The Coolest Blog Ever

I just noticed something interesting. These are the labels associated with The Drunken Pig Chronicle:

anal
creampies
disgusting
horrible
interracial
jameson
MC5
nietzsche

Basically, that means whoever searches for a blog using those terms will find the Chronicle! I'd say that's a job well done. This blog is everything I ever hoped it could be. In fact, I'm so giddy my genitals have sucked up into my body cavity.

The nastiest video ever

Ever hear of 2 girls, 1 cup?  I stumbled upon this by accident. Honestly. It is quite possibly the nastiest video I have ever seen.  I say possibly because I'm a realist and I know that right now there is someone else, maybe Frank, out there setting up a tripod and camera to film an even nastier video.  I don't know how a director could convince one woman, let alone two, to help realize such a demented vision.  But that director has done the impossible.

Literary theory hell in Montreal

I'm sitting in an atrociously upholstered easy chair (I mean the color, not the quality) here in The Fun Room (will explain later), typing away at an essay that compares and contrasts Jacques Blais's "L'unite organique de Bonheur d'occasion" and Gilles Marcotte's "Bonheur d'occasion et le grand realisme". I have a cat sleeping on my left leg, a laptop in front of me (obviously), and a Red Bull on the desk next to me. It snowed last night, and for the first time this season it stuck- everything outside is covered in a cotton-like white blanket of ice. I really don't want to write this essay, but if I have to do it, this is the way. I can only think of two (2) additional items which might contribute to my intellectual meanderings as I vomit them into a Word document: Kendra, siting naked on the chair next to me, and a big fat fucking bowl of tasty you-know-what. Mmm...

I hate christianity, and america, and apple pie, and saturday morning cartoons.

I just saw the trailer for "What would jesus buy?". God I hate god. Why do people need it so much? Well anyway, this movie is supposed to be some docu-comedy about the consumerisation of christmas, and our country. Look, here's the deal. The Christians stole a harmless seasonal festival and slapped their own meanings and implications all over it, so why shouldn't america do the same? We saw an opportunity and took it.

Now, if this is all about the troubles of debt and consumerism, that's fine. Those things are terrible. My debt should be erased, and i should receive everything I want for free, no payment of tender or labor. Especially weed. Send weed now. I have no problem with attacking one of Americas founding principles (I even helped write a jingle for it once....), but why dilute a wholesome message with religion? It just screws up what was a feeble argument to begin with. Basically, we're pissed off that we like buying things for each other.

For more evidence I hate America, go here!

The Gorrilaz suck live.

They do. I just watched it on TV. I like the way this font makes everything I write look important. But yeah, it sucked. Namely, they played everything too fast, which is pretty inexcusable when you make the kind of super-produced stuff they come up with. You know the BPM, just get it right, yeah? If I can stick it out at 87 BPM, why cant the guy getting paid millions do it?

Shit Yeah!

I Just got a new 250GB USB Hard drive! No more file shuffling so I can fit a measly 40GB of porn on my computer. Now I will have it all!!!!

Kendra, read this post.

Just wanted to put it out there that I'm still single and your sister is still attractive. At least the picture on your myspace portrayed her as such. San Diego is working for me music-wise, but my love life is suffering. I'm becoming bitter towards women who aren't immediately attracted to me. If you've even met my friend Aaron, you know what this is like.

This is amazing in mostly bad ways

But then I got over it.

Kendra don't read this

I just downloaded some stuff from allinternals.com. Aside from being slightly misogynistic for my taste (a few unnecessary slaps and/or rough treatment, which the girls didn't seem to mind at all, but my prudish morality does; pls. note irony), I found the idea of internal cum shots rather compelling. I thought it was interesting because it had the potential to be a little more intimate and reflective of real-life intercourse, my real-life anyways. I mean, first of all, who wants to wear a condom, and for that matter, who the fuck wants to bother pulling out? Prolly the same kind of guys who actually roll over before they pass out. Sissies.

But then I was reading the synopsis for one of the movies and it said something to the effect of "Watch Ruby get fucked by a well-hung stud and then filled up with babies- I mean cum!"

What the fuck?

Is that the appeal? It makes me feel like Tromeo in the jackoff scene in Tromeo and Juliet. I mean, I've never been opposed to the idea of kids but I certainly don't want them in the near future, if ever. Am I just bullshitting myself? There's something vaguely arousing about the idea of my virile hip thrusts leading to an awesome, explosive internal cum shot deep inside the woman I love, but babies? Somehow I lost wood and got harder at the same time.

