Volcanoes and Nuns

“Volcanoes erupt every day.” According to the nun at the 2011 Gilby Middle school science fair. I believed her too. No reason to argue or check Wikipedia on my iphone (product placement, pay me). She wasn’t just any nun but one of the sluttiest nature. Cleavage like the beautiful mountains of the Appalachians valleys and the same smell of moon shine wafted from her lips. I was aware of the event thanks to the Gilby Gazette’s event schedule section. I just had arrived 10 minutes prior to the volcanologist stripper nun’s announcement. 10 teams of 3 students each had entered this science fair. I observed all the projects with great disappointment. “These kids are stupid” I meant to say under my breath but accidentally announced out loud placing my hands in the form of a cone to echo throughout the gym/cafeteria. Some may say my criticism is harsh for a middle school science fair but I challenge the youth to impress me. If they only knew the true….. You can’t impress me. Why try… Spend your entire life striving for my approval and die unsatisfied. My children will hate me and their children will hate Norwegians from Norwegia. I am bored with this event; let me check the Gilby Gazette. Failure… this is only event scheduled for today. Well time to talk to the nun. “Hey sister” she replies “what do you mean sister.” While waving her hands and snapping. Clearly this nun does not know she is a nun or a Caucasian woman. We can work through this remember her nipples are visibly hard through the slightly tailor black robe. Fuck it! I’m feeling lazy. I guess it’s time to use the secret weapon of love. MONEY!!! And lots of it. I offer a couple hundred dollars but intend on running out the window FAST after intercourse. The trick to being a trick is choosing a hooker that you are clearly in better shape than. I can out run this nun, I am confident in that assumption. I am also smarter than this woman, easily. (Note: omit this sentence late due to being unnecessary to the reader). I could go into great detail of the crazy antics that ensued during the remainder of the science fair to include the chicken explosion, 2 on scene child births, and a racially driven police beat down (A china man, old too, very old) but I will get to the moral of the story.

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LAST STOP till MEXICO

As I neared the Mexican border I felt the urge to enjoy a farewell taste of Americana at the nearest convenience store. I pulled in and parked at gas pump number six. Gas was not necessary being that the three fourths I had was more than enough to get to my destination. Even if I did run low I could tap into the jug of fuel I had in the trunk that would later be used to ignite the gray Ford contour into a mass of flames. As the miles between my homeland of the United States and my future freedom of Mexico dwindled, I found myself becoming unusually picky as to which convenience store to choose. That had led me to this Shell Mart. BP was over looked due to extending out the Acronym to British Petroleum. No way was I to enjoy my last stop in an American convenience store to a British fuel refinery. Just gazing at the big ass yellow shell sign brought a lump to my throat as I held back my American pride knowing that after today I would never step foot on her soil again. My current circumstances were all my doings, but my fate was something I still could not wrap my conscious around. I had it all, but never felt that way until this moment. The feeling I had for my past life had been drowned out by my present need of survival. The past was just as that of any other history; I was to never be that person again. Realizing that individual is who I wanted to be more than anything now, did not bring me any closer to that reality. I can’t describe the Texas atmosphere at the time. I have no recollection of the humid Texas air, the thin cloud of dust covering everything or the looming clouds tempting the vegetation with the hope of a feast but exiting just as the plants cried of starvation. My heart was dominating my senses. No sight, No touch, No hearing. I was switched off to the surrounding world. Focused on me, focused on this trip, focused on survival. It was not common for me to have these self absorbed feelings, but this time was different. My decisions were not my own. I had been forced to continue this path. Motivated by fear and overcome by doubt. I don’t think I will complete my journey. I have not moved since pulling up to gas pump number six but I have started to feel further away than before. Suddenly I can’t see the finish line. I might as well be in Canada opposed to southern Texas. Truth being, fleeing to Mexico is not my solution. To be able to continue I have to trace back the facts and peel back the underlying faction. I entered Shell Mart and spotted the restroom. While attempting to clear a permanent piss ring in the urinal with a fresh hot steady stream I had an epiphany. I washed my hands for the first time in my life for hygienic reasons and not because someone else was around watching me. My hands were clean now. Now they have to believe that. But I can’t wait for that realization, I have to show them or even force them. I purchased a fountain drink and bag of chips. Leaving the store was when I joined the rest of the world and became a part of the environment around me. I instantly felt the humidity and tasted the dust on my lips. Entering the car, my mind was made up and the Mexican border was not on the agenda. I gathered my breath and pulled off, immediately completing a full circle in the parking lot, to arrive yet again at gas pump number six. Seven dollars and thirteen cents later, I had a full tank and a purpose with a half ass plan on how to regain my life that I just understood was worth living five minutes ago.

