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The best part about Halloween is that all day I get to tell women that my penis isn't small, unfilling and woefully inadequate...
it's "Fun Sized".

 
 
     My day started out with a productive trip to the gym. When I got home I had a nice bowl of whole wheat cereal with rice milk and a cup of coffee. I had a nice cup of fruit for lunch and some water. All in all, I was well on my way to a rare day of victory in what is clearly a lost war on calories. 
     I was experiencing a strange feeling that I had completely forgotten about. I believe you normals refer to it as "Pride".

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<--- Then this happened. 

     For anyone who is not quite sure what they are looking at, please allow me to explain. This is a Kogi burrito called the "K-Oki Dog". It's a burrito filled to it's maximum potential with short rib, pastrami, a hot dog, cheese, salsa roja, caramelized onions and kimchi. 
It is my new master.
You should all consider yourselves lucky it did not tell me to kill you all, because I'd slice all of your necks without pause just to be in it's presence again. 
My point is that this particular item took me by the balls and ended my day of healthy eating in one swift stroke.
I was left defenseless, rudderless, adrift in a sea of greasy deliciousness.
Later in the evening, I would eat several pieces of fried zucchini and finish my night with a strawberry shake.

Now if you'll excuse me, this is one hydrogen (and meat and cheese)-filled zeppelin that has hit the power lines. I'm going to crash now.

Oh, the humanity!     
 
 
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He is Carson Palmer. You are not.
     If you have never heard of Carson Palmer, let me fill you in a bit about who he is, where he was, where he's going and why the less attention is paid to him by some, the better.
     Palmer is a California boy who played quarterback for a very good USC team several years ago. He was taken first overall in 2003 by the Cincinnati Bengals. Things went well for a while for both he and his team. Not an exceptional career, no Superbowl rings or anything, but certainly nothing to be really embarrassed by or anything. 
     Well, not until a little while ago anyway.
     You see, after seven years, Palmer slowly began to realize that despite his talent, reputation and awesome helmet, he was never going to become a champion while on an uncompetitive team like the Bengals. The odds were heavily stacked against him. He was unhappy with his place in the NFL and, dare I say it, the world.
He wanted out.   
     This would, however, prove to be difficult. Very difficult. Even for a guy who spends his time avoiding several giant men who are trying to tackle him while throwing an oblong ball down a field into the arms of another man. You see, Palmer was under contract. Not just a regular contract, but a really big contract. Any team willing to take him would have to be willing to take on a lot of money to do so. Mind you, this is for a good quarterback, not a great one. Plus, Palmer had missed almost a whole season recently with an injury. On top of all of this, the Bengals, like an abused housewife, refused to let their man go. They had no interest in trading him. He made his general displeasure with his situation very public, telling anyone who would listen that he would rather retire than stay in Cincinnati. 
     Well, eventually his prayers would be answered in the form of an busted shoulder in Oakland. 
     When the Raiders, a team that has spent the last few years being synonymous with loss, embarrassment and losing embarrassingly suddenly began to look like a professional football team, their downtrodden and, shall we say, unique, fans were thrilled. However, the mood of Raiders fans went back to normal (See: bad) when their quarterback, Jason Campbell,  busted his shoulder and was told that he would miss the remainder of the season. Never a team to think things through all that well, they were willing to give up two first round draft picks in order to ship Palmer out of that vile hellhole and over to Oakland. Wait, that last sentence doesn't sound right. Hmmm. It just doesn't seem right that there's a place worse than Oakland, but I digress. My point is that Palmer is a guy with an overblown sense of self-worth who found himself in a bad situation and decided to throw a temper tantrum so loud and annoying that he finally got his wish.

It is because of this that I really hope that none of those Wall St. protesters are paying any attention to any of this.

     Like Palmer, the Wall St. protesters think that they are more valuable than they actually are. Like Palmer, they believe that they can do what they do better than anyone while commanding more money than anyone else to do it. Like Palmer, they believe that they are being treated unfairly and like Palmer they are demanding that things are put right. 
Here's the two main differences between Carson Palmer and the Wall St. protesters:
1.) The Wall St. protesters are more right than they are wrong.
2.) The Wall St. protesters are not going to get what they want.

