Approximate Contributions

I feel really good about myself, right now, because I’ve given a lot of thought to being a better person. In fact, I have a shit ton of bags and boxes all over my house, right now, full of things I intend to donate.

What I’m saying is … hoarders are really aspiring philanthropists. It’s kind of like when zealous environmentalists charter private ships and planes to travel to far away lands, previously untouched by man, to set up high tech equipment made of plastic and rare metals, to document the evils of pollution to which they have just contributed in ways you and I could only imagine.

Like the old saying goes, “The path to paradise is paved with approximate contributions.”

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That Black-Eyed Dog (not humor)

Hey everybody. I can’t sleep and would like to take this opportunity to be serious, for a change.

On my podcast, Your Fault for Listening, I often joke about my own chronic and suicidal depression. Well, yesterday morning, I learned that Seattle lost one of the pillars of their community. I never met this individual, so I won’t site them by name, but my Facebook wall has been a constant stream of testimonials about the joys, hopes, and opportunities they brought to everyone who had the honor of meeting them.

My purpose in writing this is to remind anyone struggling with depression or depressive thoughts to talk to someone – doctors, family, friends … someone. And if you know someone struggling with these issues, check in from time to time; not in an intrusive or interrogative way, but remind them that they’re loved and have your support. This may not always save their life, but at least you may have been a glimmer of light in their darkest of days.

I joke about suicide and depression to skew my negative inner narratives in my favor, and hope my readers and listeners understand that. I also hope that my humor makes it clear to victims of depression (that black-eyed dog) that it’s OK to vocalize your feelings, and doing so can be cathartic and invite others into the discussion.

I love you all, and to all those for whom depression, struggle, illness, pain, or adversity proved too much to deal with …

RIP – You are still loved and never forgotten.

Three Typewriters (not humor)

My dad’s a writer, so I had three typewriters growing up, in the 1980s. To this day, every click and ribbon jam of a typewriter reminds me of an overly romantic childhood, sheltered from any real troubles or concerns.

God was good. Family was good. My brothers and I would be best friends, forever. Even when the race war came, we knew we’d be prepared. Our mother had made sure of it; just as sure as she had prepared a nutritious breakfast and homemade snacks to be enjoyed throughout the day.

Poetry and ponies filled my days. Classical music poured from the oversized, wood cabinet record player with tweed speaker covers in ’70s vomit orange-brown, like warm tea on a foggy Autumn morning. And I feverishly typed … nothing in particular – every non-particular a magnum opus yet to be realized.

Every one of those typed pages has since disappeared, leaving no record of my infantile musings, but the story they told continues to play out through earth-tone sweater vests and tweed blazers (in ’70s vomit orange-brown). And I continue my quest for ponies and poems.

Topsy Turvy

I’m 33 and about three years ago, my body played a cruel joke on me, and now … I have back hair, which is unacceptable. My body hair doesn’t even grow in evenly. So really, I have two patches of back hair that make it look like I’m smuggling muskrats under my shirt, at all times.

And just to make matters worse, I’ve always had this god-awful man-gut. And I remember, as a little boy-like child, convincing myself I had just been born pregnant. And every time I sat down to take a shit, I would tell myself it was going to be my lucky day. And I was going to give birth, through my asshole, have a flat tum-tum, and all the boys would love me.

Oddly enough, that never happened. And stranger still, I somehow got married and conceived a child, who frequently acts like a little shit.

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Sometimes, I think I should get back on antidepressants, but I have a couple of personal issues with doctors. For one thing, I have a hard time imagining a street-level drug dealer requiring me to pay to see a counselor once a week to explain why I need their product. It just seems like a strange business model for a drug dealer. More importantly, anytime I pay someone to pretend to care about me, I just sort of assume we’re dating; especially when doctors say all sorts of sexy things like, “When’s the last time you fantasized about self-harm?”

You see, for a suicidal depressive, those words are the next best thing to phone sex. It’s like, “Give me the pills. Ask me about the cutting. Now, slap me in the face and call me a lonely girl-boy. YES!”

By the way, every time I ejaculate, my tears and semen coalesce to form a giant rainbow with a great herd of unicorns prancing over its delicate arc in pastoral glee, crapping cupcakes, and pissing glitter.

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Love Offering

As some of you may know, in my real life, I work in a specialty pharmacy. We dispense prohibitively expensive drugs to people living life on the edge of death. So, the best part of working in that sort of environment is the receipt of junk faxes – like offers for tropical vacations in exchange for dispensing a certain amount of an off brand, herbal “medication” produced in Bangladesh on the third new moon of each year.

Well, this last week, we received the junk fax to top all other junk faxes. It was a mis-dialed fax intended for the Holiday Inn by the airport, sent by the agent of a Christian comedian by the name of SizBee. According to the performance agreement sent, in exchange for thirty minutes of wholesome, Christian comedy, Mr. Bee would be compensated with a “love offering” … end quote. Do you understand what this means? In exchange for thirty minutes of clean humor, SizBee gets to fuck a hooker.

Now, I’ve been performing in various capacities for over twenty years, and not once did anyone tell me about this. To put it lightly, I am furious. Outraged! How dare you?! Here I am, working my ass off, day in and day out, surviving on a diet of Pabst and chicken strips. Meanwhile, SizBee is down at the Holiday Inn, right now, snorting coke off a Gideon’s Bible, getting his dick sucked by his choice of exotic sex worker in a swimming pool overflowing with jello salad and man juice.

And again I say … How dare you?!

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