How Could U

I hope you pricks are happy. Prior to writing my newest blog “Call First” I grabbed two brews from the frig. As I began to write this literary master piece, I neglected my beers. They sat patiently like obedient dogs waiting for their master. As the sweat rolled down the amber skin of my Budweiser Select I slaved away. For what…. Why do I waste my time to entertain you? You haven’t done anything for me but ensure my beers are now room temperature and disheartened. Anger is flowing through my veins as I drink this piss warm beer. Shame is what you people should feel. Hopefully you are drinking a cold, cold, Rocking fucking mountain cold stupid ass Coors light beer can with the color changing crap while you are reading this. You owe me…. YOU ALL OWE ME. Next time I see you I want what is mine. I want a fucking cold beer and some peace and quiet. Next time you see me at the bar or eating a meal with my family, DO NOT DISTURB ME. I am not Eminem, I won’t write a song about how I hate my fans. I will flat out kill you, word is bond. Then I will kill whoever decides to show up at your funeral. If you are popular, I guess I will become a mass murderer and take out like 200 of your closest friends and family. I am ruthless; Mike Tyson hasn’t even eaten as many babies as me. Yeah YeeeAaahh! I beef with East and West coast at the same time. I’m so controversial that Aljazeera TV plays my show after 10pm Middle Eastern time. I’m crazier the Al Qaeda. I rob Somalian pirates. Not cuz they got shit I want, but just because I don’t respect pirates without parrots. Sometimes I like to visit nursing homes, beat them at shuffleboard, and swap family photos based on race. Old white dudes flip out when they think their daughters married a black guy. I am finished with my first warm beer and am starting to calm down. Actually, I retract my previous statements and would like to continue loving all my readers. You guys are awesome. I would like to officially end my beef with the East and West coast, let’s just focus on making good wholesome music for drug dealers, pimps, hoes, thugs, gangstaz, basketball playas, and suburban white kids. I am very sorry to Mike Tyson for making those baby eating claims. You and I both know, Mike, you got me beat by a minimum of 5 babies. To Steve McManval at the Winchester home of the elderly, I would like to inform you that your daughter is a lesbian and I not married to a “Colored” as you put it. Lastly, to the people who watch Aljazeera TV…. I am still coming for you fucks; you better check your back every time you bend over to check the stove, because I will push your terrorist ass in and cook on high for 45 minutes or until light brown crisp. What can I say, I’m part German, I have something for stoves. …..


Ahhhh! I just read it over again. Sorry Jews… well you know why.

Call First

A knock at my door followed by vicious dog barks happened a little after noon, but not quite noon thirty. I was not expecting anyone, which may explain why I was not showered, and answered the door with one sock missing. The sock was probably taken in the shadows of the night, by a neighboring ninja that I had angered recently by having a friend park in his spot during a past BBQ. I had felt “Pay back would be a bitch” ever since the night of my unwelcomed intrusion.

