Friday, September 30, 2011

He can benchpress me and steal my wife

One Friday a month, our class sees a movie.

Today we saw the best movie I have ever seen in my whole life.

It was called ABDUCTION, and it starred this guy Taylor Lautner.

I only knew who he was because some of the girls in my class cut out pictures of him from magazines and shove them down the front of their pants or in their mouths.

Did you know Lautner auditioned for WILLOW?
 Yep, he was supposed to play Madmartigan.
But Val Kilmer threatened to keep making fart noises with his armpit until they gave him the part.

So Lautner played the character seen here:

Which might have been for the best, because something about WILLOW left a deep impact on Val Kilmer, and after that he wanted to be Madmartigan in all of his movies.

uhhh....that's the only proof I have of that last statement.


Anyways, I really liked in the movie ABDUCTION when Taylor Lautner made this face:
Because then I knew he was MAD.

And when he made this face

I knew he was SAD.

But when he was MAD and SAD he made this face
And when he was GLAD
He is from the New School of acting, where the amount you open your mouth determines the emotion you are expressing.
So when he kills someone
So the movie is real good.
I won't give anything away, but let's just say its about a "high school" boy that everyone calls "Kid" who beats up his only black friend, watches the neighbor girl makeout with her cat, finds out his dad lost him in a poker match to a Russian chef who*SPOILER ALERT* wears an eyepatch through the whole movie *SPOILER ALERT*.


The movie ends with Lautner and another guy taking their shirts off, giving each other back rubs and the shivers, and then transforming into weremooses.
As the credits roll, they rub the velvet off their antlers on an old elm tree.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Post Post Mortem


I didn't like the post I did yesterday.

It was too long and I couldn't pay attention.

This is going to be real short, because it's about how I don't like buzzwords and stuff. 

This post is going to be so good.
It's going to have hilarious pictures.
I am going to brilliantly skewer idiots who say things like proactive, tipping point, and sea change.

.....nah. 

You ever get that feeling inside, like you just deflated? 
You thought you had a good idea, but then your cerebellum goes poooooooooooooooot and suddenly you find yourself googling your own name and thinking man the other gweenbrick doesn't have manboobies and he drives a Jaguar. 
Stupid doppelganger in name only.


So you start again on a post about your co-worker and her Kentucky relatives, including Joe-baby who knows everything there is to know about four-wheelers.

But then you decide it is too mean, especially the part where you make fun of her saying "expescially" all the time, and you figure you better not because she scares you a little bit.

And then you remember you are actually at work, taxpayer money is funding your time spent sitting on the internet and eating peanuts from a can the size of a bucket, and that somewhere there is a 24 year old man's poop covered bottom just begging to be wiped.


God help you, you are the man for the job.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Angry diarrheatribe

One of  my favorite things about gaining weight is tying my shoes.
 When you bend over, your gut smooshes your breathing parts and suddenly you are lacking for oxygen.

The resultant high is pretty sweet.


I used to get high.

Things I got high from:
Rubber cement.
 
Sabbath wine.


Snuff.
Nail polish remover.
Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill wine.


This one time I thought I was so cool because I was high on the acid.

I went to this hippie party where normally I would have been a total outsider, but since I was high too, I thought I was totally an honorary cool hippie.

I stood in the kitchen, thinking how smart and cool I was, how my thoughts were just so enormously complex and crucial to the advancement of all human endeavours.


But then I looked at a stupid little plate of melting butter.


It waved at me and I giggled like an idiot.

I kept imagining it was saying 'Hey there!' in the accent of a local yokel.


Then I got hung up on the word yokel and really starting snorting with laughter.

One of the uber-cool hippies, standing nearby, shirtless and sunbronzed, fixed me with a withering stare.

In a tone as condescending, as murderously sarcastic, as you can imagine, he called the attention of the room to me and my friend Purvis the Butter, by loudly saying "Looook maaah, I'm on drugs."

All the hippies laughed at me.
Not in a nice, lets go get lunch from the dumpster and live off the grid way either.

