Get the prestigious CELTA certificate in San Francisco and murder the English language

 
“Our English Language School in San Francisco have earned an enviable reputation for providing their program participants and graduates with a wide range of professional Job Guidance Services.” (Original source for this quote)

‘[E]nviable reputation?’ Maybe among the illiterate, English Language School San Francisco’s reputation is enviable.

The quote above has agreement problems. “School” is a singular noun, and it is being used with the verb “have.” You can’t do that! In addition, the pronoun standing in for singular “school” is plural “their.”

The teaching experts at English Language School San Francisco might also want to keep in mind that in the United States we have this thing called the serial comma. The teaching experts at this school might have heard about this comma; it’s all the rage. In fact, it’s fairly standard. Accordingly, the teaching experts at English Language School San Francisco might want to think about using this comma in their advertising, so they do not look like limey trained idiots being shipped in from overseas to teach a formulaic EFL training course to Americans at the bottom of the food chain.

Good job, English Language School San Francisco. Keep churning out those CELTA certified English language teaching experts! And good for you, Cambridge, for pissing on the legacy of Newton and Darwin and Hawking by letting these chuckleheads use your logo. Good job selling my language as if it were a cheap whore.

(This is a copy I made of the original source on July 21, 2012:
https://docs.google.com/open?id=1zcSSrFUYXhHgruVveLLyTJ4XK-5XGUYoj24Lxd-gZ2hi9W5BrEUGs7PtzTualLjCuyFgZkyxwXSpOv1R)

The big swell

My left hand now looks like the type of hand I would see connected to the many chubby women whom I’ve dated. Something is wrong, really wrong.

Here is my right hand. It is veiny, tendony, one might even say … grotesque, but it is not the big bloated monster that the left hand is.

It started in the middle of the night. I woke with my left hand itching like a motherfucker, and I’m like, what the fahhh…? I looked at it in the mirror; it seemed okay.

In the morning the left hand is not nearly so itchy but all swelled up. Now I see the swelling is beginning to extend up my arm.

If it gets much worse I’ll go to the emergency room.

Some bastard bug probably bit me last night; it’s probably nothing.

The hotel water scam

Apparently this scam has been around for some time, but I did not encounter it and (almost) fall victim to it until earlier this year.

This is what happens: You rent a hotel room. In my case I rented a hotel room at Two Trees Inn at Foxwoods, which is a pretty good hotel. The hotel leaves a bottle of water in your room. The bottle has a tag on it (shown above.) The mark thirstily drinks the water, not reading the fine print on the water bottle’s tag:

“This bottle of Aquafina is proved as a service to our guests. If consumed, $3.99 will be billed to your room. For your convenience, our staff will replenish daily.”

I had two free hotel stay at Foxwoods, so I was surprised when I got charged eight dollars when I checked out. The staff person curtly told me that this was for the water left in my room that I had drunk. Didn’t I read – or is the fine print too small for my aged eyes to see?

These water bottles are fat, and I could not easily fit them into a pocket, so I did not drink them. I had jammed them into my suitcase for later consumption. I was given a refund when I requested to return the bottles to them, but first there was a short interrogation:  “Are they opened?!”

The staffer seemed disappointed. What kind of person stuffs unopened water bottle into his suitcase? (The same type of person who brings an entire case of generic BJ’s water bottles to the hotel with him in case he gets thirsty, because he doesn’t want to drink the $3.00 water bottles from the hotel vending machines.)

It took me a few minutes to remove their waters from my suitcase, as I had locked the suitcase, and my key doesn’t fit the padlock very well, and one must really jiggle the key to get it to open. I probably made the staff very unhappy; I probably made the poor people behind me trying to check out very unhappy.

I stayed at Two Trees a few months later. As far as I know, they didn’t try the water scam. They did leave two puny but normal hotel-sized water bottles, marked generically as “Foxwoods.” This time, having the fear of God put into me by hotel scams, I did not dare drink the water. I didn’t even take home the pen.

I cannot say that the hotel water scam is good for customer relations. People don’t want to be on their guard for cons as they rest in a hotel room, especially when they are in a casino and probably giving money to the people who own the hotel.

