Finally! Something Besides Words!

Hello fellow patients,

One of the harshest critiques I have received so far came from a girl I know, who was kind enough to point out the biggest problem with my ramblings with a conciseness that I could only dream of having...

"I hear your blogs are pretty funny, and I looked 'em up one time, but there was way too much reading..."

Point well taken.

So, in an effort to make these pages appeal to the mainstream American consumer, I am proud to present...

Pictures!

There. Now you can say you've read over a thousand words today.

I'm trying to decide, though. I took this photo in Rome, and I can't decide which lie I want to associate with it...

#1: To find the nearest government building, look for the "government in action" roadsigns, convieniently located around the city.

#2: In an attempt to cut down on the problems associated with casual sex, the city of Rome is unveiling its new "You don't actually believe he's not married, do you?" ad campaign.

#3: Look, honey! Even the signs know you're full of shit!

#4: Limbaugh X-ing

Feel free to make up a lie of your own. You could use the practice, especially if you're planning on going out this weekend.

His Holiness Pope Salty I

Sprout Time

(Editor's note: The following post was originally published, under the title "Where The Fuck Is My Taint?", in October 2007 issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. Do not read it until you have read the previous post, Health Care Begins at Home, which is right under this post. Otherwise, it will seem like just a bunch of immature dick jokes, and you will not fully appreciate the science involved.)

Hello fellow patients,

...and welcome. Today marks our first installment of our new medical feature, entitled...

...um...

Actually, I haven't come up with a title. It's not that I haven't given it any thought, although I haven't. I just thought it might be fun to see what you guys can come up with in the way of a clever title for this new, potentially life-saving series. I hate to use the term "contest", since most of you are too much of a pussy to send in your suggestions, and because "contest" implies "winner", which implies "prize", which implies "me spending some money on you fuckers", which simply isn't going to happen. So, let's just call it a brainstorming session, or some other bullshit like that, and leave it at that.

As I hinted at in the previous rambling, which I just know you guys read before starting this one, today's health topic is men's health, and more specifically, the concept of sprout time. Since we are all new at this, and don't know what we're doing, myself in particular, perhaps we should start with a simple question:

What is men's health?

Going by what you hear on TV, men's health can be summed up in one word: prostate. Of course, there is more to men's health than the prostate. In fact, the prostate does not exist. The prostate is a myth made up as an excuse to talk you into letting people stick their fingers in your ass, just as the G-spot is a myth designed to trick you into spending more time than necessary with the vagina. We've all had that girlfriend, or friend with benefits, or guy you met that one time at that gay bar in Atlanta who said "it doesn't make you gay to experiment" and "don't worry; it'll be our little secret", who told you how, by massaging the prostate at just the right time, you could experience the ultimate orgasm.

Well, trust me, it's not true. I've thoroughly researched it, and after countless trips to Atlanta, I can say unequivocally that the prostate doesn't exist.

You don't even want to know what your proctologist is really up to...

So, if the prostate doesn't exist, what else have you not been told?

You haven't been told about sprout time.

Here's the facts: The male body produces both testosterone and estrogen. Testosterone is the male hormone. Testosterone does manly things like growing hair on your chest, producing semen (It's not just for breakfast anymore, ladies!), and renting Steven Segal movies. Estrogen, on the other hand, is responsible for womanly things such as regulating the menstrual cycle, producing vaginal lubrication (It's not just for breakfast anymore, fellas!), and getting out of traffic tickets. These hormones are so different, and so powerful, that an overabundance of the opposite sex's hormone can produce actual physical effects in the body. That's why transvestites are so good these days. Those tits look real because they are real.

Unfortunately, that cock's real as well.

For those of us who are not trying to trick straight men in bars (Damn you, Brianna!), fluctuations in opposite-sex hormones are nothing to worry about. A mild upswing in your estrogen level generally does nothing more than give you a peculiar craving for a nice Chablis. But in extreme cases, a sudden surge of estrogen can cause severe physical changes, the most severe being a sudden hermaphroditic transformation.