Bob Dylan is full of shit, and so is folk music.

Well, i just finished my last beer,(Sam Adams Octoberfest. Delicious.) so now it is time to rant. About 45 minutes ago, I thought it might be a good idea to check out marty Scorsese's Dylan picture, "no direction home". My freind Korrie lent it to me, even though I only requested Bjork DVDS. While the Bjork DVDs I received were wonderful, this Dylan crap is pretty inexcusable. I figured, "hey, I don't like dylan, but it's Scorsese, so it'll be good right?" I must have forgotten about "The Departed", which also sucked balls. Big balls. It stunk like a dildo I shoved up my ass and forgot about.

Anyway, I didn't know much about Dylan before I watched this DVD, and now, not even having finished even the first half, I find myself re-thinking the friendship I have with the owner of this drivel.

So was Bob Dylan in the right place at the right time or what? I mean, this film is actually a kind of interesting piece on the folk music revival of the 60's, but then it keeps focusing on Dylan, this cover song wannabe! Oooooh, I love Woodie Guthrie, blah blah blah. It might have held me, but it kept surrendering the point to this oh so aging hipster that just doesn't have much to say.

Bob Dylan owes me 45 minutes, and Scorsese owes me like three or four hours now.

Road Trip and First Impressions of Montréal

Okay, here goes:

SF to Reno

Not bad. Short drive (4-5 hours). Once we got out of the city the cats were fine. Once we got to Reno I played video blackjack at a grocery store (you can do that there). I started with a dollar, got up to $1.40, went down to 80 cents, and then made it back up to a dollar. I cashed out at that point and the attendant who brought me my earnings, an grim older lady who'd been reading a romance novel, had such a look of disgust on her face that I didn't gamble anywhere else in Nevada.

Reno to Salt Lake City

Only two things I need to mention about Salt Lake City. One of them is that most of the beer there is only 3.2% alcohol (it's the opposite here in Québec, but we'll get to that). We found a couple that were 4%, one of which, I shit you not, was called "Polygamy Porter". The tagline was "Why have just one?"

Salt Lake City to Jackson, WY

Jackson is set just south of the Grand Tetons (which is French for "big tits") and is filled with ski bums, cowboys, and a small artist community. It's gorgeous there, but a little too wholesome and homogenized for my taste.

Rapid City, SD

We stopped in Rapid City to see Kendra's Uncle Denny and Aunt Pam. Rapid is right by Mt. Rushmore, which was the biggest piece of shit tourist trap I've been to in a long time. The monument itself is impressive, however it costs $8 just to park near it. Kendra and I decided that money would be better spent on beer in the small town that's crept up in the shadow of Mt. Rushmore. I forget the name of it but all of the hotels there have names like "Presidential Suites" or "The White House Motel". Everywhere we went the help was rude and shitty, but I guess I would be too after being shit on every day by the basest examples of bovine America. Seriously, what kind of asshole packs up their family for a week-long visit to Mt. Rushmore?

The Mall of America, MN

I guess this is the biggest mall in America or something. I think a lot of people get duped into going to this thing the same way I did, thinking it's a national monument or something, but when you get there you realize that it's just a huge fucking mall with an amusement park in the middle of it and there's no fucking way your girlfriend is going to let you run away now. We went to the Rainforest Café and got drunk right away. Then things were okay, almost fun, in a Fear and Loathing kind of way. The alcohol was expensive, but we did get a blinking souvenir glass. Plastic. Big cheap-looking seams down the middle of it. Lettering already wearing off. Like my love for America after spending a few drunken hours with its mall.

Celebrity Jeopardy

Alex Trebek was backstage talking to his 28 year-old son, who was trying to explain why he never finished anything he started. "Dad, dad," he said, "I think I'm just in love with existence. I like feeling the molecules that make up my body. All of the infinite forces in the universe... they came together to form the consciousness I call 'me'... and that consciousness is the greatest thing we have! Sentience! What are the odds it's ever going to happen again, that I'm going to happen again? My god... I learn a little music, I learn about art, I learn what I want to know and I move on because each new thing brings me another perspecive on what I know through my senses... and I'm telling you, the greatest thing I have, the greatest feeling I ever feel is when I close my eyes and just be, I close my eyes and feel the universe moving around me, in me, everywhere... The worst thing humans ever did was convince ourselves that we're 'separate' from everything else. God, that's so lonely. I guess I still get lonely sometimes, but I don't feel alone. It's that feeling... the awareness of everything around me, inside me, making up me, my thoughts, everything. That feeling of awareness is all I'll ever need, and I'll always have it!"

