I’ve always wanted to use doilies as napkins or Napkin Doilies

All my life I’ve been the quiet kid in the corner. It’s worked out well for me. Sometimes people would come to my corner and hang out, other times I would go to other people’s corners. It’s a great life. Or rather, was a great life. I had my corner friends and we did corner things together. Then one day I met a corner girl and I had a perfect corner life. You could say we “fit” together.

Then I got laid. In the corner room of a house. Fittingly enough.

At the end of what I like to refer to as a “ten-minute-long moment,” I burst out of the prison that is celibacy like the Hulk. With a victorious cry of “oh god” upon my arrival into the World, I collapsed on the greenest of grasses. Ten minutes later I had another ten-minute-long moment and it was glorious. I lay sprawled out and sweaty in the center of the corner room.

Then it was back to the rest of my corner life, this time with added sex. A pretty decent lot in life if I do say so myself. Or rather, said. Eventually I got bored with the corner, all of it, even sex. I know, who gets bored with sex? Apparently, this guy, right here. Hear me out though. It was always the same thing, each and every time. It was like ten minute long déjà vu. I made a move, she didn’t like it. I made another mood. She told me to stop. I got pissy and turned on the TV. As soon as I found a show that I actually wanted to watch, she would suddenly unbutton her blouse, straddle me, and then continue to round the bases.

This always confused me and, after the fact, left me in the ohso awkward position of hating and loving someone at the same time while feeling unsatisfied in the bedroom region. On the one hand, she was a corner person like myself. On the other, she played these crazy girly psycho games where all of my favorite activities were mutually exclusive and nothing meant what it should’ve. It was like being in a spy thriller where I had to decode reality and stop meant go but go, depending on tonality and semantic phrasing, could mean stop or that there’s a cop down the road or that I could only travel at 35 mph. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the hell anything meant back then. I digress.

After seeking the counsel of my dear friend and personal guru, the Internet, I determined that I was definitively not a corner sex person, which led me to question if I were not so much of a corner person myself. In the lengthy soulsearch that followed, I discovered that I was, indeed, a corner person, but I did not, in fact, like the room in whose corner I was in. An odd quandary.

So, starting in that moment, I started rearranging the metaphorical, yet in a few cases, material objects of my corner. This sudden restacking of life’s Legos, did not make my corner girlfriend too happy. So one night I got wasted and pissed on her scrapbooking materials, sprayed perfume on her cat, and used her doilies as napkins for nachos and wings because I’ve never liked any of that stuff. It felt good.

I woke up the next day to a text that, in summary, concluded vehemently that I had suddenly stopped “fitting” her and that our lives would no longer be “adjoined.” I shit you not, she used those exact words. Who does that? I forwarded the text to my buddy to see what he thought. He asked what happened. So I told him.


(513): She found me naked and passed out on the toilet. When she asked me what happened to her scrapbook supplies, why her cat smelled like $200 dollar perfume, and what was on her doilies, I apparently just kept repeating "I'm like Elvis, but not dead."



Ohso – an interjection used to attract the attention of the person spoken to and transition into a new subject or tangent

The Sites of Porcelainia

Ever wanted to travel? Wanted to get out there and see something? Anything? Even hike somewhere? Well I have. Or rather… did. Work had just come to a sudden crawl, and in response to the lack of customers, the restaurant begun their summer hour rotation. This left me virtually jobless, which was, at first, particularly awesome. But, after I checked off the last item on the list I made (to properly remake my impression on the beanbag couch), I became directionless.

My being directionless is not a good idea. I once spent three weeks creating the taxonomic breeding sequence that would theoretically end in the birth of domesticated bears. Which, admittedly, was really fun, but you get the point. In a similar harnessing of chaotic thought, it occurred to me that I needed to take a roadtrip. I needed to go out into the world and attain a fresh perspective, for my world had grown too small. So, I figured a trip was in order, and seeing that Mardi Gras was right around the bend, I decided Nah’lins was the place to be. I don’t know why people pronounce “New Orleans” this way, but they do. So it goes.

That was last week. Today I awoke as the King of Porcelainia to the majestic mash-up of Rihanna and Lady Gaga announcing a message from my dear friend Ben. A week of TV censor worthy memories, masks, feathers, and drinks I’ve never heard of flash through my dehydrated mind. I press the open button with a foul smelling thumb to see what my dear friend wanted: a simple inquiry as to how the last day of site seeing went. I promptly, and gingerly, responded.


(978): The view from the bathroom floor this morning is fabulous.

Complaints Don't Make Good Bait According to Jesus

Religion is a funny thing. It’s controversial, it’s taboo, and if it’s got any truth to it, there’s some invisible giant dude with a damn impressive beard watching over all of us all the time; and killing an exorbitant amount of kittens depending on who you talk to. Now, whether this is a good or bad thing, depends on your perspective. It’s either pretty freaking awesome or really bloody creepy. I’m some where in the middle of the two, but as long as he doesn’t tell the cops what’s in my cup, we’re golden. My buddy Joey has a similar take on it, except for when it comes to Jesus. I like to think Jesus was an enlightened individual who rocked a jewfro, was good with puppies, and probably invented Birkenstocks. Joey likes to believe that he is the Lord made manifest and is not a fan of suede clogs. Sometimes, when he’s had a little too much, he’ll stand up for “Jesus’ honor,” his words not mine. It’s a little weird, but it hasn’t stopped us from drinking together. I like to think of it as an endearing quirk.

In any case, we were at the bar last Friday when a trio of women came over to our table and started talking the two of us up. Within half a minute it became clear that Joey was their target, and the mastermind behind the plan was the shortest of the three. She was flashing him smiles as her friends laughed at her jokes and slyly slipped in appealing facts here and there. A well coordinated wingwoman strategy. The girl even did the whole tongue-straw thing, which is admittedly pretty hot, but my girlfriend’s better at it.

What should have been like shooting fish in a barrel ended in a moment of stunned silence that I will tell and retell until my dying breath. Her every effort seemed to flail and fail on Joey’s command. Even though his bed had been a solo show for the last seven months he was having none of it. I couldn’t understand. She wasn’t exactly his type, but he’d never been picky before. Suddenly she got whiney. Not whiney as in she started-bitching-about-her-day whiney. She was whiney in that way women are, and she started complaining about her physical attributes. That’s when it happened. As if he were the hand of God itself, Joey acted with Biblical swiftness.

After the dust settled, I sent the following text to our other buddy who got stuck working the graveyard shift.



(314): She said her tits were too big. Then he slapped her and said that Jesus didn’t appreciate bitches that fish for compliments.