An Interior Dialogue

Wait. What is that?

What's what?

That, over there. What is that?

Where -- I don't see -- what are you talking about?

Take a look down, asshole.

That's not my asshole. That's my dick.

That was a good one. Seriously. Really funny.

Ok, that was a shitty joke, but I still don't see what you're talking about.

Are you really that much of a simpleton? Look right in front of you, on top of the urinal. Do I have to get out a map?

That would be nice.

Fine, here, I'll spotlight it for you.

I still don't see anything. But you're getting better with the Photoshop, I'll give you that much.

What Photoshop? What are you talking about? This is all going on inside your head.

Oh yeah, sorry about that. So that red circle spotlight thing is just in my mind? Like when the Terminator puts on the helmet that lets him see body heat and shit?

That wasn't a person wearing a helmet. That was a cyborg with a computer for a brain. Also, it was, in the context of the movie, real. That red circle spotlight thing is just in your head, and therefore, doesn't actually exist. Pretty big difference.

Wait, so the Terminator isn't wearing a helmet?

No, he's just a robot sent from the future.

I feel like I didn't completely understand that movie the first time I saw it.

No, I don't think you did, but that's not what's important right now. Check this out, it's a closeup. Does that help you any?

Aw, DUDE! Is that what I think it is?

It certainly is.

What the fuck man? Why would you show me something like that?

Because I wanted this to go off in your head:


Why did you want that to go off in my head. I would've been better off if I never saw that shit.

I beg to differ. This is a workplace bathroom open not only to multiple offices, but to construction workers, UPS guys, door men, janitors, drifters, and perhaps worst of all, bankers. There's no accountability here. Who knows what dangers lurk on those discarded body hairs you would have rather not seen. For chrissake, the main strand looks like a particularly resilient strain of the Ebola virus.

Now that you mention it, that random pubic hair inexplicably chilling on top of the urinal does bear more than a passing resemblance to the Ebola virus.

Look, I'm not saying that you're definitely going to catch the deadliest virus known to man. But I am saying that if you want to avoid going down as the Gaspard Manga of the office, you've got to keep your eyes and ears open. It's the goddamn wild west in this place, kid. Only instead of ruthless bandits and vengeful Indian tribes you've got tumbleweeds of pubic hair and dingleberries up the literal and figurative wazoo.

Point taken, voice in my head. Hey, what are you doing for lunch?

I don't have any plans, you?

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

I think I might be...

Bottomless bread sticks?

Oh, you bet your sweet ass I want some bottomless breadsticks. And you wanna know why?

Oh, I know why. Because...

THAT'S HOSPITALIANO!
THAT'S HOSPITALIANO!

Jinx! Buy me a coke!

Not only will I buy you a coke, I'll buy you two! or three! or four!

UNLIMITED REFILLS!!!
UNLIMITED REFILLS!!!

(Taking Care of Business plays as the imaginary voices inside of The Gooch's head high five)

Honestly

I know I covered this in a previous post, but if you're really going to eat your lunch out of a dog food bowl given away as a promotional item at a New York Liberty game (I'm still trying to figure out which aspect of that sentence is the most embarrassing), do you also have to have so little dignity that you repeatedly leave it lying around the office kitchen?

I mean, there's hardly anything in that thing. It's not even soaking, it's just sitting there. What is being accomplished here? Just give that tremendously embarrassing souvenir a quick once over in the sink and crawl back to your office on all fours where you can shovel Meow Mix and table scraps into your gaping maw in complete and total secrecy.

Nobody needs to see this shit.

WE AIN'T SUPPOSED TO BE SEEIN THIS SHIT!

(Getty Images: Being confronted with a human being eating out
of a dog food bowl at work is almost as disturbing as little children
having to look at Tre Styles' bloodied, bullet-ridden corpse.)

The Charles Haley Chronicles - Chapter 2

[INT. MINNESOTA VIKINGS LOCKER ROOM - MONDAY MORNING]

(Locker Room Door Flies Open)

Charles Haley: Where the FUCK is Visanthe Shiancoe?

(The equipment manager, the only person in the locker room, continues folding sweats in the corner, too terrified to respond to the large, angry male shouting obscenities into an otherwise empty room)

CH: Hey you! I'm talkin' to you, you little SHIT!

Equipment Manager: Excuse me, sir?

CH: You fuckin' deaf, boy? I said Where. The fuck. Is Visanthe. Motherfuckin. SHIANCOE!

EM: Uh, I, well I --

CH: Answer the fuckin' question you little SHIT!

