Category Archives: Funny

Sheep, Velociraptors, and Home Remedies That Don’t Work

Everyone’s been there. You’re sick, or you can’t sleep, or there is some other minor inconvenience going on with your body and somebody always comes up and tells you some weird little practice that’s supposed to help you overcome whatever ails you. They usually say something like, “Trust me, my [uncle, mother, grandmother, etc.] taught me this when I was a kid, and it totally works.” No, it doesn’t. You think it works because they told you when you were a kid, and you got all giddy and ran into the other room to try it, and in the course of doing so, stopped bitching to them about having the hiccups for a couple of minutes. It’s just a defense mechanism for adults to get you to leave them alone, just like pretending that they don’t have a life and are just really boring people that only sit around and watch the news and made for TV Hallmark Channel movies. It may have taken me a long time to realize all of this, but here are a few of my own personal experiences with home remedies that are complete bullshit.

Let’s say you’ve got the hiccups. Everyone hates the hiccups. It’s the worst feeling in the world because you can’t control when it happens, or how severe it is. It’s a ten minute period of your life filled with nothing but complete and utter hopelessness and shame. And it seems that every time anyone gets them will invariably find God and bargain with Him just to make them stop before you see that girl you kind of like. But then they don’t and you get that horrific notion that, hey, maybe this is it. Maybe this is the time that I get the hiccups and they never go away and I’m known as the hiccup guy and everyone will start to get annoyed with me and never hang out with me again so you start to hyperventilate and make the hiccups even worse, and you’ll never be loved again because of these stupid little fucking hiccups. Or maybe only I think that. But regardless, before you go into a complete mental breakdown, some motherfucker comes up and tells you this great little trick for getting rid of them, and all you have to do is breathe in for ten seconds, hold the breath for ten seconds, and then exhale for ten seconds. Does it work? No. Of course not. But you still try it because you’re willing to do just about anything to get rid of them.

So you start off by breathing in. One…Two….Three…Fo-hiccup. Fuck. Start over. One…Two…Three…Four…Fi-hiccup. You tell your friend that you want to give up, but he tells you to keep going. Soon enough you’ll reach ten. But that’s when the horror starts. The first time that I tried it and reached ten, I immediately hiccupped and regretted every decision I had ever made that allowed me to be in the exact circumstances that I was in at that moment. When you breathe in for ten seconds and then hiccup, it’s like an air overload in your lungs, and you feel like they’re going to burst. It’s a worse feeling than when you have a sneezing fit and try to hold all of them in. It’s a worse feeling than when you’re closing the bar and someone convinces you to take just one more shot of Jaeger. It’s a worse feeling than tasting even a drop of Rumpleminze. But I digress. Eventually, you’ll make it all the way to the end of the breathing exercise, and you’ll feel mildly accomplished. Ten minutes of trying and failing to do a thirty-second home remedy and you finally reached then end. And just when you’re about to look at your friend and tell him, “Hey man, thanks a lot, that really worked,” you hiccup again and figure it’s probably just best to go back to bargaining with God.

Not dissimilar from the hiccups, the common cold is something that everyone has to deal with every once in a while. It’s miserable, it’s inevitable, it’s incurable. Everything about it sucks, especially after you learn that the cold virus is completely harmless, but your immune system thinks that it’s some swine flu type shit and goes into overdrive and gives you stuffy noses, coughs, sore throats, fatigue, and the rest of the nine yards. And since it’s incurable, the only thing you can really do is treat the symptoms of the cold (i.e. the sore throat, cough, etc.). Everyone has their own way of going about it. Some people call into work and sleep that sonofabitch off. Me? I load up on every over-the-counter cold medication that I can find and just get stupid stoned off that shit for a week (But be careful to never fall asleep with a  cough drop in, because that shit’ll stick to your beard and never let go). And then by the time that you decide that you’ve got in under control enough to get back to your life and go out in public, people will still notice that you’ve got a cold, and give you their best tried-and-true remedies for how to cope. Out of the seemingly millions of ways to treat the cold, the one that always comes up is always the one remedy that I’ve got an issue with: drink a lot of tea.

Now, don’t get me wrong here, I’ve got nothing against tea per se. But it just doesn’t seem to be an advantageous fluid to be pushing when your nasal passages are so blocked that you won’t even be able to taste it. “But it clears up your nasal passages because it’s a warm, soothing beverage!” Yes, but I go hard. And when I go hard (which is all the time), I tend to overdo things. So instead of drinking a cup of tea here and there, I’ll drink 10 cups of tea in a two hour span. Is it smart? Probably not, as you will see. But it’s clearly the most logical thing when you’re flying through your day filled to the brim with Dayquil and cough drops. And when you drink a shit ton of tea in a short time span, you need to pee a shit ton in a short time span. And when you’re pumped full of cold medicine, you’re fatigued and your balance is usually not at it’s best, so you sit down to pee even though you’re a dude. And since you’ve just drank a ton of hot, soothing liquid, you’ve just gotten a bunch of steam in your face and nasal passages so all of the mucus starts to run. Sure, the tea did it’s thing, you could say, but it doesn’t change the fact that you end up pissing sitting down with a pint of phlegm streaming from your nostrils, and then, just to top it off, your body sees everything that is going on with you and decides that this is a perfect time for you to randomly start crying for no fucking reason (or perhaps for a really good one, given your condition). Is tea a simple, responsible, and healthy way to soothe your cold symptoms? Maybe. But is it worth your dignity?