In other words, sprouting a...

(Editor's note: Despite our best efforts, we have been unable to determine the proper spelling for this word, which is pronounced like "badge" with a "v". "Vadge" looks kind of silly, and "vag" seems like it should rhyme with "rag". Sure we could use the anatomical term "vagina", but that's kind of icky. And "va-jayjay" is out. We saw Oprah use that term once, and we have been scarred for life as a result. We've toyed with the idea of "tulips", or the even more clever "two-lips", but in the end, we've decided to go with the classic "twat", mainly because our girlfriend hates that word. It's the simple pleasures...)

...twat.

Trust me, this is a bad thing. Some of you might be tempted to try to sprout one, either because you aren't getting laid or you've always wanted to be able to oblige when someone tells you to go fuck yourself, but it doesn't work that way. If you think about where the various parts are, and how they do and don't bend, you'll quickly deduce that hermie is not the way to go.

The important thing to know is that estrogen, like most hormones, is produced as a reaction to stimuli. Estrogen, being a female hormone, is produced as a reaction to female stimuli. How much estrogen is produced depends on the stimulus. Walking past a Bath and Body Works creates a little estrogen; sitting through Cirque de Soleil, you might as well be funneling the shit.

Like with exposure to radiation, estrogen level is an issue of both the severity of the stimulus and the time of exposure. Since estrogen-producing stimuli of various degrees are all around us, scientists have devised the concept of sprout time as a method of determining how long a male can be exposed to a given stimulus before sprouting. Some stimuli, such as R. Kelly songs, have relatively long sprout times that can be measured in hours, while others, such as the 2009 North American Tour of the long-running musical Cats, coming to the Mobile Civic Center next month, can be measured in mere seconds.

As you may have guessed, sprouting does not generally occur among single men, since only those in relationships are regularly subject to estrogen-producing stimuli. In order to protect against sprouting, it is important for men to be informed of the sprout times of any activities their women are subjecting them to (Curiously, sprouting does not occur among gay men, despite overexposure to estrogen-producing stimuli. While not fully understood, it is suspected that this has something to do with the prostate. At least that's what I was told in Atlanta...). Men should be advised, before being exposed to estrogen-producing stimuli, to ask their partner about the risks involved. For instance, if your girl wants you to sit down and watch Sex in the City with her, be sure to ask, "What is the sprout time on this?"

If she does not know, make her look it up. Be sure she gets the right one, too. You don't want the sprout time for an episode of the series just to discover you have to take a break from watching Sex in the City: The Movie to go pee sitting down. It'll give you a minute to check the scores on ESPN, which will help produce testosterone to counteract against potential estrogen exposure.

Especially if you've got money on the game...

So, in conclusion, men in relationships should be aware of the sprout times of anything their women try to drag them into. Because while she may want to share the world with you, I'm guessing she doesn't want to have to share tampons.

His Holiness Pope Salty I

Health Care Begins at Home (originally posted on MySpace)

Hello fellow patients,

Health care begins at home.

It's a phrase you hear all the time. Don't believe me?

Health care begins at home. See? There it is again.

But what does it really mean? In the old days, it meant doing the little things to make sure we were living healthy. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away" was what we were always told, and for good reason: Nothing like a few draft ciders to help you forget you're too goddamn broke to go to the doctor (Just because we're the only country in the industrialized world that doesn't provide free health care to its citizens (at least the ones who aren't lucky enough to be in Congress or prison) does not make universal health care any less Communist. Freedom isn't free, and neither is that walker, Granny. AIG bonuses don't grow on trees, ya know...).