The one day I would have an unannounced visitor would be the day that cock sucker ninja would exact his revenge. Now I am answering my door smelling of day old body odor with one sock missing. A fool is how I feel and not even Mr. T would pity me. I stare at the door daring the doorbell to ring or a rat-a-tat-tat to begin. Impatience is a pet peeve of mine and given the circumstances, whoever is on the other side of that door knows Goddamn well I heard the initial notification for an entry request. For fuck sake, my car is parked outside, my television is playing at 32 volume, and it’s just after noon but not quite noon thirty. I grip the handle to greet this mysterious friend of mine, then let go and reconsider.

What if on the other side of this 3 and ¼ inch thick wooden door stands not a friend, but a ruthless enemy. One who does not wish to impact my day with joy, but rather kill my family and eat my groceries. I just went to the commissary yesterday and have a full box of Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Crunch. With the possibility of losing my Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Crunch, I decide to play this one safe. In the accent of a middle aged Spanish maid I said, “Uno mi-neat.” (1 minute for you English readers). This would for sure answer my question of friend or foe. A true friend would know I am too big of a Jew with my money to even hire the cheapest, most illegal immigrant workers. I stand frozen in place waiting for the reply at the door. I hear a mutter, but can’t make out the context. I promptly ask “What…?” FUCK… I forgot to use my fake accent. The jig is up and my cover blown. My asshole tenses up to the point where no matter how much lube is used, beginner anal beads would not penetrate. I contort my body in a ready position I had remembered from a horrible kung fu movie, “Soul Brothers of Kung Fu”. My brain speaks to me and reasons. My brain and I agree that Soul Brothers are much better singers and dancers then kung fu fighters. My next choice is to go with a more modern approach and grab my shotgun. Just as a Jew becomes a man after he cuts a long Jew curl from a sleeping elder, Kentuckians become men on their 11^th birthday when they are given a shotgun and “Farm road” driver licenses. Farm licenses also apply to non- farm road circumstances such as driving ones father home after a night at the bar or anytime during deer season. For most, the next step in this tale would be to cock the shotgun….. No says I. I prefer to leave my gun loaded safety off. The only safety you need is a trigger finger. In fairness to the soon to be rotten dead carcass that stands 3 and ¼ inches in from of me I warn sternly,

“I have a gun, I will blast your asshole open like a homosexual with HIV. You know the Aids virus that was popular in the 90’s but no one talks about anymore, but will still kill you bitch. Who probably has herpes too depending on the humidity and/or strenuous athletic activity that enflames them. You know you never really ever get cured of the herpes, they just keep coming back and visiting until you die, like in-laws. FuckFace!” That is what came to my mind at the time. I open the door target in sight finger ready to pull……………

.... Continued.... Why am I here again?

Finishing my third drink while seeking the waitress’s attention I come to the realization that all the passengers from flight AA240 have departed my immediate visual sight range. Families have rejoined, friends are catching up, and suitcases are being emptied as closets are filled. This all the while I am sitting with no purpose drinking overpriced cocktails by myself. My mind plays a cruel joke as my train of thought is temporarily wiped clean. Maybe this is a way of foreshadowing what can be looked forward too as I grow decrepitly old. Seconds before I finalize my diagnoses of underage Alzheimer’s I realize why I am at an airport in North Dakota drinking overpriced cocktails by myself.

The negotiation process was simple. They wanted me to write. Simple for a writer, one would think. During the first and only interview I presented myself with no emotion, no excitement, and no personality. A question and answer session ensued. Each question was greeted with an answer slowly with intentional monotones similar to a Ben Stein commercial. This annoyed the three suites that made up my interview board at the bullet book publishing company. To entertain myself I attempted to visualize what they were expecting. Either I was supposed to be awkwardly nervous meeting with a big time publishing company being a young author or I was supposed to be overly excited with the opportunity to impress my judges in attempt to fulfill my lifelong dream. Always I am pleased to disappoint preconceived expectations. I attempted to exude an ambiance of a veteran author that felt disrespected for an interview being necessary. All this a load of bullshit of course being the majority of my time away from writing was submitting my works to publishers. The day I received interest from bullet book I became numb with the feeling of unreality. The numbness passed and I quickly shifted to creative mode on how to approach this opportunity and capitalize. My first attempt was too generic and sad to the point of laughter. Rounding up self help material such as “First impressions are lasting” and “Interview do’s and don’ts”. Compiling tips and tricks that ever interviewer has heard more times than Wilt Chamberlain has gotten the clap I decided to go a different route.