Finally, everyone occasionally has trouble falling asleep. And what’s the one thing that, for some reason, people tell you to do? Count sheep jumping over a fence. It makes sense. Think about something so boring that you have no choice but to fall asleep. A dark field, stars glistening in the background, and a short, wooden fence stretching as far as the eye can see. All of a sudden, a seemingly endless supply of sheep form a single-file line (which is bullshit, because sheep don’t travel in single file lines, but rather amorphous herds. Besides, anybody who has seen Jurassic Park 2 knows that the single file line is the simplest way for predators like the velociraptor to pick you off one by one starting at the rear and working their way toward the front so it by the time the whole group realizes what is going on, four or five of their loved ones are dead as shit. Sure, sheep probably haven’t figured out how to work a DVD player, nor do they necessarily have the cognitive ability to learn lessons from second-tier cinema, but they’ve survived long enough to probably have learned a few things by experience, like the benefit of traveling in the aforementioned amorphous herd). They slowly, but surely, jump gracefully over the fence and trot off to the other side of the field. I’m not sure why they’re traveling at night (again, they should know that when you’re universal prey, you don’t travel at night) or where the fuck they are actually going, but it’s the stereotypical image associated with the practice of counting sheep jumping over a fence. And then, after however many sheep it takes, you’re supposed to drift into a splendid slumber. The only problem is that it simply does not work out that way. At least not for me.

My experience starts like everybody else’s: I’m tired, it’s 4:30 AM, and I’m laying there vainly trying every different combination of pillow, blanket, side, and position for the secret formula that will make me sleep. Then I remember the sheep thing. So, I find a comfortable position, close my eyes, and set the scene for myself. The field. The starry night. The fence. The group of sheep doing everything wrong by traveling in a single file line at night. The first one comes up to the fence and gracefully launches itself, floats slowly over the fence, lands softly on the other side, and then quickly goes on his way without even waiting for any of his fucking friends to catch up. And as he trots out of my vision, an illuminated number one appears in the sky for a moment before the second sheep comes to the fence. This happens the same way for the second, third, and fourth one. But by the time the fifth one is coming up to the fence, I get bored, and completely subconsciously make weird shit start to happen. The fifth one has a little bit of a limp in one of his legs, so he can’t run as fast or jump as high as the other ones. When he’s passing over the fence, his hoof knocks one of the fence posts, and he takes a tumble as he lands. He’s not hurt by the tumble, but he turns back to look at the fence post in disgust. The next sheep is even more hurt. He has a significant limp in his leg, and can’t jump, but fuck it, his friends are going to leave him if he doesn’t hurry up, so he climbs the fence (it’s a short fence), and follows his brethren into the darkness. The next sheep has another horrible leg injury, and needs help getting over the fence. Luckily for him, the sheep immediately behind him is of full health and gives him a boost before doing a standing jump over the fence (no two sheep are created with the same athletic ability). I go back to a couple of regular sheep, but then something weird happens. The next sheep is almost completely shaven, except for it’s head, tail and legs. Like a big, ugly poodle, except not attached by a leash to a far more pathetic looking human being. It’s alone, tired, shivering from the cold because some suburban mom really wants comfy socks to wear around he house. It jumps over the fence, and collapses upon reaching the other side from sheer exhaustion. Luckily, it has enough strength to crawl out of my vision before I start to feel too bad about it.

Then there’s the stoned sheep. It walks up and stares at the fence for a while, turns back, walks a couple feet, then remembers that it has to get over to the other side, and slowly climbs up the fence and then back down the other side. When he reaches the other side, again, he stares at the fence for a minute, and then turns to follow his friends. Then the drunk lonely sheep. Walking crookedly, disheveled, and looking way too much like myself, it stumbles up to the fence, but doesn’t see it. It trips over his own hooves and does a faceplant at the base of the fence. He gets up, let’s out what I assume is the sheep-talk equivalent of, “Fucking shit-fence,” jumps over it, and continues on his lonely way. Then, probably the lowest point in the night for me happens. I just saw the lonely drunk sheep pass over the fence, but it was quickly followed by the drunk horny couple. They stumble up together, the guy sheep bumping up against he as they walk, the girl sheep trying to lay her head on his shoulder. They get to the fence and they look at each other and say, “Well, shit, it looks like we need to get over the fence.” The male sheep, like any gentleman, insists that the woman go first, and gets behind her with the intention of being a support for her to step on to get over the fence. Maybe it was the starlit night, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the sight of freshly preened wool on her behind, but as the female sheep has her front hooves on the fence to try and pull herself up, he takes the opportunity he has been looking forward to all night. He slowly climbs her body, stomach and chest sliding up her curly-q-esque back wool, and places his hooves on hers, a move he himself was never necessarily comfortable with, but he still did it for her, as he remembered she enjoyed being with a dominant, controlling man.

At this point only about ten minutes has passed, and I’m still not asleep. I’m not sure if I want to be asleep, or if I just want to start my day and pretend like nothing ever happened. All I know is that that night was the end of my innocence. Why couldn’t they just jump over the fence like normal sheep? Why did I have to watch that? Why did they all have to behave like humans? Where were the velociraptors when you needed them? All I have now is questions and a mental image of grotesque sheep fucking. Nothing makes sense. Nothing’s fair. The only answer I have is that counting sheep to fall asleep does not work.

-Panda

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Tonsillitis and The Old People Section of Walgreens

So about a month or two ago I ended up coming down with tonsillitis, and let me tell you, that’s one deceptively shitty illness to have. Not deceptively shitty in the sense that I never thought that tonsillitis was that big of a deal, but more because when you first get it, you think, “Oh, I’m just battling a little cold, I’ll get over it,” and the next thing you know you’re pulled over on the side of the road vomiting phlegm through your car window. But that’s not where the shittiness ended.