EM: Well, I-I don't know, sir. Coach gave the players the day off.

CH: Day off, what the fuck is that? For what?

EM: He said they deserved it after their hard-fought victory yesterday?

CH: 'Gainst the motherfuckin' Lions? That some kind of joke? And why'd you say that like it was a question? YOU FUCKIN' LYIN TO ME, BOY!?

(Equipment Manager shakes head back and forth quickly, multiple times, sputtering nonsense.)

CH: Well you tell this motherfuckin' Shiancoe faggot that I'm lookin' for him, you hear me you little fucking SHIT?

EM: Yes, sir. I will, sir.

[INT. MINNESOTA VIKINGS LOCKER ROOM - TUESDAY MORNING]

Visanthe Shiancoe: So I said to her, "Yes, of course I'm fucking watching! Why would I not be watching the road when I'm driving?"

Jimmy Kleinsasser: Oh man, I hate that shit. It's like, what else would I be doing? What else could I possibly be doing? One of the things I do when I drive a car is try to make sure that I don't run anybody over!

VS: Yeah, well, maybe they'd understand if they ever got behind the wheel for once.

JK: Well get used to it, man. You got a lot more of this shit to put up with as a married man. Trust me on that one.

VS: Man I know it. Sometimes I wonder--what the? What the fuck is this?

(Shiancoe dips finger in white, sticky substance that has suddenly appeared on his cheek, and plays with it in between his thumb and forefinger.)

JK: Dude, did you just get shit on by a pigeon or something?

VS: This ain't no pigeon shit man, what the fuck is--

(A large, muscular man jumps out of Shiancoe's locker, completely naked, holding his erect penis in his hand)

Charles Haley: YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO SUCK THIS FAGGOT!

VS: What the fuck? What the fuck were you doing in there?

CH: You callin' me a faggot? Well I'll show you who's the real faggot, FAGGOT!

VS: What the fuck are you talking about? Did you just jack off on me?

CH: You know you liked it! You know you want to SUCK THIS! You thought you could call ME a faggot? Well guess what, bitch, who's the faggot now?

(Shiancoe frantically towels semen off of his face while making spitting noises and motioning for the equipment manager to bring him some water)

VS: Dude, what the fuck is WRONG with you? What are you talking about? I never called you a faggot, and frankly, despite the fact that you just masturbated on me, I'm more disturbed by your homophobia than anything else. Are you sure you don't have some issues of your own?

CH: Oh, that's precious. Really, that's fuckin' precious. Just keep playin' innocent, pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.

VS: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU! WHO LET YOU IN HERE! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!?

CH: I saw you whip out that big ol' snake on TV last night, and I know EXACTLY what that means. No man ever takes out his penis and waves it in another man's face unless that OTHER man is a faggot. That's a universal axiom. NOBODY DENIES THIS!

VS: That was an ACCIDENT, you dumb shit! And I had no idea that you were watching. Who the fuck are you anyway?

CH: I'm Charles Mother Fuckin' Haley, damnit! You know who I am!

VS: Charles Haley? Didn't you used to play football, man? You should know better than that. I was just hanging out in the locker room. I promise you, I was in NO WAY trying to call you a "faggot," though I must say that I find that term very distasteful, and I think anyone who uses it as much as you do probably has some unresolved issues of his own.

CH: Yeah, but how does my cock taste, you FAGGOT!

(Charles Haley attempts to shove penis into Shiancoe's mouth)

VS: Oh it's fuckin' on now, you dumb motherfucker.

(Shiancoe chases Charles Haley out of room, but trips on his own penis, and is unable to aprehend him.)

VS: FUCK! I let that fucking asshole get away!

JK: Dude, what the fuck just happened.

VS: I don't know, but I'm calling security. That shit will not stand.

JK: I don't understand. I mean, WHAT. THE FUCK. JUST HAPPENED?

VS: Man, I told you I don't fucking know. Normally I would've just beat the guy's ass to within an inch of his life, but I didn't want to go anywhere near that crazy fuck. He looked like he might have rabies or something. But when he tried to put his dick in my mouth, that was just taking it way too far.

JK: I mean how did he even get in -- wait, did you just say that he didn't take it too far until he tried to put his dick in your mouth?

VS: Man, I don't know. You never know how you're gonna react in one of these situations until you find yourself in 'em. Listen, I'd rather not think about this right now. I just want to get out there, practice, play the game on Sunday, pretend to forget there are cameras in the locker room, leave my giant penis exposed for a few seconds, then go on with my life like it's any other day.