Alex sighed. He'd heard it before.

After he hung up the phone, he put a happy face on and began to walk back out onstage. The lights hurt his eyes. Then he remembered that it was Celebrity Jeopardy week, and his whole head began to hurt. The famous contestants that night included Neville Sinclair, a Broadway actor who'd recently had a minor role in a hit television sitcom.

Neville Sinclair annoyed Alex greatly. He was catty and over-the-top in a very obvious, stereotypically homosexual way, but his greatest crime was the obvious pleasure he felt whenever the crowd roared at one of his quips. Indeed, Mr. Sinclair was fully aware of but ignoring the fact that a Celebrity Jeopardy audience is an especially easy one. To begin with, it is far, far larger than all other Jeopardy audiences, and the average audience member's I.Q. is in indirect proportion to the size of the crowd. Additionally, the questions on Celebrity Jeopardy are even easier than Teen Challenge Jeopardy, so as not to make any rich actors feel stupid. Of course this is of no importance to most of the Celebrity Jeopardy audience, as they're only there to see a particular celebrity rather than enjoy the game, which for that entire week is little more than an advertisement for the participating celebrities' current projects.

All of that Alex could stomach. It was part of the job, it only happened once a year, and it brought in sponsors. Neville Sinclair, however, made Alex remember a feeling he'd had way back in high school whenever someone picked on him for the amusement of others. Alex didn't want to play straight man to Neville Sinclair's kooky, sarcastic queer, but play it he did, right up to the end of Double Jeopardy. When the buzzer signaled that only a minute remained Neville demanded Alex apologize for "being so mean". Again, the crowd roared with laughter.

At that moment, Alex imagined calmly stepping down from his podium, walking over to Sinclair, and slapping him hard across the face. He saw Sinclair crumple into a defeated heap and begin sobbing. After a moment Alex reached down and gently picked him up by his lapels. He then calmly explained to the still sobbing Neville, the silent studio audience, and all of the millions of viewers at home, that Jeopardy was his show, and that since Sinclair was Alex's guest, he should comport himself LIKE A FUCKING MAN.

I love both of these equally

This.

And this.

It was...

...nothing out of the ordinary for the toxic boredom of a corporate office setting (combined with a few latent psychotic personalities), but I started to get into it when I realized that I was going out with a splash. People from OTHER departments were coming up to me and asking me to tell them the story. And I was only too glad to oblige, because it was fucked up.

A woman was declined a child rider because she had a history of depression. A child rider is one of the bells and whistles you can put on a life insurance policy. You pay a little more and if one of your kids dies you get a little money, maybe $10,000-$50,000. A gal at the agent's office asked why depression in a parent would cause a child rider to be declined. My coworker Mike sent her a Wikipedia link to Andrea Yates. He had a rapport with this girl and she knew he had a sick sense of humor.

But either through stupidity or malicious intent (probably the former), this gal sent the link on to her boss, who emailed our boss's boss and said he didn't find it funny, blah blah blah. They fired Mike and scolded me and Laura for some of the shit we said in emails to Mike the day he got fired.

I didn't let them steamroll me when they called me into HR for my scolding. Human Resources resides, along with Marketing and all of the rest at the top of the company food chain, in the penthouse suite on top of the building, a full ten floors above my little cube. It was three of them against me in the little glass fishbowl conference room they have up there. But I knew they wouldn't fire me. They were short on case managers and I was good at my job. They put me on "probation" and made me sign something. Two days later I gave my notice. I'm starting to think I'm not made for the corporate life.

I miss public transportation ( the trolley, at least)

A few months ago while I was at work, I was robbed. Someone stole the catalytic converter off the bottom of my car (part of the exhaust). Apparently, you can recycle the little buggers for about 60-70 dollars. Who knew? Not me, cause I probably would have turned it in myself for weed money, even if it did make my car sound like an incredibly irate woolly mammoth.

A couple weeks ago, some one stole my whole car. Ironically, I was at work that day telling everyone how this new trolley station I went to was so much safer and secure.

I miss the trolley. I miss the people that were weird and ignored me, but somehow not as much as the people who were weird and engaged me. Now, I'm assuming this is like the whole "I miss being in a relationship" thing, where you focus on the happy times, and forget about the times when your girlfriend was a drunk idiot, or when a punk 17 year old tries to fight a middle aged woman. But dammit I miss it.

