4th of July: 5,000 Word Picture

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S THAT I JUST DON'T CARE

Are you kidding me? He called you up past midnight on a Thursday asking you to come pick him up because he was so fuckin drunk that he could barely walk and then had the nerve to call you a nickel whore? Wow, that is so...

who fuckin cares.

As my heart tries to squeeze out just one more tear to the 'tough life' that some of the young successful professionals who live in ideal cities so very much desire, I will have to take a four second inhale/exhale Tantric breath because if I hear one more complaint that rivals the interest of Mannequin Two on the Move(although Kristy Swanson is at minimum an Golden Globe nominee), my head will explode into little tiny pieces of fragmented skull. Yes, I know that was a run on sentence, but grammar nor reason can stand in the way of my totally unprovoked rant on the weak willed that I have come to coin as the 'whaa generation.'

And it's not that I am bitter..I swear. I just think your stories belong on Lifetime or it's big gay sister, WE. After all, your story can slide in right before the program that depicts Johnny Nimble, the highschool jock who was an all star wrestler. You know, the boy with super smarts and exceptional hair and all the abilities that would gurantee such an bright sunny future except for that fact that Johnny is hell belt on believing 'no means yes' and you should be able to 'take what you think you earned and deserved'....not so good Johnny, not so good at all.

Here are a few helpful tips that you and Jeffrey might learn before your next trip to Toys R'Us.

1. Learning to love yourself first is the lamest thing on earth to say. Worse than baiting to that 4 second scene in Doc Hollywood when you see Julie Warner's(my apologizes as I had Andie McDowell at first) breasts. These are the same people who grew up having nightmares of the evil villain in the movie Ricochet..played by John effing Lithgow.
2. Don't put family first...They can fend for themselves.
3. Karma is NOT a scientific fact, so waiting around for someone to 'get theirs' is like watching a PG 13 movie and waiting for the hardcore porn scene...yes I realize Doc Hollywood was PG 13, but I challenge anyone to....nevermind.
4. If you don't like the way you are being treated by someone, GET FUCKING EVEN. If they are a co-worker, simply run a 'smear campaign' which would include ficticious lies which destroys their credibility and respect amongst the everyday office folk. For instance,
"Yeah, Jenny hasn't been the same since she cheated on her husband."
Response: "Jenny has a husband?"
Answer: "Only for like SEVEN years, but they have that whole 'open relationship' going on."

Problem solved...Jenny is done and you are king. Vicious? Mean? Ill-willed?
No sorry, the answer we were looking for was effective...Yes...Effective.

5. If you don't like your job...fuckin quit. And I swear to Christ if I give another answer to what people should do and they respond with "Yeah your right, but.." I'm gonna sack punch um or stick a hanger up their nose, rip out their brains, slash a gash in their back and stuff it with daffodils.

DISCLAIMER: I am not responsible for any advice I provide or advise against. My answers to problems are fruitless and nonsensical and I would fuck up the track that LeRon the cracked out skibby, who provides male/female oral to anyone with a 5 bag or a TooJays sandwich, is on.

These problems that I hear are as legitimate as the email I get on a semi regular basis, which makes bold promises such as a 24 hour erection and a real college degree in only 12 weeks.

Care gauge just hit empty.

A Wife Beater and Yellow Shoes

On a muggy day on July 13th, 2005 a wave of depression and sadness massaged over what once was the decadence of advertising…it was if someone’s soul had died. When Pope John Paul II died there was still little Anthony Bagglia with his half cracked smile fastened tight with hopes of a future with laughter…but now his dreams resemble dark back alley reality porn…they were nightmares. He had gotten the memo.

Not since Larry Bird retired or Winston Churchill resigned had such a career run affected so many, with such permanence. I could hear heaven crying and it wasn’t the sound of angels. My Agencies soul had died and all the church bells were broken. A legacy? Perhaps. A leader? Unquestionable. A hack? Unanswerable. A catalyst? That my friends, was Brian Snyder…a hero to most, a mentor to more, and a sexual icon to all.


And while my 87’ Camry (LX edition for those who like guys with nice cars) is not the jet plane that most people imagine, the storied career of Brian Snyder; Rock Star by night and Fucking Rock Star by day will be transplanted like the hair I so desperately need to a place where yellow shoes roam.

So now the next chapter of the book that will never be read or published begins. I look forward to the intricacies of a new environment. An environment which will barely be mentioned because of the absolute FEAR that runs through my veins as they are buttoned up tighter then a teen for cash. Wait that didn’t make sense.

There is only one thing that could make me happier, and that is when the world agrees that shirts ‘sans’ sleeves which are form fitting are fashionably sound and culturally acceptable. When a man can walk the streets of Wall Street slurring and spitting and going mad with PDA with nothing but jeans and a beater. When the masses rise up, bring down the man, and Wife Beaters are not only smiled upon, but are required. I’m a dreamer. Time to move on.

Last call YPBR…bar’s closed.