These days things are more complicated. Sure, you can't give yourself an MRI, or perform brain surgery on your sister (I'm really sorry, mom...), but that doesn't mean you can't still do those little things to keep yourself and those you love healthy right at home. Whether it's checking your breasts for lumps, watching your calorie intake (Note I said "watching", not "reducing". We may not have health care, but we got McGriddles. Eat up, Porky, or the terrorists win.), checking your neighbor's breasts for lumps, or simply putting on a condom before getting that around-the-world from the twenty-dollar hooker you picked up downtown with the noticeable track marks and even more noticeable Adam's apple, there are plenty of things you can still do to keep your body running like the well-oiled machine it was (Pick from one of the following terms based upon whether or not you prefer to burn in eternal damnation.) [designed/randomly evolved] to be. I myself take the precautionary measure of self-medicating every chance I get.

(Author's note: You will notice I did not include exercise in my list of ways to stay healthy. Exercise is not a way to stay healthy. Sex should provide all the physical exertion you need in life. It's not your fault that you're fat; it's your partner's. They should be putting out more. In other words, if you see someone exercising, it's a sign they aren't getting any. The polite thing to do is to offer sex to this person. "I see you're doing sit-ups. Wanna fuck?" is considered proper etiquette in such a situation. Running is a sign that someone's being chased; call 911 immediately. Jogging is a sign of mental illness; no one in their right mind runs less than top speed if they're being chased, and running at any speed unless being chased is, to use the medical term, retarded.)

The world of modern medicine is progressing at a break-neck pace. Every day, researchers are finding new medical miracles in everything from male enhancement to penis enlargement. And occasionally, between finding more and more ways to help rich white pricks feel better about their tiny cocks (I don't think the Extenze is working, there, Prescott. Maybe you should try the Porsche.), modern medicine even finds new treatment for actual sicknesses. These advances, however, are not worth discussing, since your HMO will not cover them. Don't worry, though, you're not as fucked as you think you are (Editor's note: Yes you are.).

Why? Because health care begins at home.

The Internet is an invaluable tool for home health care. There are places you can go online where, with just a few clicks of the mouse, you can find out if those pills you found in your grandma's medicine cabinet will give you a buzz. But did you know those same sites offer advice on your health?

I sure didn't.

Well, I may not be a doctor, but I'm pretty sure I took a health class in elementary school, and I do watch reruns of House, which I reckon makes me just as qualified to offer online medical advice as anyone else. And because I care, and more importantly, because I saw how many hits WebMD gets, I'm going to start spewing forth chunks of medical wisdom right about now...

I think you should take something for that.

See, isn't that good advice? Come to think of it, I'll be right back...

...

...Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah. Medical advice.

That's right, folks. Cancel that doctor's appointment; drop your health insurance. You're going to find all the medical advice you need right here on these pages.

Well, not these pages. You'll have to go to my new official-type website, www.toolsofthetirade.blogspot.com (Editor's note: In the absence of a big red "You are here" arrow, we hope you have figured out on your own that you are already at my new official-type website. This part is primarily for the MySpace moronotards that haven't joined us over here yet.), to get the information that just might save your life. The first installment, a piece on men's health called Sprout Time, is being put together right now.

So head over there and check it out. You look like you need the exercise...

His Holiness Pope Salty I

A Word From the Pit Crew (Thoughts on Love, Marriage, and NASCAR)

Hello fellow patients,

I've read somewhere that like 80 percent of all homicides occur among family. If that number seems a bit high to you, give your parents a call. By the end of the conversation, not only will you feel that 80 percent is too low, you'll be contemplating doing your part to adjust the statistics.

It was in that state of mind that I hopped into the car this afternoon. I'd just spent an hour talking to my dad on the phone. We were talking about my girlfriend, which of course means we were discussing my need to settle down. I have made two big mistakes with my girlfriend: One, I've kept her for more than a month, and two, I've proven to my dad that she actually exists by letting him meet her (Imaginary girlfriends may not be as much fun to play with as real ones, but you can't beat 'em when it comes to dealing with the fam. It could be argued that, considering everything, imaginary ones are better. Especially if you're bad about forgetting to take the porn out of the DVD player.). Mistakes like these inevitably lead to conversations consisting of statements such as:

"So when are you two going to settle down?"

and...