As much as I was put off by Two Trees and would like to tell you to stay away from the scamming bastards, Two Trees is cleaner and better than the modestly priced hotels you will find in the Groton, Connecticut area. I have had some not-so-happy experiences with these hotels as well. At Foxwoods, Grand Pequot is the nicest hotel. Great Cedar, while more expensive than Two Trees and having the advantage of being connected to the casino, was a not-so-happy experience, as a lot of stuff didn’t work properly, such as lights and toilets that didn’t flush properly.

That new doctor feel

My new doctor (below)

Experienced internists have a shelf life of about two years. They always move on to where the money is. The last experienced doctor I had didn’t even move on to do doctoring; instead, she moved on to work as some consultant or advisor for cooperate America.

My new internist, who is fresh out of medical school, takes the time to check things out and to explain things to me. I recognized these qualities. I had seen this before. This is how a new doctor is. Experienced doctors are jaded. They don’t really investigate things. If they even bother to explain things to you, they blind you with science. Their attitude is, basically, “Ah, fuck it...”

Steve Oakes, author, and biggest joker on the planet

Here is Steve Oakes, the professional. He is the author of Speakout, a comprehensive six level general English course. He is also the Head of Teacher Training at the prestigious International House Budapest in the heart of beautiful Budapest.

Steve Oakes is an English speaking expert. Just give this smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch a listen:


Yet, Steve Oakes, professional English training guy, cannot write a fucking grammatical sentence:

https://sites.google.com/site/celtaexposed/steve-oakes

Good job, Steve Oakes. You have successfully hoodwinked just about everyone into believing that you are not the nervy, ignorant piece of shit that you really are.

Remember those days…

when Hillary Clinton was hot?

Good Christ, what type of bastard creator could make this dreamy young woman look like a mummified relative of Jabba the Hutt?

Roseanne Barr misses out on the Green Party's Vice-Presidential nomination

 

Booh, Jill Stein, Green Party presidential presumptive nominee, opted not to put Roseanne Barr on the ticket as VP.

I like Jill Stein a lot. She’s from Massachusetts and ran for governor once. As I remember, she also ran for some other big seat in Massachusetts. I voted for her for governor; she only got about 1% of the vote.

I think Stein would make a great president; however, this will never happen in this universe. People have to wake up and start living with the awful reality of this universe. Stein is a loser, and the only thing she is going to do is help elect Mitt Romney. Stein didn’t even make the sensible decision of putting Barr on the ticket; she thinks like a loser.

“I copied this from the internet”

Below is the blubbery jerk who copied and censored my shit, put it on his blog, and didn’t give me credit.

The blubbery jerk created this post and said he “copied this from the internet.”

http://www.sodahead.com/united-states/is-che-a-racist-well-actually-was-he/question-1465419/entry

And where did this cocksucker get his material from? It was from me! It is my fucking original, copyrighted material. Here is where it’s from:

http://bastarduniverse.blogspot.com/2005/02/che-guevara-racist-homophobe-and-anti.html

And not only did he copy it from me, the cocksucker censured my material for profanity. This makes me even angrier. The dirty cock!

I doubt if the cocksucker even knew where the material came from. Most of the assholes out there don’t know where my material comes from. There are literally hundreds of idiots reposting my quotes from The Motorcycle Diaries without any reference to where the fuck it came from. I have changed the worldwide dialog about Che, yet does anyone give me credit? Does anyone actually read my blog? No. I get unemployment, a right hand, astroglide, and fat fucking assholes who copy my shit.

It gets worse. Neo-nazis are now using my Che quotes to support their asshole, backward beliefs. Che changed later in life. HE WAS NOT A FUCKING FASCIST!

I have some reason to believe that Bill O’Reilly did a piece on Che Guevara, based on the materials in my blog post. I have not seen it; however, I’m sure the dickhead used my blog post in an attempt to show right-wing morons how hypocritical left-wingers are, as if some communist mercenary who died 50 years ago enters into the political consciousness of democrats.

Copyright-violator-blimpo-man says in his website that he’d like to meet God. If I met God, I’d kick the bastard in the nuts for creating a world of assholes.

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell…

 

I didn’t fart. Really!