Nor is it where the shittiness began. It ultimately started on a Tuesday. I started to cough a good bit and get a mild sore throat. So I did what anyone would do: get jacked up on Cepacol and go through my day like the goddamn man I enjoy pretending to be. I suppose a good idea would also have been to cut back on smoking cigarettes, but addiction doesn’t give a fuck about sore throats, so I didn’t even bother. I go to work and, go figure, I feel like crap by the time I get out, so I decide to grab a couple of drinks to numb the soreness, and then just fall into a sweet, smooth, Irish whiskey sleep. Unfortunately, luck somehow wasn’t on my side that night (or week), as I ended up waking up about three or four times throughout the night. One time is fine, I suppose. You can refill your water, double check your alarm, crank one out if you need to, take some more melatonin, and pee. Twice? You can’t take melatonin again because you’ll risk sleeping through your alarm and straight into the next night. You could crank it again, but only if it’s been a good while since the first time you woke up and you have really soft and smooth hands.  Otherwise, pee again. It’s probably because of that second glass of water anyway. Three or more times, though, is completely fucking absurd.

The next day (when I finally wake up for good), I feel even worse than I did the day before. At that point, my throat starts to hurt more, and I can’t even swallow without it feeling like I’m trying to swallow a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch with not milk. I go about my day like I did before, getting hopped up on lozenges and NSAIDs. I go to work, and I continue to feel like generic shit. So I decide maybe I should try to drink myself to sleep again. That’s a good idea, right? Nope. As I’m driving from work to the bar, that’s when the phlegm vomiting on the side of the road incident happens, and I think to myself, “Maybe I’ll just go home and go to bed.”

And that’s exactly what I did. I went to bed. I didn’t go to sleep, I just went to my bed. My throat had gotten so swollen that whenever I started to drift away, I started to not breathe, which isn’t really something that works out in the long run. So at around 7:30 AM, I decided that I should just give up on the sleeping thing, get jacked on stimulants, and go about my day. Fortunately, I ended up not having a horrible day, aside from the increasingly painful swallowing, sore throat, coughing, and symptomatic feelings of an oncoming death. I go to work, half-ass most of it, go back home, and try to go to bed again. And like the night before, I don’t sleep. I start to think that maybe I should see a doctor at this point.

So there I was, Friday morning, dragging my ass to the urgent care, barely awake (read: spending all of my energy trying to remember how to breathe), and just wanting nothing more than to get some high end prescriptions to make me a glazed over zombie for a couple of days. And let me tell you something, sitting in the waiting room of an urgent care with half a dozen sick babies and their mothers is a miserable experience. So miserable that even having my name called didn’t help, because it made all the mothers look at me with disgust and anger that I was getting to see the doctor before their little bundles of snot and joy could get their colds taken care of. Whatever. I contribute. I buy American. I’m a non-exempt, full-time employee for a local business. Plus I was checked in first. Sucks to suck, crybabies.

So I go about the normal doctor stuff, and the doctor tells me that I’ve got pustular tonsillitis. When I hear this, I immediately think one thing: How long until this doctor makes an underhand dick-sucking joke? Hell, if I were a doctor, I’d make it a prerogative to tell at least one subtle, backhanded dick-sucking joke per patient. Maybe even one blatant one per week. Then he started describing what pustular tonsillitis actually was. Basically, my tonsils became enlarged and swollen, and were very sensitive to anything touching it, and secreted a whitish puss in the back of my throat, with which I could only do two things: spit or swallow. I couldn’t even ask him any questions because I was just trying not to laugh. I end up walking out of there with a shit-eating grin on my face, partly because I’m still thinking about all the jokes, but mostly because I’m pretty sure that the receptionist had just completely forgotten to charge me the co-pay for my visit (I didn’t pay then, and I still haven’t gotten a bill (Thanks Obama)).

And this is when the tonsillitis actually starts to become entertaining. I drag my ass out of the urgent care, hop in the damn Impala, and pull up to Walgreens to pick up my prescription. Now, as many of you know, the pharmacy counter in most Walgreens is located in the back of the store. The part of Walgreens that houses the uncharted areas of old people shit and drug test kits. And sweet Jesus is exploring that area of Walgreens the most hilarious experience when you’re stumbling around having not slept in about 60 hours. If the two packs of cigarettes, four pints of Diet Coke, and a half bottle of Dayquil surging through your veins don’t make your eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of your fucking skull, perhaps the fact that you can play doctor and test yourself for Hep C for the low, bargain price of $34.99 will lend a helping hand. Or maybe the fact that paternity tests are only $40 (Which is really kind of false advertising, because if you read the back of the package (which, of course, I did), you would know that there’s a hidden $120 lab fee in order to get the test results back. And if you’re going to Walgreens to discover who your baby daddy is, then you really can’t afford that extra $120. That’s six 30-racks of Bud Light, which is exactly what people who get paternity tests at Walgreens drink for breakfast. (Bud Light: The Breakfast of NASCAR Champions)).

And that’s not even taking into account the bathroom supplies for old people that are for sale there. Hell, you can buy handrails for damn near every surface of your bathroom. Toilet handrails? Check. Bathtub Handrails? Check. Plastic chairs so you can sit down in the shower instead of standing? Check. Shit, they’ve even got these two-and-a-half foot plastic extenders so you can wipe your own ass more easily. Imagine all the calories I’ve been wasting actually reaching around? Plus, it cuts down on the risk of having your fingers break through the toilet paper, so you can use less. Hell, I could get that thing, save a few calories here and there, have enough energy to go to the gym so I could become healthy enough that I’m not sitting in the back of Walgreens trying to count the amount of calories it takes to wipe your own ass. And I’m not trying to knock old people for being old and having bodies that have become so naturally-deteriorated to the point where they need to resort to this kind of product, but keep in mind the volatile concoction of legal narcotics that I chose to ingest instead of going to the doctor earlier. Plus that ass brush has an extendable head, so I’m more of the mind that it’s really more of a luxury than a necessity.