"You know you're not getting any younger..."

and...

"If you like her, son, you need to get married. If not, you should leave her."

It was the last one that really got under my skin. Is that it? Are the only two options married and alone? An option that means I never get laid, and one that means I'm alone?

Okay, that one was a bit too easy. But you get my point. What it boils down to, as you well know, is grandchildren. There seems to be a certain age when parents develop an addict-like craving for grandchildren. Perhaps it is their desire to see you put through the same shit you put them through. Perhaps it is they are beginning to face their own mortality, and the continuation of the family tree is seen, in some delusional way, as a victory over death.

Whatever it is, it's fucked up. My dad is more concerned about my getting laid than I am, and it creeps me out. Really, guys, it's better to just tell your folks you're gay. Even if you have to go as far as to bring a guy home and make out with him at the dinner table, it's worth it. Sure, they might disown you, but is that so bad? At least you won't have to deal with the grandkid conversation again.

And who knows? You might meet yourself a nice man out of it.

But I digress...

...So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Taking a drive.

I would have liked to have taken this drive off a bridge, but I was in my girlfriend's car. She doesn't like it when I leave my underwear on the bathroom floor, so I'm guessing she really wouldn't care for me leaving her car at the bottom of Mobile Bay. No, this drive would serve only as a momentary reprieve from the issue, not as a solution for it. My girlfriend's car only has a cassette player in it (Yes, I'm aware that makes me a bad boyfriend, but I think it should be obvious by now that she's not that picky. And let's keep it that way, okay? The last thing I need is someone telling her that she could find a man who doesn't write shit about three-ways and gay porn.), so I was stuck with the radio. I got in the car and was immediately pelted by the top-40 station...

"If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it..."

Great. My dad's got Beyonce' pressuring me now.

My girl's totally cool. She's never made even the slightest comment about getting married. Of course, that's probably because she knows she doesn't have to. Between my family and Beyonce', that one's pretty much covered.

So what about my side? I know I'm not the only guy who isn't out ring shopping as soon as he has three good dates. What about us? Do we get a say? Don't we get to have our voices heard? Considering all the pressure on us to get married, we must have a pretty good reason why we fight it. There must be something worth fighting our women, our families, and Beyonce' for. But who's going to tell our side? Who's gonna lay it all out there and explain, once and for all, why we try so hard to wait until the very last minute to enter into wedded bliss?

Me, that's who. And how am I going to explain it?

NASCAR.

Perhaps I should elaborate...

You see, ladies and family, we fellas see life as a NASCAR race. And not just because it is the same thing, over and over and over and over again, with a horrific death in a flaming ball of carnage being our only hope of sweet, sweet escape. Not that at all. No, we see life as a NASCAR race, with wedded bliss being the finish line. The ultimate goal is to cross the finish line just as that last drop of fuel is being burned. If we can draft our way through our relationships, conserving the fuel of love as much as possible, while avoiding the yellow caution flags of dry spells, and the ten-car pileups of STDs, we might just see it through to the final lap of engagement, and ultimately the checkered flag of our wedding day, and get to taste the sweet white milk of our first night as man and wife (Sorry 'bout that last analogy. I'm having a bit of trouble getting Ken out of my mind...).

Confused? Me too. I don't know shit about NASCAR. I'm just trying to get more Google hits.

Let me try again. See, what a guy really wants is to marry the last hot girl willing to have sex with him. That may seem shallow, but it eliminates the one fear that keeps guys from jumping on the marriage bandwagon: The fear that, as soon as we tie the knot, we're going to get that phone call...

"Remember me? I'm the hot chick that you saw on the subway this morning. I know this may seem forward of me, considering I didn't even give you a second glance, much less get your phone number, but me and a couple of my friends are having a dick-sucking contest, and I could tell by your sizeable bulge that you are ample enough to provide enough of a challenge to be the judge, and so..."