More like a hey fatty, stick to Miller Lite and Pearl Jam kind of way.

Anyways.
Jeffrey leaves for work today, saying "Peace be with you-only I can say that, because I'm more irresponsible."

I do not know what that means.

I hear him muttering to himself at his locker, "Don't even think about taking your Ipod, Jeffrey".

He always self-admonishes like that, in a low, shaky mutter.

Jeffrey and his stupid Ipod.

I looked at the playlist on there, and it's not good.
Electric Light Orchestra.
Chicago.
Taylor Dane.


He keeps his giant headphones on and tries to talk to you.
"HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF COKE ZERO?"

"Take your headphones off."

"I DID."

"No. No, you didn't."

I catch him with his headphones on at work. 
He is dancing...or something. He is making an arch over his head, with his arms outstretched, and then slowly waving that arch from side to side.

"You can't be dancing at work, man."

"I'll dance quiet, I'm sorry." He makes the arch very subtly in front of his chest, just with his hands, and barely waves it around.

"Nope, that's weird."

I have to take his Ipod and he gets angry.
"I'm just going to get out of here. I am going to quit this school and make my own school. Then I am going to fire you." He laughs in a theatrically evil way.

Jeffrey, that would be the best gift you could ever give me.


I have only thrown up once from working in special education.


I had to clean this guy's butt, and he was probably one of the hairiest human beings that ever existed, at least since the dawn of the homo sapien era. 


If you shaved it off, you would have had enough to donate to Locks of Love.


His favorite party trick was to poop his pants and then repeatedly bitch-slap you when you tried to take care of the problem. 
It made you feel so happy.


On one occasion I just could not get old Marty clean; I had burned through half a box of wipes and stuff was still emerging from Buttock Forest. 

My patented technique of not breathing through my nose was beginning to falter. 

I kept thinking how the particles making an odor must also be in my mouth. The thought overwhelmed me.

I pivoted quickly to the toilet and vomited.

Marty giggled.

Then he slapped my wrist hard enough to crack the bone.


I discovered today that one of my student's likes to dress up as Tosha from Barney when he is at home. 

He is a frail little white man, spoiled beyond all reason. His parents allow it because they are tired of fighting.

I can understand that, I guess.

But I cannot understand why his 300 pound mother insists on showering with him. 

He is twenty-three, after all.

"She gets in the shower with you?" I ask him incredulously.

Most of the students are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, but this guy has been proven true many times over. 

"Yeah," he says in his high, meek monotone voice.

"And you're naked?"

"No. I don't wear any clothes." 

"And your mom is naked?" I am so afraid of the answer.

"Yeah." He smiles at me.

"And you get in the shower?"

He smiles again.

"Does she scrub your back?"

"Oh, you have to scrub the soap off of there."

"Do you scrub her back?" I ask.
My teacher cuts me off.
"Okay, Gweenbrick, that's enough."
"But I need to know-" I whine.
"No," she says, "No, you don't."


She recognizes when I am fishing for information from the students to gross myself out with.
It's how I pass the time.
 

Friday, September 23, 2011

Evolution is real, I am proof

I saw myself reflected in the window of a JoAnne Fabrics.
It was one of those moments when I suddenly see, really see, that my lord in heaven I have grown fat.

Fifteen years ago I was this:


Now I am this:


In fifteen years, I will be this:

Thursday, September 22, 2011

O lord, another cat blog

Against my better judgement, I let my wife get a cat.

I was at least expecting her to bring home this:






Instead, she settled for these:


Two non-fluffy ratfaces.


The worse part about the cats is that they have taken over the second bathroom.


I have always wanted a second bathroom, because I grew up in a household of seven people and only one toilet.


This meant that no matter when you rushed upstairs, sweating profusely and clenching your buttocks tighter than the Iron Curtain holding back the poor huddled masses yearning to be free, you were met with the inevitability of a closed bathroom door.


Knock Knock Knock O my gosh are you almost done please please I have to go so bad


The door, thankfully, had a full length mirror on it, so you could see yourself bent double and growing paler.