But I digress. I take my antibiotics, wash it down with a Mountain Dew and a foot-long Spicy Italian, and lay down to watch some Doomsday Preppers, because why the fuck not? (Also, why am I not doing any of that shit? Have you heard about Gaza lately? And has everybody forgot about the Mayans? What about Superstorm Sandy? It’s only a matter of time before we’re all fucked, so why not make sure that when the nuclear winter ends, I’m the one walking around and rebuilding society, slendered down by a steady diet of creamed corn and protein shakes.) I rest, I regain some energy, take a couple hours off from smoking, and let those antibiotics kick in. In fact, I’ve got so much energy that I decide it’s a great time to go grocery shopping. And, dear Panda aficionados, that decision is very important, because going grocery shopping at that exact moment was the landmark one-millionth mistake in my life.

Grocery shopping is always chaotic for me (mostly because I’m really against making grocery lists (mostly because I’m horrible at impulse control (mostly because I really enjoy eating the type of food that will make me so obese that I’ll need one of those extendable ass-wiping brushes by the time I turn 40))). But this was a different chaos. This was the kind of chaos that was caused by the fact that I was starting to lose some of my finer motor skills and couldn’t really read anything anymore, and just kind of had to guess which brand was which by color scheme and the quality of cardboard that it was packed in. And upon realizing this, I decided it would be a good idea to get out of there as soon as possible, so the most logical thing was to speed-shop (walk as fast as possible through the store and not really think of what I was grabbing, and just making sure that the quantity was enough to get me through the next two weeks). Actually, I’m not really sure if that last thing about speed shopping was true, because I don’t remember it. Or most of the grocery store, for the matter. I only remember showing up at the grocery store, not being able to read, and wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. But it seems like the only logical thing that I could come up the next day when I took stock of what the fuck I actually bought.

I had only gotten about four hours of sleep that night, but it seemed like eternity when I saw that the clock read seven AM and I peeled my face off of the pool of drool that had formed. I was so excited for the sleep I had gotten that I had forgot that about half of that drool was actually the pustular excrement from my now slightly less engorged tonsils. So I showered, got my laundry ready to take to the laundry shop, and decided to make some breakfast. In my pantry, I found a twelve-pack of canned Sunny-D, which was in-and-of-itself a pretty stellar find in hindsight, but it couldn’t make up for the despicable conglomerate of processed shit that awaited me in the freezer. Stouffers Mac N’ Cheese (which actually made me borderline nostalgically happy, as it reminded me of the good ole college days when I got stoned and made my own Mac N’ Cheese pizzas with my roommates), Banquet chicken finger dinners (that shit came with a chocolate fudge brownie), Banquet riblet dinners (I threw that one away without even trying it), and the piece de resistance, a Johnsonville ring bologna. I remember eating ring bologna as a kid and thinking that it was the greatest thing in existence, like it was a six-year-old’s equivalent of eating a five-course fine dining meal when in reality it’s just a poor people’s family-sized shitty hot dog. And it made me realize that my family was really poor when I was a kid, because I remember us splitting one of those fuckers between five of us at a table that was about the same square footage as the “crappy” TV that I’ve got sitting in my parents basement and didn’t want to take with me when I moved out because I’ve already got a better TV and nowhere to put the second one and I don’t want to expend the energy to carry it anywhere.  Plus I’m not about to go out of my way to buy an extra AUX cable if I don’t have to.

But back to reality, and I’m sitting there with a foot-and-a-half of beef scrap molded into a semi-circular sausage that fucking straightened out when I cooked it so it wasn’t even a ring anymore, but more of a shitty arc that’s too greasy for the ketchup to stick to it, so I have to use the knife to scoop the ketchup onto it and use all of my attention to try and hold the fork steady enough so that the processed sugar-tomato sauce doesn’t slide off onto my hoodie, and I suddenly knew what it’s like to be slumming it. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I was stoned on antibiotics and weed and I was eating a gigantic low-end hot dog with a can of Sunny-D for breakfast.

So even though the rest of the week and a half that I was on antibiotics wasn’t exactly the most fun or eventful, it was still uphill from that point. I started getting full nights of sleep on the fourth night. I started to get some of my mind back from the brink of insanity. I started to realize that maybe I should have used my illness as an excuse to start quitting smoking instead of just cutting back for three days. But shit, let’s be real, addiction doesn’t care if you’re sick, and I needed all the happy brain chemicals I could get (dopamine, or serotonin, or whatever the fuck it is. I don’t know. I’ve got an English degree, not something of actual intellectual merit). But hey, if lung cancer is anywhere near as miserable as having tonsillitis was, maybe I’ll give quitting a shot at some point (I’m aiming for by the time some poor woman who, for some reason, wants to spend her life with me and give birth to my spawn. You know, so I can be a role model and shit. And have enough money so that I’m not economically forced to feed them ring bologna). Actually, scratch that, “all uphill from that point,” idea, because now I know that extendable ass-wipers exist, and that they are in the same section of Walgreens as the 12-in-1 drugs tests, STI screeners, and paternity tests. It’s like a little piece of West Virginia available to the whole country. I never needed to experience that. Nobody does.