Hey, you have your knight in shining armor; we have our blowjob-contest girls. It's all a matter of perspective. We all have our fantasies. It's just that yours are courtesy of Disney, while ours are made by Vivid (Google it, ladies, if you're confused. And download the results of your search. Your man will appreciate you for it.).

Don't get us wrong. It's not that we don't love you, or don't think that you're beautiful. It's just that even the fanciest sportscar loses resale value as soon as you take it off the lot, and we've put a lot of miles on you, and...

...Perhaps I have said too much. I see the looks I am getting. I think maybe it would be best if I tried a different approach, one that will get the parents off my back, keep my girl from knowing about the whole subway blowjob-contest thing, and settle this "when are you gonna get married" shit once and for all.

Now what did I do with Ken's number?

His Holiness Pope Salty I

p.s.: I would appreciate it if you would not give too much thought to the fact that I don't have dick-sucking contest chick's number, but I do have Ken's. "Don't ask; don't tell", that's always been my policy.

HHPS1

A Message for the "Manager" of Fabachers (originally posted on MySpace)

Hello fellow patients,

The letter posted below was originally written last week and posted on MySpace. I did not post it here because it is not the type of thing I would normally consider to be Tools of the Tirade material; it was nothing more than me venting about losing a job. My intention was to post the letter on the MySpace page of the bar that canned me, but I discovered that I had never added them as a friend, and something told me they wouldn't be interested in accepting a friend invitation from me.

They're stupid, but they're not that stupid...

While my letter did not have its desired effect of driving the owners of the bar to suicide, it did seem to strike a chord with a lot of people. Perhps I shouldn't have been, but I was surprised to find out how many people got a kick out of what I thought no one would appreciate other than me. For this reason, I have decided to post the letter here.

Those of you not familiar with the bar scene in Mobile, AL, will not recognize the name of the bar (I intentionally left the names of individuals out), but hopefully you will be able to relate to the situation enough to get a laugh or two out of it.

I suspect that Mobile has not cornered the market on idiot club owners...

To the new "manager" of Fabachers,

I have to admire your meteoric rise to power.

Who would have known you could go from someone nobody's ever heard of before to the manager of a nightclub in a matter of two weeks?

Here's the thing, though. Sleeping with the owner may give you the power to run a bar, but it obviously doesn't give you the intelligence. If it did, you might have figured out that maybe it's not a good idea to run off your entire staff in less than two weeks. Sure, you can tell the owner that the bartenders were stealing from her, but it does seem a bit odd that this "theft problem" seemed to arrive right about the same time that you did. Sure, it's possible that all these people were running scams at the same time, but in life the simplest answer is often the correct one, and it doesn't take a genius to connect the dots.

Are we supposed to believe that it's just a coincidence that the money in question passed through your hands before it got to the owner? Anyone with half a brain can see it.

Of course, love has a tendency to cloud one's judgment. We've all been there. So I don't blame the owner for trusting you over logic.

Just don't expect anyone else to.

Of course, I didn't steal anything from you. I'm just a DJ. But I happen to be a damn good DJ, and an experienced one at that. So allow me to use that experience to fill in rather wide gap between what you think you know and what you actually do know. Since this gap is so cavernous, I'll put it into table form so you can follow it easier.

You can count, can you?

1. If you are going to use genre terms to describe what you want, you might want to make sure these genres exist outside your delusional mind. "New-age rap" is not a style of music. Rap is a very broad term that encompasses many different styles of music, the common thread being spoken-word rhymed vocals. New-age is not a musical term at all.

2. Since we've already established that "new-age rap" is not a musical genre, it's probably safe to say that "new-age rap rock alternative" is not one either. The only time an intelligent person might use that phrase is after slamming the refrigerator door too hard and spilling some poetry magnets on the floor.