JK: I hear that, man. I hear that.

Fox Apologizes for Accidentally Broadcasting Hugh Laurie Getting Sodomized at Underground Sex Club; Faces Fine in FCC Probe

(Still photo of footage from Fox's post-House coverage)

LOS ANGELES, CA -- Immediately following last night's episode of House, Fox cameras followed Hugh Laurie to an after party to capture the post-show celebration, accidentally broadcasting live to a national television audience footage of the Cambridge University-bred thespian in the act of being sodomized by a dominatrix.

"It was an obvious oversight on our part, and we apologize," said Dan Bell, vice president of communications at Fox.

Fox, however, does not plan to change its policies regarding broadcasts of after parties.

During an impromptu news conference held at 10:00 am this morning, mainly from the 8th tee at Pebble Beach, Bell read a brief, prepared statment, "We are considering instituting a seven second delay, but broadcasting the frenetic, madcap, post-show hijinx of our biggest stars has long been a hallmark of Fox's award-winning television programming, and we don't plan on stopping this practice any time soon."

The controversial footage, shown live at 9:01 pm EST, shows Laurie being tied to a table, gagged with a medium-sized orange ball on a leather strap, and getting the handle of an antique feather duster inserted into his anus by a 300-pound woman wearing a full-body latex suit and 6 inch stiletto heels.

As of press time, the woman, a local celebrity in the dominatrix community who goes by the professional name of "Mizz Nazztee," had not returned numerous phone calls placed to a number listed on her MySpace page.

"On TV, I play a doctor who plays by his own rules," said Laurie during a surprisingly laid-back question-and-answer session held on the fairway of the 11th hole. "So in my personal life, I like to play by somebody else's rules for a change."

Asked if he felt any remorse, Mr. Laurie replied," Am I sorry that America had to watch [Ms. Nazztee] pierce my scrotum with 72 white-hot sewing needles?" at which point he paused for roughly 10 seconds before continuing.

"Sure, I regret that it happened. But to be fair, I thought the camera guys were filming Kal [Penn, who plays the energetic, radical thinking Dr. Lawrence Kutner] giving the post-show toast."

When reached for comment, FCC Chairman Kevin Martin stated, "this is the most widely viewed broadcast of a man having his testicles constricted by rubber bands while a female body builder sits on his face and punches his cock in television history, and we feel it falls well within the federal prohibitions on broadcast indecency."

Wait a Minute, What Is This? Is This? No - No It Can't Be! NOOOOOOOOO!

Last night I went grocery shopping. (And yes, I will graciously accept the nomination for most exciting introductory sentence ever written.) For someone of my economic stature, this activity consists of purchasing the very basics - milk, eggs, orange juice, cereal, 16 oz. cans of Bud Light.

Pretty hard to fuck up, right? It's not like I'm looking for a rare Bleu Cheese from a specific French province known for feeding it's cows fresh baguettes and the tattered remnants of French self-righteousness.

Well, if you think that, you'd be wrong, son. Dead wrong.

(Getty Images: You think Prince can't ball? WRONG!)

Sure, everything seemed fine at first. The eggs were fresh, the Bud Light cans each contained 16 ounces of drinkable beer (I rigorously checked each one), but then this morning happened. To put the shocking events of this morning in the proper context, you need a little background information.

You need to know, for instance, that I had been working my way through a variety pack of Quaker Oatmeal every morning for the past few weeks (And yes, I will graciously accept the nomination for most exciting sentence written in the body of a blog post). That means that I was eating the same god damn prison food morning after miserable morning. So surely you can understand why I was so eagerly anticipating the switch to my childhood favorite and reigning cereal Heavyweight CHAMpion of the Woooooooooorld, Honey! Nut! Cheeeeeeriooooooooooooos!

But as I opened the refrigerator door, something immediately seemed off. I grabbed the milk, wary but optimistic, when what did I see but--No!No, it can't be! It just can't BE! HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED TO ME! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS!

It's...It's...It's fucking SKIM milk!

WHY GOD! WHY?????????

(Getty Images: Realizing you purchase skim milk is slightly
more upsetting than finding your girlfriend's decapitated
head in a box in the middle of the desert.)

Nothing chafes my grundle like an accidental skim milk purchase (and believe me, there are a lot of things that chafe my grundle).

I mean, skim milk is blue, first of all. It's fucking blue. Do I really need to explain any further why it is the scourge of the Earth?