Take it easy,

-Panda


Aimless Driving In Wisconsin

One of my most tried and true stress-relievers is to charge up my iPod, gas up my car, buy a fresh pack of cigarettes, pick a direction, and drive. No particular destination, just away. It’s insanely expensive, it runs the car even more into the ground than my daily driving does, and the chain smoking probably isn’t the best for my health, but hey, it’s the best way for me to learn every Rihanna song in my library word for word. That, and it gives you time to think. Time to think about anything and everything. Sports. Jobs. What cutesy thing you should text next to the girl you’re into. Family. Friends. What the best way is to forget that girl. The course of your life. The mistakes you’ve made. How great you’re life could have been if you hadn’t been a dumbass and instead of listening to what your friends and family told you was your best option, you just did what the fuck you wanted to do and felt like was the right choice. And lest we not forget the immemorially bittersweet and hauntingly sublime task of remembering the girl because hey, sometimes you’ll meet people in your life that make you realize that Snoop Dogg was wrong, and that bitches ARE shit. Oh, and, of course, my new favorite hobby of trying to figure out the best and most creative Saw like way of killing Gotye, like he would have to delete his ex off of his Facebook friend list in order to live or something like that, or forcing him to put some fucking clothes on because he is NOT good looking enough to be naked in a music video. But I digress.

Set Blasters to “Kill That Whiny Bitch”

 

The best time to drive-think, I’ve found, is the middle of the night. Unless you’re on a major Interstate, you’ll see maybe four other cars every hour, the stoplights switch to flashing yellow, and you finally get a chance to start living in a Thompsonian manner and drive as fast as you damn well please down the empty streets because the cops that are out give less than one full fuck about you. It’s the emptiness of the road, I think, that really gives you the ability to completely tune out what’s happening around you and just dive into the previously unexplored depths of your head. It allows you to get away from the mindlessness of shitty TV and Internet memes. It allows you to sit there and slow down and actually try to figure out this miraculous little game of “Let’s See How Little We Can Fuck This Up” that we colloquially refer to as life. It allows you to light your fifth cigarette in forty-five minutes, driving at sixty miles-an-hour, weaving in and out of your lane and only be phased by the fact that your voice is almost as gravely as the shoulder that you’re barely holding onto.

But recently I feel I’ve reached a new horizon. I’ve turned down a different road. A road that’s not so easily navigated. Or at the very least the road is transforming into something horribly regrettable. The timers of the stoplights don’t work, so instead of flashing yellows I get solid reds at every intersection. Six beady little LED pieces of shit telling me I can’t keep going, that I need to stop, regardless of the fact that there isn’t another conscious human being within 5 miles of my position. The city has stopped picking up the road-kill, so when you drive over the same road every day for a week, you get to see the stages of decay, from the fresh carcass still intact, legs of the deer still looking as if they’re galloping, to the bloating fly-infested cesspool that forms as the legs straighten out under the influence of rigamortis, and finally ending in the depressing pile of hair, leather, and venison jerky with a center of black and goopy organ nougat.

Even the car itself has started to haunt me. This was the car I learned to drive in. This was the car that’s seen thousands of cigarettes, hundreds of spliffs, a half-dozen blunts and a Crave Case or two. This was the car that saw everything from first dates and kisses to last dates and breakups. This was the car that has the unfortunate experience of seeing me get my first handjob. Hell, with the amount of manual stimulation and fellatio that has gone down (haha, get it?) in that car, I think it’s probably best that we do part ways (I know it’s not romantic, but we were all in high school at one point. As for all that stuff that’s happened after I graduated high school, I really have no excuse). Not even the coolest and most compatible of women have ever stayed with me this long after seeing my penis.

But I know it’s not the car. It’s not the road. It’s not those bastard stoplights. It’s me. It’s my life and my choices and my situation that are getting all fucked up. It’s at the point that I can’t even bring myself to lie about it and tell everybody the same old throw-away, pre-packaged lines that I dole out whenever I don’t want to put the weight of my problems on other people. I can’t even muster up the breath to say, “I’m fine,” or, “Everybody has shit in their lives,” if it’s someone I can’t bring myself to lie to. Now when I drive, it’s like there’s this overload of stuff to think about. It’s too much to be able to sort out and think about in my head as the car ticks over 170,000 miles. How am I supposed to pay 25 grand in student loans making $9.25 and hour? How can I ever make it in the world as some type of writer if I let the shit in my life debilitate me to the point that this is the first thing I’ve written for my pathetic fucking blog in four months? How am I supposed to tell the girl that’s currently fucking me that I really don’t want anything remotely serious to develop out of this? And then the realization that, due to work and sleep and booze and drugs, I haven’t actually seen or talked to that girl in like, two weeks, so I guess she knows I’m not looking for anything and now I’m back to just masturbating. Then there’s the fact that I’ve finally come to the conclusion that moving back home after graduation was the worst possible decision that I could have ever made in my life, as it has pretty much destroyed any chance of a positive relationship between me and my family. And on top of that, slowly my friends have started to move away or get real jobs and have their own lives and issues that they need to deal with, not to mention that I’ve got to deal with being cut out of people’s lives that I actually, genuinely gave a shit about. And then there’s the fact that I kind of want to start going back to my therapist to try and figure out what the fuck is wrong with me and why I constantly feel this more or less even, steady, slow-burn depression and relatively large anxiety issues, but I can’t bring myself to do it because of the resentment that I feel toward him ever since he called this whole shitty downward spiral fall that I’m in the midst of, all the way down to what set it off in the first place. Then there’s the question of whether or not I’m going to get around to the whole quitting smoking thing, and then there’s wondering exactly how far back I’m going to continue to push the line that separates the drugs that I’ve done from those that I’m not comfortable with taking yet. And then there’s the fact that for whatever reason, I’ve got this habit of being really shitty at letting things go, and I have a tendency to, even years later, rip previously healed wounds back open just for shits and giggles to try and remember why it hurt so much, just to find out that if you do such things, all those horrible events in your past, all your wrong choices and bad decisions and unfortunate circumstances and years of being treated seemingly unfairly still fucking hurts, so that when you start to think about life too much, it starts to become overwhelming, and you end up doing more harm than good for yourself. And on top of all of that, I start to wonder why the fuck I know every single word to “Call Me Maybe” and actually got legitimately mad at work the other day when my coworker changed the radio station as soon as it came on.