     Those people in all of those parks and public gathering places are absolutely right. The deck is completely stacked against them and in favor of the exact people who caused the entire country immense financial strife. These people have had their futures liquidated by rich, counterproductive assholes who have done such to give themselves another layer of Republican sponsored gold-plating on top of their long embedded platinum plating. It's a situation that is completely maddening and the protesters are absolutely right to be enraged by it. 
You know what else, the fact that they are out there protesting means and will accomplish essentially nothing. Those people with those nice suits in those buildings who own everything including the media and police are the coldest and most heartless scum that our country has ever produced. Do you really think that they care one iota that you're on to them? Is it going to effect their lives at all that some white guys with dreadlocks in a drum circle are aware that they are the ones who are making it impossible to pay back their student loans (the fact that they majored in "Bob Marley lyrics" isn't helping, either)? Those people in their ivory towers care about one thing and one thing only, their own best interest. If the protesters could find a way of making them think that they were going to lose their houses in the Hamptons and Porsche Boxsters, you'd seen an open dialogue open up right quick. However, that's impossible on account of them being both smarter and more evil than you. It sucks, I know that it does and I wish all of those people the best, however, it does not change the fact that they're going to stay up there and you're going to stay down here. Short of a good old-fashioned series of Marie Antoinette decapitations for America's ruling caste, things are going to stay this way as long as they damn well want it to. As for you, I'm glad that you're aware of it and I'm glad that they're aware you're aware of  it. Perhaps you can channel this richeous indignation into the next election. For now, however, I have some bad news for you. You're not going to get what you want.

I mean, who do you think you are, Carson Palmer? 
  
 
 
     You know those scenes in movies where a heroic character jumps on a grenade to save his/her friends/family/fellow soldiers? It's a character trait that insures both respect and death for whoever is doing it. It shows the selfless nature of the character and gives them a brave and respectable way to die. 
     In the movies and TV, this is always the right thing to do. In real life, however, this is not always the case.
     A woman named Zurana Horton was shot to death in Brooklyn yesterday. She did so in the act of shielding her infant daughter from random gunfire coming from a nearby roof. Whoever started shooting from the roof was almost certainly not aiming for Zurana Horton or her daughter and remains at large. At first glance, this story appears to be a tragic tale of urban gun violence and Zurana Horton appears to have died in an exceedingly heroic manner, saving the life of her daughter.
     Like I said, thats how it appears at first glance. Let me give you a little more information. 
     Zurana Horton was 34 years old a the time of her death.
     She had 12 children.
     They ranged in age from almost 2 to 18 years old.
     3 of them have cerebral palsy.
     After examining these points, I have come to the conclusion that Zurana Horton's maternal instincts betrayed her and in saving the life of her daughter, she did the wrong thing.
     I have no children and there is a distinct possibility that I never will. I'm not saying that I have no interest, there are just too many variables at the moment for me to gauge. However, from what I've seen, maternal instincts are very powerful things and should not be trifled with. They seem to alter ones perception to the point where they transform women's children into that idol from the beginning of "Raiders of the Lost Ark". 


Can I get a shot of that?           
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Thanks.


      My point being that most people with kids view them as something well worth dodging poison darts and outrunning mammoth boulders in order to protect. They are that precious.
     However, do you think Indy would have given quite as much effort if he already had eleven more of those idols at home? More importantly, should he have? If you ask me, this woman's maternal instinct kicked in at exactly the wrong time.
My point is this:
The world would be better with eleven kids being raised by their mother than twelve kids being raised without her.
When you factor in the fact that a full 25% of these kids have disabilities, it's even worse. I'm glad that I'm not bright enough to know even the  approximate dollar amount that these kids are going to cost the state of New York. 
     Besides, what's the point of having so many kids if you can't lose one every now and then? I know it's not the most pleasant way of looking at all of this, but if you wanted pleasant, you probably wouldn't be here, now would you? While I'm on the subject, twelve kids at age thirty-four is entirely too many kids. I understand that you should do what you're good at (Which is why I'm sitting here doing absolutely nothing), but come on. Twelve kids in eighteen years is statistically more time pregnant than not pregnant. A uterus should be more like a comfy hammock and less like the Holland Tunnel on a Friday afternoon. Plus, if three of your kids have the same disability, your vagina is trying to tell you something: You're not that great at making kids, either. Reproducing is about quality, not quantity. 
     Therefore, as a lesson to all of you, watch this spoiler-heavy clip from David Cronenberg's masterpiece "The Dead Zone". If both you and your child are being shot at and you have eleven more kids at home, take a page from evil politician Martin Sheen's book. He's a villain and all, but as I said at the beginning, being a hero isn't always the right thing to do.     
You can't save 'em all.
 