3. If the DJ is nice enough to attempt to extrapolate your request, ignoring the fact that you would apparently lose a battle of wits with a wheelbarrow, you might want to pay a bit of attention. In other words, if you're going to criticize what the DJ is playing, saying he needs to play something like Akon instead of this "techno", you might want to be sure that Akon is not what is playing at the time. You're already looking like a jackass; no point screaming "hee-haw! hee-haw!" on top of it.

4. If you are going to later tell the DJ to pack his stuff and leave because "everybody is complaining about the music", you might want to be sure that a song requested by one of this "everybody" you allegedly found time to individually poll between making drinks is not playing at the time. Granted, it is possible that someone would complain about a song that they themselves requested, but only if they had the brain the size of a chick pea.

You know, like someone who would ask for "new-age rap rock alternative".

In other words, cover your lie better. Considering the fact that you've already run off all the bartenders, I would like to think that even someone as obviously talented and skilled as you are would have trouble putting together a comprehensive list of patrons' musical preferences in between fucking up their drink orders.

I know this is all a bit complicated, and probably making your ear-balls hurt, so let me make it more simple for you: You told the DJ to leave because he was playing too much techno and not enough stuff like Akon...

...while Akon was playing.

Dumbass.

5. This is the most important one...

Enjoy this while you can. Even the most lovesick owner is only going to put up with some jackass running her club into the ground for so long before she wakes up to you. And if not, you're not going to get much pleasure from running a bar that is out of business.

You've already got half of Mobile wanting to beat your ass. Don't worry; I'm not one of them.

You're not worth the trouble.

His Holiness Pope Salty I

Twitter-Twats

Hello fellow patients,

Wanna know what I'm doing right now?

If your answer is anything other than "Who gives a shit?", you should consider joining the millions of people who are members of the latest Internet craze, Twitter.

For those of you living under a rock, or even worse, still wasting time on MySpace (Really? That is SO 2007…), Twitter is a social networking site that, according to its home page, is based on the simple question, "What are you doing right now?". This simple concept, based on that one question, has overcome the obstacle of being the stupidest idea of all time to become a bona-fide Internet sensation.

Here’s how Twitter works. As a member, you can post your answer to the question “What are you doing right now?” at any time, using any Internet-ready device (laptop, Blackberry, I-Phone, I-Tunes, I-Dildo, I-Artificial Leg, etc.). Like with other social networking sites such as Facebook or MySpace, you can amass friends on Twitter, who can subscribe to your posts, and you to theirs. Thanks to Twitter, no longer do you have to wonder about anyone, “What are you doing right now?”, provided, of course, that they are Twitterers as well. It is easy to understand the allure. If MySpace is the online equivalent of junior high school, Twitter is the online equivalent of that annoy-everyone-to-death-with-questions phase that little kids hit around the age of four (“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! What are you doing?”). In other words, Twitter is perfect for those who lack the depth for MySpace.

Being a successful Twitterer requires what on the surface may seem to be two conflicting personality traits: (1) Enough conceit to assume other people give a shit about your daily activities, and (2) Little enough of a life to actually be willing to go online and read about the daily activities of others. Naturally, it is hugely popular among members of Congress. So much so, in fact, that quite a few Congressmen and women were seen Twittering during Obama’s recent address on Capitol Hill. One guy, Rep. John Culberson (R-Tex.), used this new technology to make himself sound like a schoolgirl when he saw the water-landing pilot, and notorious goose-killer, Captain Sullenberger…

"Capt Sully is here -- awesome!"

We can only hope that Culberson gets his wish and Captain Sully invites him to the big homecoming dance next week. And if he doesn’t, don’t let it get you down, Culby. If Sully can’t see what a beautiful person you are on the inside, he doesn’t deserve to get to go with you to that dance! (Author’s note: Look, I know we are supposed to be all about unifying the country and shit, but Republicans really can be douchebags. Captain Sully is awesome? Really? And this guy got elected, probably because spouted off all those asinine talking points that get the dittoheads that worship people like Rush Limbaugh all moist in their pants and shit. Hey, if you’re looking to Rush Limbaugh for anything more than a painkiller fix, you’re part of the problem. Do us all a favor and take yourself out of the voting process, or even better, take yourself out.)