A couple of weeks ago, one of the blogs that I follow, AdamsDaugther came back from a bit of a hiatus (I don’t care that your blog is kind of girly at times, I like girly stuff. Like Gilmore Girls, Andre champagne, your blog, and Nutz Over Chocolate Luna Bars). She had a post about how she was coming off of a rough patch in her life and decided to rededicate herself to blogging (and cooking). And, with the exception of her using The Notebook as the source of her revelation (Sorry, I like girly stuff, but I made a promise to myself long, long ago that the only time I would ever watch The Notebook would be if I found myself in the position that watching it would help me get laid), I realized I needed to do something, too. I need to get back to doing what I love, to what I want to do with my life. I need to get back to writing and making these amazing connections between seemingly unrelated aspects of life. I need to get back to bringing everyone a little bit of Panda insight. I need to get back to reveling in the awesome things that happen to me, and publicly crucifying those who wrong me. There have been too many boozed out shenanigans and too much regrettable sex in strange places and too many drugged up adventures that have taught me too many little-known rules of life to just keep them to myself. I haven’t spent all my money on bad decisions to just remember them. I need to tell them.

These are fucking delicious.

And it makes complete sense for me to do so. Even though I maintain that, in some ways, I needed a break from reality to post up inside my head, it’s time to get back to being me. Even though this road has been littered with those now-dried up and blowing in the breeze deer carcasses, they’ll eventually be gone. They’ll fix that fucking stoplight on 124th and Capitol to actually match up with the green lights on the road so you can drive from Peawaukee to downtown Milwaukee without stopping once. The rest-stop outside of Johnson Creek won’t have a car just creepily chilling in the parking lot with nobody in it. I’ll drive around Wisconsin at four in the morning and not have to wonder about whether the car coming toward me is a drunk driver or just another fuck-up like me, driving aimlessly to try and drive all the shit and demons from their head. There will be a time that I’ll stay out until five in the morning and drive home as the sun rises into the lavender-indigo sky as I speed past the unfortunate lot of my service industry brethren who are chosen to open the places of employ head off to work propped up by no less than 500 mg of caffeine, and the phosphene-like death throes of the LSD I took earlier that night streak across my perception as the drugs slowly meet their demise in my well-overworked liver, and I’ll realize that, no matter how badly I manage to fuck it up, no matter how much bullshit I’ll have to deal with on account of others, no matter how many people or stoplights continually tell me what I can’t fucking do, and no matter how many times I willingly let people hurt me with the vein hope that they’ll truly realize what they’re doing to me and my psyche and change their mind, maybe my life is way too damn interesting and beautiful to not write about.

Take it easy,

-Panda


Top 4 Songs I’m Not Too Manly to Admit I Listen To

Some guys are too manly to admit that they listen to certain songs or music. They say stuff like, “Oh, I’m not a woman, so I don’t listen to women musicians.” Really? Because you’re listening to Tupac, and yet you aren’t black or dead (But I know a really long staircase that could help with one of those).

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fucking man. I’ve got the penis and hairy chest armpits face everything to prove it. But I know good music when I hear it. And so I decided to give you some of my favorite jams that most men wouldn’t have the Cojones to admit to listening to.

4.  “Love on Top” – Beyonce:  I’m not normally a Beyonce fan (Ooohhh, Sasha Fierce, you sound so unique making up a stage name), but B kills it on this track. Sure, the song consists of one verse and then repeats the chorus a bunch of times, but she goes harder and harder every single time she repeats that chorus. I swear if this song weren’t inanimate, it would fucking drool love and happiness. And on top of that, she’s singing about Jay-Z, so how can anyone hate on this.

3.  “Lollipop” – Mika: I’ve always been a huge secret Mika fan, and “Lollipop” is easily one of my favorite songs of his. It’s one of those songs where no matter where you are you just start nodding your head to the beat (if not break into full dance). It’s also got this strange ability to cheer anyone up from damn near any depth of despair, particularly when you’re in the midst of relationship problems.

2.  “Kiss Me” – Sixpence None The Richer: Easily one of the best love songs ever written. Simple, concise, sweet. Subsequently, this is the perfect song to play for a woman when you get to the point in your relationship where you think you’re going to sleep together for the first time an you want to seem romantic rather than horny. And in light of Part Three of my Romance of the Panda series, it gives me hope that there are women still out there that want just the simple stuff that shows that a man loves a woman.  And I will find one of those women and marry her. Except not the chick that sings the song though. I don’t like her haircut. Shit sticks out too far on her left side. Plus she’s like 35.

1.  “Hella Good” – No Doubt:  This is an all-time jam of mine. I don’t care who you are, what you do, where you’re from, or anything like that, but when you hear this song, you just want to, no, you need to…no, you just fucking dance. A coworker plays it on their computer loud enough for you to hear? Four-minute cardio break. They play it at TGI Fridays when you’re in the middle of your shitty meal? An excuse to “accidentally” drop your food while dancing and get it exchanged for chicken strips and Long Islands. It comes on the radio in your car during a funeral procession?  More like an impromptu remake of Weekend at Bernie’s.

//

I was going to include Adele in here, but hey, let’s face it, if you don’t listen to Adele you’re probably too stupid to learn how to use the Internet anyway.