I took the bus a few times, but that sucked.

Those people are losers.

Check this out right now

Byron Garcia is the warden of a prison in the Philippines.
These are his movies.
We really have a long, long way to go, don't we?

Looking for work

As I am always looking for the newest, latest, greatest adventure out there, I have decided to look for additional employment! Here are my credentials:

* I can get up really early.
* I have the ability to wear a paper hat.
*If given a water-based cleaning utensil, I can get a lot of water where it shouldn't be.
*I know a shitload of other ways to piss Tom off.

If anyone needs anybody with that description, lemme know!

Shut Up

I've found the perfect way to get to work. First, I take a commuter bus part of the way, a nice clean bus that is filled only with sleeping Asians. Then I take the subway three stops to Montgomery Station. Simple. Piece of cake. So the other day I'm walking from the bus stop to the subway and I pass a homeless guy with a walker. He looked to be in his 40s or 50s. We were walking in the same direction and as I passed him, I coughed.

"Shut up," he replied, in a deliberate, disgusted tone.

I stopped, turned around, and looked at him. Then I started laughing. I couldn't help it. I'll admit I was taken aback and a little hurt, but the sheer magnitude of his disdain, its misdirection towards me, and the absurdity of the whole situation just wouldn't let me take it seriously. "What an asshole," I said to myself as I turned and went to down the stairs into the subway station, still laughing.

Busking With the Best of Them

The subway is fucking annoying. People act like rats down there. When I come up the escalator the first thing I encounter after I pass through the turnstile is the little troll who sits in the newstand booth. The booth is just a little aluminum cage that says "Newsstand" on it. This homeless-looking guy with a pointy nose and long, stringy grey hair sits inside of it in the morning and sells newspapers. He's usually wearing a pair of those headphones that have an FM radio built in them. One morning as I was coming up the escalator the strap on my backpack came loose (huh-huh, I said "strap on"). I set it down on the aluminum cage and the instantly the troll was on me. "Can you move that? Please? PLEASE!" You remember that scene in Rain Man where Dustin Hoffman goes bonkers? That's what this was like. I didn't even see it coming.

Anyways, this was about busking. Here's a list of some of the regular buskers I see at the Montgomery Station:

1. Jesse Morris - He's a punk rock kid who sings like Johnny Cash. Just like Johnny Cash. It's great to see him down there at 8:00 on a Monday morning, totally decked out in punk regalia singing Ring of Fire to uptight paperpushers on their way to the office, but to me it begs an obvious question- why? If I were him I'd move to Vegas and make a hundred grand a year like all those shitty Michael Jackson impersonators instead of waking up early as fuck and getting my mohawk ready so I could go down into the subway and wait for the Financial District herd to throw coins at me.

2. Asshole and Mandolin Man - Not their real names. Mandolin Man is a sturdy-looking, small, bearded man who sits on a stool. Usually he just plays leads over the Asshole on guitar, almost always harmonic minor scales. It's boring but ignorable. I call the guitar player asshole because he plays guitar like Jack Johnson, everything has that annoyingly crisp, punchy backbeat. I fucking hate Jack Johnson more han I hate Nazis, because he IS a Nazi. He's a fucking World War's worth of lame, uninspired, mediocre music. And the Asshole down in Montgomery Station who plays sort of like him is folkier. It's brutal. I picture the music video to his hit single having a sing along with a bunch of people in mom jeans shaking heir butts in front of the camera. Like cheesy 90s shit that makes you feel awkward while you're watching it.

3. Mariachi Guy - He's a short Mexican guy who wears a cowboy hat and sings songs like "Cielito Lindo". His guitar is almost always out of tune. Needless to say, I give him the nod almost everytime I walk by.

I gave it a try a couple of times. It was fun and I made about $10 during the hour and a half I played, but who the fuck wants to be underground with the rats any more than you have to be?

People Waking Me Up

Why do people seem confused when I yell at them for waking me up early? Why does crashing around on my roof and spraying water in my apartment seem like a perfecly natural thing to be doing at 7:30 on a Sunday morning? Those fuckers. There's a Chinese restaurant below us and they have a big fan on top of our roof. Every once in a while they send this asshole with a paper bag on his head to clean it. I mean, i's not like I have to endure a war or anything, but fuck man. Next time I'm going over to his house at 7:30 and taking big corn shit on his lawn.