Like most other nerd-friendly activities, Twitter has brought with it its own glossary of terms. For instance, the act of posting a Twitter post is known as “tweeting”, and the post itself is often referred to as a “tweet”. Now I always thought that “tweeting” was a sexual act involving sticking a bird down your pants, but what do I know? I’m old school, and apparently out of touch (except with the bird, obviously). I’m so out of touch, in fact, that I had to learn about what “tweeting” is from CNN. These are people who still say “bling-bling” when they are trying to “hip up” a news story (yet another reason why I’m ashamed to be white), so you can imagine my humiliation at having to learn new street lingo from these folks.

Maybe I’m just old (shut up, Chris…), but I don’t get the logic. It seems to me that every tweet should say “I’m writing a tweet for Twitter.” I mean, if you’re answering the question honestly, isn’t that what you’re doing right now? I suppose you could be doing two things at once, but there are only so many things I would think you could do and tweet at the same time. Sure, tweeting “I’m watching TV”, or “I’m downloading porn”, or “I’m taking a shit” seem doable, but “I’m driving this busload of kids to school”, or “I’m making love to someone that I assume, being that I'm too busy tweeting to actually look, to be my wife”, or “I’m watching the porn I just downloaded” just wouldn’t work. Who has that kind of concentration? The only activities that you can find time to tweet around are those too mundane to be broadcasting in the first place.

What it boils down to is this: Anyone who has time to Twitter shouldn’t.

It may sound like I’m saying that Twitter shouldn’t exist, and those who participate in it should be beaten to death with broken cell phones or at least have their fingers super-glued together so they can no longer type. I assure you it only sounds like I’m suggesting that because I am. Don’t worry though, nit-twits; I’m not going Tyra Banks on you just yet. But I could be, at any time. It’s probably best to keep up with what I am doing, minute-to-minute, just in case. For your safety, the question you should be asking is…

“What am I doing right now?”

His Holiness Pope Salty I....

p.s.: I was just informed that “douchebags” is incorrect. The proper spelling is “douche bags”. Two words, not one. Thanks, Spell-Check!

HHPS1....

Allow Me to Introduce Myself...

Hello fellow patients,

I find the idea of blogs to be a bit stupid.

A couple of years ago, I started writing things on MySpace (www.myspace.com/way2salty), simply as a joke. I noticed that people were using blogs as some sort of public diary, as if anyone else actually gave a shit. So I thought I would make fun of that by writing ridiculous ramblings (I hate the term "blogs") simply to amuse myself. I assumed that, like most everyone else's, my childish rants would be read by me, my girlfriend, and whoever happened across them while googling "midget+porn". For the most part, I was right, but some of my friends started reading them, and they gradually got mildly popular, at least among my tiny circle.

As anyone who has a friend in a band can attest to, even the most modest degree of success can lead one to believe that they have a "gift". I am no different. The fact that I have been able to sustain the attention of even a few people enough to have them regularly read my crap has allowed me to delude myself into thinking that the only reason I'm not the next Dave Barry is a lack of exposure. So I set out to expose myself as much as possible. After being arrested for pressing my penis against the glass at a hockey game, I learned two things: (1) If you're gonna whip it out in public, it is best not to do it in the direct vicinity of 17,000 cubic feet of ice, and (2) There are different types of exposure, not all of them good.

Lesson learned.

Luckily, the night in jail gave me time, not only to explore my sexuality (call me, Bubba!), but also to re-evaluate my plan. No more hockey for me. And that's not just due to the court order. I had failed to realize that my online ramblings needed online exposure.

Which brings me here.

Moving to Blogspot allows my ramblings to be discovered by a much larger audience, thus answering the nagging question:

Am I finally on the way to the big time, or do I have to accept the fact that my lack of a major book deal is Blogspot's fault?

Only time will tell.

His Holiness Pope Salty I