After a brief two minutes of picking my brain and tapping into my one true gift, creativity I had my answer. They are looking for someone to write, this has nothing to do with selling myself I am selling my craft, my skills, my art. At this point I was tempted to contact Bullet books with several pieces of writing attached to blank email with only a subject line simply stating “Send the Check”. Feeling satisfied with myself as if I had just got my dick sucked while taking a dump and drinking a brew (Holy trinity) I came close to clicking send finalizing my previous intentions. Then with a screeching halt I noticed the signature block from the Bullet Book Publishing read Chicago. Every Sunday growing up my Grandma would gather the “sales papers” and compile a three foot list of items on sale that Wal-Mart would match. When Pepsi products were on sale she would be overcome with happiness with an uncontrollable primal need to alert every family member in the general local telephone coverage area, Aunt Lucile lived in Florida and was shit out of luck if Grandma was going to call long distance. Once we arrived at the corporate mega chain know as Wal-Mart (Wally World to annoying fucking people) every costumer with a 12 pack of a Pepsi product was also informed of this phenomenon. The look on my Grandma’s face as she doubled check the receipt to verify the fifteen 12-packs of various Pepsi product were actually totaled at $23.88 is the only way I can to describe my own expression when I realized I could get a free trip to Chicago.

Flight AA240

Flight AA240 arrives early, Forty-Five minutes early to be exact. Airports provide abundant entertainment value. Observing people as they arrive at their final destination is my new favorite airport hobby. The dark haired guy that was dressed as if he belonged in first class but indeed was two rows behind me in economy class was greeted by his wife. Tears roll from her face as if he was returning from a year tour in Afghanistan killing terrorist and diffusing IED’s in the name of freedom. I glanced at this scene with a hint of annoyance. Maybe I sound jealous but I have been to Afghanistan and fought the terrorist. I am an American hero; this dude was a far cry from Rambo. Not even attempting to disguise my direct glare at these complete strangers, the wife picks up on my wandering eyes. Fighting the urge to turn my head in embarrassment after being exposed for blatantly “people watching” I raise a seductive smirk to the women as I attempt to telepathically tell her “ If she wants some come get it.” I engage her with some serious eye contact, for a moment thinking she received my message. Just as I began to think we may be soul mates that can communicate without speaking she turns her nose to me and looks away.

This humored me slightly. To understand T J Wiseman you must understand the Ego also known as Wizini. Most men would have taken that as a rejection. The ego will not allow such thoughts. First off that bitch knew she was surprised I was looking at her. Come on, I don’t feel it is necessary to describe her I will just say 7. Not exactly Mrs. America or even Mrs. Friday night. She would be a good Tuesday chick, standards increase later on in the week. Plus women are used to being approach or hit on when it’s “Girls night out” but when they are out with their man, only Alpha male gorilla mother fuckers such as myself can do that. Wizini doesn’t care she’ll think of that thirty seconds we shared next time she looks for a quick self-confidence boost.