Take it easy,

-Panda


Cost-Efficiency, Haircuts, and Big, Big Breasts

As some of you know, I live in the Milwaukee area and probably, for better or worse, always will. I used to think that this city was amazing, until just recently. A few months ago, I found out we were getting a Lady Jane’s Haircuts for Men on the West side of Milwaukee. Now, if you’ve never heard of Lady Jane’s, here’s a link to their website. I’d like to take a few minutes and explain to you all the things that I find wrong with this place.

  1. $10 Haircuts:  At least for the Milwaukee location, they are advertising haircuts for only $10. Now, I understand that for most hair stylists, this is a decent price. But keep in mind, as a guy, my hair grooming preferences are really rather simple: short, preferably not douchy. And this is how most guys are about their hair, too. And so instead of going out and spending $10 on haircuts, I buy my own clippers and do it myself. In my lifetime, I’ve spent maybe $60 on two sets of clippers, and I’ve gotten almost five years of haircuts and beard trims out of them. So I’ve clearly made all my money back, and then some. Furthermore, I doubt the people at Lady Jane’s would be willing to do ANY sort of manscaping (let alone for a reasonable price (it can be so expensive to be beautiful)). And on top of that, I can give myself a little “Happy Ending” at home, for free, on my own time, and not ever have to worry about the fact that there are ten pairs of sharp scissors within fifteen feet of my penis.
  2. Big, Big Boobs:  Don’t get me wrong, I love women. I love beautiful women. I even love women with big, big breasts, even if I know that they can’t be that big without getting annoyingly floppy. But I’m sick and tired of the fact that people try to sell me stuff with the use of really hot women. I’m much more likely to respond to, “Hey, try this shit for free and then buy more later if you really want to,” than “Hey, check out these tits and give me your money.” But there’s no reason for a man to be convinced that he will be getting a good value just because there are hot women giving the services. Sure, every man knows that there is a very strong correlation between a man’s happiness and the proximity of that man’s face to a pair of breasts, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stoop so low as to have to pay for it (especially if I’m not even going to get to do anything fun with them).
  3. “If we added beer, it’d be a sports bar!”:  This is an actual line from one of their radio ads. Lady Jane’s prides itself on offering big screen TVs, lots of sports, and leather recliners to make it as comfortable as possible. Thus, they think that they are practically a sports bar. Well, sure, if that’s how you look at it. But I think you need to make a decision: you’re a sports bar or a hairstylist. Choose one and go that direction, but you can’t have both.  If I had a vagina, I’d be a woman, but I don’t tell people that I’m practically a woman.
  4. They have Maxims in the magazine rack: I don’t know about you, but whenever I go anywhere where I have to wait in a room, I enjoy it when there are magazines lying around. That being said, don’t give me Maxim. Again, if you want to give us porn magazines, give us porn magazines. If not, give me a fucking Newsweek. And out of all the magazines to cater to men you choose Maxim? Hell, I get more worked up and aroused glancing through the American Apparel catalog than I do Maxim.

Ultimately, I find Lady Jane’s to be a complete waste of anyone’s money. On top of all the crap that I’ve already stated above, it seems that the only haircut that they actually do is the faux-hawk, which is the single douchiest haircut on the planet. But luckily, when they moved to Milwaukee, they set up shop next door to the Sonic, which is an almost perfect fit. That way, you can go and get your haircut by women that really aren’t even that attractive in the first place (makeup and big breasts can only hide shitty, shallow personalities so much), and then when you leave without their phone number you can go eat away your sadness.

Take it easy,

-Panda


Verses on the Morning After

I actually ended up getting some pretty positive reactions from some friends about the poetry I had posted before, so I figured I’d at least put some of my more entertaining ones up here.

This one is an imitation poem of Jonathan Swift. And it’s not imitating one of those  sissy “not” love poems to his “not” main-squeeze Stella, but rather his scatological works. If you don’t know what scatological poems are, please look it up before you read. That way, you’ll know it’s actually a legitimate type of writing, and not me just being as ridiculous and disgusting as I can possibly be. If you’d care for some examples from Swift himself, read these two:

A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed

Cassinus and Peter

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Verses on the Morning After
Written in Rememb’rance of the Fairer Sex

Poor Stephen in a new Bed awakes,
To a throbbing Back and Head that ayches.
To his Left, on a stand, he finds his Phone,
And to his Right, a Blonde Woman unknown.
Stephen feels a Sting upon his Neck,
And grabs a Mirror, just to check.
He looks and finds the bruis’d red Hickey Mark
And wishes dearly that it weren’t so dark.
What happen’d Last Night, he cannot remember,
But he knew, somehow, it involved his Member.
But as he stands up to find the Rest-room
He smells a just utterly noxious Fume.
He looks around, and down, and finds a stain,
Of Rear-Ended origins most profane.
On his and her Legs, the Blanket, and of course his Ass
Is the now-Crusty Evidence of his actions crass.
So he wipes Himself clean with the well-worn Sheet,
And then figures his Time here is quite complete.
And as he sneaks across the Wooden Floor,
He prays his Junk won’t develop a Sore.

//

Maybe this isn’t the most appropriate thing to post on Valentine’s Day, but fuck it, who am I trying to impress?

Take it easy,

-Panda


Romance of the Panda, Part 3

In light of the single most overrated holiday, Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided to open up to my blog readers. It’s time you see my romantic side, the softer side of Panda. This is the second part of a three part series.
Feel free to read the first two parts:

Part 1:  Here

Part 2:  Here

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A few months ago my coworker Antonio and I were working at the same table, getting to know each other a bit. The topic of girlfriends came up. After telling him that I did not, in fact, have a girlfriend, he looked at me, shocked, and said, “You don’t have a girlfriend? How come? I mean, I even have a girlfriend. Don’t you want someone?” Now, this was a somewhat strange moment for me, because Antonio is usually the guy that comes up to me on Sundays asking me in a thick Hispanic accent, “Hey John, how was your weekend? Did you get any hot, young poo-ssy?”  So the honest, sentimental side of him threw me for a pretty big loop. But like any question about my personal life that someone asks, I deflected the shit out of it, saying something like, “bitches can’t hold me down” (I figured this would shut him up about the subject, and it did).