They should have the common decency to label these abominations properly. I'm sorry, yellow for skim, green for 1%, blue for 2%, and red for whole milk just doesn't cut it. Is that some sort of universal coding system? If it is, nobody told the hard-working American public about it, that's for damn sure.

I'm thinking something more along the lines of this:


Or, maybe they should go the way of tobacco companies and put clear, sternly worded warnings on the box:

I don't know what the solution is, I just know this madness has to stop. Skim milk, I fucking hate your guts. Have the decency to SHOW YOURSELF. You worthless, rancid traitor. You make me sick to my stomach.

(Getty Images: Milk was, indeed, a bad choice.)

No, Nasty Nate! No!

I just took a shower using the last scrap of soap, which always seems like a good idea before I start.

Part of it is that I'm a cheap bastard, and every day I don't finish the soap is another day I don't have to buy toiletries. I mean, I can't think of a less satisfying way to spend $20 than coming home with a double pack of saline solution.

(Getty Images: Which one is more fun for your $20? You decide!)

Another part of it is that I think the world is actively out to get me, and every day I don't finish the soap is another day that the evil soap moguls don't see a dime from this hard-working American (who prefers the taste of Dunkin' Donuts). Using the tiniest shard of soap is a fantastic way to buck the system and stick it to the shadowy figures profiting off of our basic human right to sparkling-clean grundles.

But no matter how good an idea taking a shower using a microscopic speck of soap always seems, it never quite lives up to my expectations.

First of all, lil' squares o' soap have a knack for executing what I like to call the suction cup maneuver. This is when they randomly decide to adhere to various locations on your body, but not necessarily where you would expect them to. It could happen on the side of your rib cage, in the midst of your hairy gorilla thighs, or maybe even on your massive, blue whale sized penis.

But know this, young man: when you least expect it, your hand will keep moving while that heretofore glorious symbol of consumer freedom decides to glue itself to the part of your back that you can't reach if you're a 12 year old boy with man boobs that always has pudding cups at lunch and is single handedly responsible for losing every relay race he's ever been in in gym class.

The suction cup maneuver, however, is just a minor annoyance compared to The Main Dilemma that one faces when braving the world of tiny soap bits. Since this is an awkward topic to discuss, I'm going to try to say this as delicately and maturely as possible.

What do you do when you get to that rancid stink hole you politely refer to as your ass? You ALWAYS forget about that ass, don't you? Not only do you forget about th(d)at ass, but you forget about that 45 minute run you just went on.

So what do you do now, smart guy? Do you attempt what I like to call the credit card maneuver in a potentially painful attempt to keep your hand free from your arse? No, you don't do that, because you're not some kind of eyebrow waxing freak. You're a MAN! You're a MANLY MAN with hairy GORILLA thighs and a massive, BLUE WHALE sized penis! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MANLY THOSE ANIMALS ARE?

So, to keep a long story short, you suck it up and wipe your butt with your hand, using the soap like the kind of abandoned glove that so shoddily covers ones palm that not even a homeless man would pick it up with his cane in the midst of panhandling on the subway. Sure, the thought of it is gross. After all, your asshole has just been sweating for 45 minutes straight, and this development has certainly affected its odor. But we all know that soap is magical and that it will work as a supernatural shield, fiercely repelling any ne'erdowell dingleberries seeking quarter beneath your finger nails. Because in THIS house, no quarter will be given.

(Getty Images: Time for a Led-Zeppelin style, mythological-yet-oddly-sexual fantasy interlude)

Also, you're probably high (full disclosure: I still am), so you'll laugh it off. That's one of the great things about marijuana - it makes you shrug off things that would normally enrage you more than the art of blogging enrages buzz bissinger.

I just dropped my tooth brush in the toilet! And it's right before work! And I don't want to have to go out to the store, come back, brush my teeth, then head out to a miserable fucking commute on the ridiculously overcrowded subway!

Hahaha! That's hilarious! My toothbrush could have landed ANY. WHERE. ELSE. in the bathroom. There were hundreds of other places it could have gone, but it landed in the TOILET! AHAHAHAHA! Oh well, what can you say? Life goes on!

That's not sarcasm. That's actually the way you think when you're high, and it's a magnificent thing.

Anyway, as you've finally guessed by now, this is all basically to say, "smoke weed, children." It makes you less of an asshole, and you let a lot of shit go that you normally wouldn't, but probably should.

(Getty Images: Do DO do DOOOO)

Somethin' in Your Blouse Got Me Feelin' So AROUST!!!

(Getty Images: You Look Good, Girl)