Back to “People Watching” I spot a younger guy closer to my age. This guy has not perfected the art of multitasking. While aimlessly wheeling a cart full of luggage back and forth redialing his cell phone ever five seconds in an area not bigger then forty feet he manages to bump into three people to include a little kid that begins to cry. This little kid did not have a little dad. Instantly after the little shit increased decibels from a whine to a screeching scream the father eye balled the wreck less driver. Even from a distance I notice the stiffness in this guy’s posture and a redness to his skin tone the moment the brats dad laid eyes on his target. Of course this matter was resolved with an apology and all parties involved went on with their lives, but it would be a lie for me not to admit I had already planned a fictional airport ass whooping in my head. This will also not be described but I can say it was very entertaining and glorious. In my scenario a Star buck’s stand was completely destroyed and a TSA employee was knocked out cold. When I say cold I mean twitching lights out, hilarious. Continuing my observation like a social science professor. I begin to put this dude’s story together.

The flight was early and apparently this young man does not travel often. If so he would have adjusted his wristwatch to the local time zone and not be pacing frantically as if his girlfriend was finishing off polishing his best friends knob before she came to pick him up. The first couple slightly annoyed me, this guy was more frustrating. I sat down at a bar stool and ordered a L.I.T (Long Island ice tea). The urge to introduce myself to this guy was hard to suppress. That sounded fucking gay. I was getting so frustrated watching him be frustrated I wanted to call him over to the bar and order him a round. This thought disappeared as soon as I looked at the bar menu and noticed my Long Island was fifteen bucks. Fucking overpriced airport drinks. At least they did make my LIT considerable strong. I winced with my first sip. Not a fu fu women wince but a manly wince while saying “You hooked that shit up” I spoke with a deeper than usual voice and handed the waitress a couple bucks for the bar tenders tip jar.

I wonder if the bar tender got that tip or if that slut of a bar tender keep it. Just a side note I gave the tip before realizing how much the drink was, not that I am struggling in the financial department it’s more of the principle (I try to deny my Jew ways). Intrigued by the oversized slice of lemon in my cocktail I stab it with my straw after soaking it in the alcohol then suck the lemon flavored booze from the fruit. I look back over to check up on my future drinking buddy and he is nowhere to be found. Good for him, I just hope he never finds out how much his girl friend really likes hanging out with his friends. Then I think, yet another reason I should have got to know him.

Jeopardy Rant

1:41AM Jeopardy

Have you ever watched Jeopardy with the volume on mute? I think it may be the most ingenious idea that has ever infiltrated my brain. The score is nerd with glasses 4,000…. Nerd kid without glasses 6,800... Fat nerd girl 5,400… Wizini 75,200... Being that I majored in lip reading at Eastern Kentucky University I have no use for Trebek’s Audio. Seriously though no matter what you answer is you can always be right. Final Jeopardy is coming up and I have only missed a total of three questions. As I sip on my (insert brand name here after check clears) Energy drink I began to root for the Fat nerd girl. Why? This chubby bunny leads my mind to question the way I have always judged the baby makers of the human race. No matter how smart, funny, interesting, clever, easy going, willing to felaice(FA-LA-ACESH) (FA-LA-ACESH) me, etc. a fatty was, I always turned away without second guessing. Settling for a lady lacking the inner substance that makes up a respectable person, but was HOT. Come on who can blame me.

Does this make me feel guilty….. Fuck no. Just because I realized I am just like all the other shallow dickheads that plague the world means nothing to me. I will never be attracted to that cushion for the pushing. Can I ever find good women with this mentality? I just reread that question. Then laughed. Then farted. Then pooped. Then wiped. Then laughed (Tell the creators of spell & grammar check I give two shits about fragment sentences).

To sum up the purpose of this pointless collaboration of sentences that became paragraphs which I attempted to fool you the reader into believing was a blog entry that would add maximum value to your otherwise unimportant day… I want fat nerd girl to win because at the end of the day the only thing she has going for her is the freakish Jeopardy intellect that will one day result into a scholarship to a reputable academic university leading to a six figure job and a lonely life with multiple stuffed animals and a best friend named mom.

Now click on the next post to read a real story full of comedic genius, literary brilliance, crude behavior, great visual mind stimulation, and orgasmic complex that will fuck your mind in a gentle yet semi-rough way.