There was a bit of hallway leading up to the bathroom; I would pace up and down that hallway and practice my Lamaze breathing.


Sometimes it seemed impossible. There was just no way you were going to make it.


You layed out contingencies in your head: In the pants? Trashcan? Highly visible front yard?


But eventually that last flush would come, the door would swing open, and you would soldier past the previous occupant, with no comment about the rankness of the air.


Destiny then had you, and the relief was so great you barely noticed the uncomfortably warm surface of the toilet seat.


Anyways, cats.
They claw my wife's stuff.
They hide under our bed at night, giggling.

Let me be clear: school lunch programs are not connected to juvenile obesity in any way.
There is just no correlation.
Stupid cats.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Love's Labored Speech

Jeffrey watches the former girl of his dreams.


She pushes her boyfriend on one of those giant plastic swings made for babies and handicapped children.

"She's so stwong" he says, wistfully.
"Stwonger dan me."

The girl in question has never shown any interest in Jeffrey, but apparently, back in high school, her mom asked that her child "not be seated next to Jeffrey anymore".  


Whatever illicit passions flared in the distant past have left their mark on Jeffrey.


He often begins to tell me some intricate plan of his involving someone whose name he should not say, but I always drag the name out of him, and it is always hers.


Usually the plan is : "She was my girlfriend, she will be. She doesn't know about that yet. She'll like my sweatshirt." (this new sweatshirt of his is a frequent obsession; he constantly puts the hood up and says, "Wook, I'm a ninja spy. A bwack one."... the sweatshirt is green)


The girl's boyfriend is one of the students I have the most difficulty being patient with; he has a tremendous stutter and the need to put in his two cents on everything, which is a terrible combination.


Though I must admit, I take pleasure in watching strangers engage this student. 

Their eyes are lit with self-satisfaction; they feel so comfortable relating to "special" people, they have reached out to this pleasant seeming man, they are dialoguing with him.

But how quickly it breaks apart. 

As he begins to violently stutter an inch from their faces, they always freeze and glance desperately around for an escape route.


By the time he is ready for some hugs, the now vibratingly awkward stranger has all but shrunken into the soles of their well-meaning Birkenstocks.


One time, this student stood in front of an assembly of his classmates and several staff members, including a visiting speech pathologist, and held court.

After ten long minutes, he got around to what he was supposed to share: how he had spent his previous evening. (We call it "giving news").

As he agonized over each syllable, the pathologist turned on the therapy.

"We're all here for you, " she stage whispered, "You can do this. Take your time. Just breathe. Close your eyes if you have to".

He breathes in, than out. He finds the words: "I l-l-l-l-o-o-o-o-kdid at n-n-n-n-aked ladies on the compu-pu-pu-pu-puter l-last night."

I jumped up and ushered him off stage.


Jeffrey continues to watch the young couple. They laugh loudly at some private joke, and even though he and I are at least thirty feet away, Jeffrey erupts into spastic fits of laughter himself.

"She's so funny," he says.


I have been with Jeffrey all day, and I have been beaten down by the sheer weight of his repetitive chatter.

It completely deprives you of any chance for introspection; you have no corner of your conscious mind not penetrated by:

"What time is it? Because my body is out of control."

"Are you tired? I'm tired because the Sandman threw sand in my face."

"Whats that smell? It's probably me."

"Why did the chicken cross the road? To have an egg with a chick inside!" (followed by unhinged laughter)

"Is my watch fast? Because its a minute behind."

"Have you ever heard Gaga la la gaga gaga la by lady gaga?" (This one I had trouble discerning where the name of the song ended and the artist began)


Towards the end of the day, Jeffrey has hiccups.

"You can scare me if you want to, " he says.

Before I can respond, he loudly growls:

Friday, September 16, 2011

Career Builder

I need a new job.


If I could pick, I would be one of those guys that solve historical crimes.



Or one of those guys that travel the world, tracking mystery animals.



Instead I work in special education.



My children don't respect me.



I will grow old, living in lonely obscurity.



Why did  I borrow a million dollars to be a librarian?
I don't even like the public.