Then, about a week ago, I started to think of what I should post for Valentine’s Day, and that conversation came to mind. Then I started to think about why I don’t have a girlfriend (which is never a fun thought process). Granted, some of you all, my devoted blog readers (particularly those who don’t personally know me), are probably saying, “You really need to think about that? Isn’t it obvious?”  Well, you only know me through my blog, and so I totally understand that I come off as just some asshole who spends his nights getting hammered in pursuit the most sapless woman with low enough self-esteem to sleep with me, cunnilinging her in hope of nothing more than potential fellatious retribution, and using my free time to come on the Internet to spit disturbing and hypocritical venom at all these haters. But deep down, there’s a softer side. At least I used to think so. But then I realized that, in reality, I don’t have a softer side, I’m just really fucking awkward, particularly around women.

In my defense, there seems to be a particularly fine line between being overly awkward and being not-an-asshole. Finding the correct level of not-asshole is incredibly difficult, particularly if you add any amount of alcohol to my system. Take this last weekend, for instance. I was at the bar with some friends of mine, and I see, across the bar, a lady that I realize later works with me. She sees me too. She smiles real big and starts waving at me. Now, here is what my thought process looked like: “Hey, look, there’s a lady. Ok we just made eye contact, be cool. LOOK AWAY TO NOT SEEM CREEPY. OK, done, look back at her to make sure she turned away too. No, she’s still looking at me and now she’s smiling. At who? Why is she looking at me? She can’t be smiling at me. Now she’s waving at me. She’s not waving at me. She can’t be waving at me. Women don’t wave and smile at me. Wait. She looks familiar. Is she that lady that I work with. Yup. PRETEND YOU DON’T SEE HER. PRETEND YOU DON’T SEE HER. STOP STARTING.”  And during this entire process, (which, in reality, probably only lasted six or seven seconds, but felt like three minutes), I was literally just standing there, staring directly at this lady I worked with with a completely blank expression on my face, not acknowledging any of the smiling or waving that she is sending my way. And if that’s not bad enough, she’s one of those ladies that you don’t want to do stupid stuff in front of or act like an asshole to. You know, the everything-you’d-want lady.  Real pretty, super nice, intelligent, AND she’s a Star Wars fan.

And I wish that that were the only kind of awkward that I am. I’m the kind of guy who, when I like a girl, I’ll try to play it cool.  I won’t put my feelings out there right away, but I’ll still flirt and do everything right, make her want to see me more, talk to me more, etc. But then I’ll start to play it too cool. Instead of waiting a reasonable amount of time to make my move, I’ll wait too many months. Then I’ll think to myself, “This is a good idea.” But I completely forget the fact that in reality, since I don’t want to be an asshole, I have all but stopped even talking to her. Then, I get myself pumped up to make a move, meet up with her somewhere, and THAT’S when I realize that I really haven’t seen or talked to this lady for a long time, and then I get nervous, which leads to me not talking, which leads to me thinking too much, which leads to me saying something really stupid or awkward.  Usually, at some point, the sentiment of, “you’re finally getting around to telling me you like me now?  Where the hell were you months ago?” is expressed by her.  So it’s really just kind of a giant circle of awkwardness for me.

With all this awkwardness, can it really be any surprise to you that I really dislike Valentine’s Day? I mean, I screw up even the most simple acts of kindness and sweetness, so of course I’ll mess up the holiday dedicated to love and couples. I’ve done it before, and I’m sure I’ll do it again. The fact that a relationship can be so affected by one stupid fucking day is reason enough alone to hate Valentine’s Day.  And I know some of you are thinking, “Well, you’re a guy, so you only hate it because you’re the one on the hot seat.” Yes. Damn right. I prefer being able to prove my love and care for someone else throughout the year. There’s less pressure that way. And beside, I’d hate it even if the roles were switched. I’d want my someone to do stuff throughout the year for me instead of one “big” thing. And I think that’s what we should all be looking for. I don’t view me cooking and cleaning for a woman as a special gift only to be given on one day, I view it as the exchange rate for her being the one who has to kill all the spiders that I see in my apartment and I am way too much of a wuss to kill myself.  Forget flowers, give your lady the first pick of the Doritos so she can eat all the ones that have the most flavor powder on it. Instead of giving road head on the way home from a special Valentine’s dinner, how about when I go in to the gas station to get us pints of ice cream to eat while watching Gilmore Girls, you go grab one of those complimentary squeegees and clean the outer edges of the windshield of all the salt that’s built up because the windshield wipers can’t reach that far; it’s a far sweeter and more ladylike thing to do.  Don’t wish that I’d bring you flowers, but try to understand that me coming home drunk at 3AM, waking you up and splitting a Jimmy John’s pickle with you while I tell you stories about the night is my way of saying that you’re really special to me.

So this Valentine’s Day, don’t fret about what you’re supposed to do. Doing what you think you’re supposed to do is a bad, bad, bad idea. There was one year where I thought that I was supposed to buy the girl a heart-shaped box of chocolates. And so I did.  That didn’t really work out.  Go out and continue doing what got you to this point in your relationship in the first place. Don’t think that you need to do something super special because it’s Abe Lincoln’s birthday plus 2.  Me?  I’ll probably end up at the bar again. Last year, as some of my other single friends and I were leaving said bar, they played Michael Jackson’s hit song, “Beat It.”  We all started to laugh, but only to hide the sadness.

Take it easy,

-Panda