Assassination Aspirations

Being assassinated has been one of my long term goals for a few years now. It is my intention to say things that are so inflammatory/irritating to certain people that I am hunted down and assassinated (as in a Martin Luther King Jr. way, not an Adolph Hitler way). Whether I am shot by a lone, possibly CIA-employed gunman as I'm eating an apple, or executed for committing treason against a government that I did not give consent to "govern" me is irrelevant. As a means of making an exit from this severely ridiculous little comedy, it appeals to me for four reasons:

1. You have to be considered important enough to be assassinated instead of just being murdered. Any old slob can be murdered, but if you're assassinated it means you've done something special with your life.

2. Since only stupid, insane people kill other people, I'll have pissed off the right people.

3. Since we're all going to die someday and I accept that, I might as well go out with a bang.

4. Revolutions are sexy. If I'm lucky enough to foment one and get shot or pushed off of a cliff because of it, tant mieux.

I think it'd be fun to radically alter traditional governmental and societal organizations that appear to be both suppressing human evolution and hastening the moment of our extinction. Extinction appears to be inevitable, however my current worldview is predicated on the beliefs that a) we don't have to like it, b) it is unacceptable to throw up one's hands, give up on any hope of clarity brought about by moral and philosophical development, and go about spending the rest of our days feverishly trying to accumulate more stuff (houses, money, cars, etc., the traditional rewards of human social games) to the detriment of the environment and future generations, and c) I might be wrong about everything.

Two things that I feel silly for being afraid of

1. People hearing me fart in the bathroom at work.

I really don't need to be afraid of this, but I am. I get so embarassed. I clench my cheeks and hope nothing squeaks out. Hopefully one of these days I'll work up the nerve to let a nice big froggy gurgler loose right when the boss is pissing in the urinal next to me.

2. Boogers in my nose.

What if someone saw me with a booger hanging out of my nose? I'd never be cool again. Oh wait, nobody thinks I'm cool anyways. Who the hell cares about a few bats in the belfry? Just scoop 'em out and go about your business.

The Fart Police

The Fart Police don't bust you for farting. They forcibly fart on people who richly deserve it. They'd have a lot of work to do here in San Fran.

There was the mother and her stupid kids on the train the other day. She kept screaming at them and they kept screaming back, fighting with each other and bumping into other people on the crowded N-Judah. That was a job for the fart police. I could see them getting on the train, handcuffing the woman and farting right into her nostrils. Her kids probably didn't deserve a full blast but they still would have gotten a little squirt.

I'd also like to see some of the obnoxious, angry homeless fuckheads around this town get farted on. Most homeless people are peaceful. Some are downright charming. I'm talking about the mean ones who yell at you when you don't give them money. I am trying to use my time on Earth to live and further the happiness of all mankind. Please do not hate me because I buy clothes from the thrift store slightly more often than you do. If you give me any shit, then splat! You're going to get beefed on.

It seems like there's a lot of angry black people here, far more so than down in SoCal. Of course there seems to be something mighty suspicious about the Oakland/SF disparity. It's hard not to imagine that some form of segregation is at work in the Yay Area. But I'm sorry Mr. Hustla, I am not "the man". I was not born here and I will not live out the rest of my life here. I am not the reason your life sucks. I am cool with people. If you give me a hard time, the Fart Police will find you and you will inhale shit air. At this point I feel like I should mention all of the white people who'd get farted on too; there's a lot of them. But the truth is I don't usually concentrate on black and white and red and brown and all of those other inaccurate melatonin-based labels. I only mention angry black folks because I'd never seen anything quite like it until I moved here. Witness my disillusionment.

The same goes for angry homos. I am not the jock who picked on you in high school. I absolutely do not give a shit about what you do with your cock or your pussy so please, leave me the fuck out of it. Or the Fart Police will come to your circuit party.

And last but certainly not least, I would unleash the Fart Police on any self-righteous asshole who thinks I'm a homophobic racist because I get annoyed by stupid people of every ethnicity, sexual orientation, and social class. So just to be a good sport, I'd also have them fart on the CEOs of every credit card company.

I play video games in my head with fucking mack trucks!

I was driving home from practice today, and was heading towards the freeway. As I chose my lane, I looked in the rear view mirror. Mack truck. I looked forward, and saw that if I took the left lane, and he the right, we would successfully fill up the turn lanes perfectly.

Look, I saw my opportunity and took it. I played tetris with the world.


I think this is just one more example I can give when I explain my "interstate 15" tattoo.