea and I talk dinosaurs after being surrounded by them at the Natural History Museum. Dinosaurs