 
     Human beings are nothing if not the sum of our experiences. Everything that we experience collects together to create our personalities, traits, our very beings. As a result of this, we really, in the great philosophical sense of things, should not regret any of our experiences. Without any of these experiences, we would not be our full selves. We would not be fully complete. As a result, we should be grateful for each and every experience that our lives are made of.
     Having said that, I just wasted 90 odd minutes of my life watching "Paranormal Activity 2". 
I truly regret losing that time.


It sucks.   
 
 
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     My favorite movie is "Tron". I own five albums by Gary Numan and two by Talk Talk. My hair is usually feathered and covering one eye. I own a hot pink blazer with short sleeves and big shoulder pads and a pair or turquoise moccasins to go with them. I laugh every time anyone says "Where's the beef?". I watch at least one Sylvester Stallone movie a week.
What I'm trying to say, in so many words... 
...is that I think I'm going to miss Gaddafi.

 
 
     Earlier today the Captain was looking to clean up our kitchen a bit. She picked up my large coffee mug which, still dirty, contained the residue of some undissolved vanilla powder at the bottom. 


Captain: Can I please put your clumpy, vanilla disgustingness into my dishwasher?


It's not every day that someone so overtly asks me to have sex with them, but I'll tell you, that is officially the hottest thing any woman has ever said to me. I melted instantly, which is more than I can say for the vanilla powder.
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     At what point will I get mature enough that I will be able to wash and ball up my socks without pretending that at least one pair is a grenade, resulting in me throwing them into the other room and diving behind the couch to avoid imaginary shrapnel? 
     I really hope that I outgrow this eventually. I cant imagine it'll ever get anything other than more embarrassing.
... Good thing nobody knows about it... 

 
 
     I had a great dream last night that I was in Pittsburgh. Every food item was made of bacon, including a frisbee-sized bacon disk with a stack of bacon on top. Every TV was either playing a Penguins game or 80's porn which were all run off of laserdiscs from installed wall units. Every person was very nice but tough with bad teeth and an extensive knowledge of zombies and what to do when they inevitably attack mankind. 
     I've never actually been to Pittsburgh, but according to my dream, it may very well be the greatest place on earth. 
Accurate dream? I have no idea. Great dream? Absolutely. 
 
 
     So,
     I woke up today with a pretty massive hangover brought on by an evening spent drinking what I believe were five pints of Guinness and eating what I believe were four donuts. Anyone who knows anything about a balanced diet knows that this is a bad idea. However, to paraphrase Laertes from "Hamlet", I am justly served. It is a poison tempered by my own distain. 
     Harm, but no foul. Not really. Moving on.
     I reach over for my Droid and after way too much time spent regaining my ability to focus by blood-shot eyes on a phone screen, I discover a friendly warning from the "Good" people at Bank of America informing me that I am broke. Technically, I'm worse than broke. If someone were, out of the goodness of their hearts, to give me $105.87, THEN I'd be broke. This concept is one that I would have a hard time with at the peak of sobriety, so hung over and not awake me decided to save my feelings of panic and dismay until I can really give them my all. 
     I continued to try to sleep.
     I check my phone again after a bit to discover that a good friend of mine (and someone who needs nothing more at this phase of her life than some good news) has had her lovely dog pass away. I liked that dog and really like that person, so this is a most unpleasant surprise. However, still not awake. still not thinking properly, still trying to sleep.  
     I'm about to check my pone again when I get a call from my brother. He is writing his college essay and needed some perspective and memories of our mother, a lovely woman who died in 2003. As a more-or-less heterosexual more-or-less male I have been encouraged by society to suppress the emotions that come with this exercise and the whole thing, cathartic and necessary as it was, probably would have sent me to my lowest point under normal circumstances. However, this time it did not, seeing as how I was already there.
     Well, now that all of that's out of the way, I think it's time for me to get out of bed and start my day.
I think it's going to go pretty well, don't you?