The end

I do not think that I will know what hit me when the end comes. I doubt if I will be found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, as I don’t own a gun. I will not hang myself or bleed myself or overdose myself to death; these forms of suicide make me very nervous. I may be found in some alley stabbed to death, but that is unlikely. I don’t think I will die on some operating table, as I doubt if I will have insurance.

My death, like my life, is more likely to be humiliating. I will probably be found dead with my head resting against a keyboard. On the computer screen will be the ad of a transsexual prostitute on backpages whom I was jerking off to before I died of a heart-attack upon orgasm. The cops, when they find me dead, would laugh if they were not so overwhelmed by my decomposing flesh.

Stalkers, they’re not just for girls.

First of all, I would like to tell my stalker, whom I know – and who has been stalking me for about a decade now, that while I cannot stop the motherfucker from viewing my blog and sending me annoying e-mails, I have zero interest in being friends with him, and he’s wasting his time.

Dear Barbara,

I was not online very much yesterday, because I was at Funspot, the largest video arcade in the world (at least that is what their advertising claims). It is in New Hampshire. I've enclosed a photo. I didn't take many photos. It was too dark. Funspot was fun, but I had a miserable time at the hotel -- wasn't able to sleep and had a miserable time getting back, due to sleep deprivation. I should have stayed another night at another hotel and, hopefully gotten some sleep. It was a big mistake that I will not repeat.

Congratulations on the job offer in the UK. (I guess -- you don't seem that thrilled about it -- where will your husband be? Your husband seems like a giant from your facebook photos.) Lost a hundred dollars playing poker online in the course of about twenty minutes. I am never convinced that the cards are random online. I'm going back up to New Hampshire this weekend – this time to play live poker, if I am properly rested.

IH did not respond to my blackmail letter. They're not going to respond. I sent a letter to the head of University of Cambridge and to the CEO of CELTA ESOL. I doubt if they will get back to me. I'm not going to send you everything; it's too much -- but these items that I'm attaching were included in my blackmail letter to IH. I have dirt on all the staff. Extensive, embarrassing errors. These people have no right to run an English teaching school. And Cambridge ESOL expects me to complain in a complaint form that they wrote that is filled with errors. I FUCKING THINK NOT! My life and future ended the day they failed me. They will win and I will lose. But I have nothing but time to embarrass their joke of an institution, and that is what I will at least attempt to do. Could you believe I used to fear Neil. Take a close look at the bendy file index that he wrote. Not only can he not form grammatical sentences, he has no concept of how to define words; and this bastard used to bitch and moan about my not grading my language. He's an impostor. They all are.

The dream

I have tried to drink my problems away as I did before I left. But now I can’t. I am miserable when I drink and miserable when I don’t drink. There is no escape now.

Hungary to me now is a distant dream and, having fully woken up to my miserable and hopeless life in the United States, I cannot imagine a Hungary. There is no world out there beyond my four walls of shit and the places that my shitbox takes me to.

Don’t get me wrong. There are worse lives, far worse. My life is not bad. The problem is that it is a non-life. I sit here and I watch all that unrealized potential go to hell. All I wanted in life was to screw women and create babies. It wasn’t much to ask. Good Christ, how did I get myself into this situation?

I’ll keep trying, like I always do. There is nothing more that I can do.

Burn flag, burn!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

No more hope, but plenty of scorched earth

Pequot Museum parking lot.

You beat me world -- in Hungary.

Hungary was not to blame.

Budapest was merely the location of the battlefield.

Blinded by arrogance, the victors don’t yet realize whom they are dealing with.

While I mount my scorched earth offensive in Europe against idiots, I take money away from idiots at poker tables. Idiots never feel that they have to study their subject. That is their weakness, and I am exploiting it.

I no longer have a future. Hungary was my last stand. It doesn’t bother me too much; I’m too involved in the day to day operations of making bastards pay.

Just another day in paradise

Dear Barbara,

I play No-limit Hold'em -- and yes, it is similar to Russian Roulette. If you're not careful you can easily lose vast sums of money before you even know what hit you, and then your life is over. I have never lost vast sums of money playing poker, but I imagine it's a lot like failing your last CELTA lesson. One minute you have a life, and then the next minute you've failed and all your dreams disintegrate right before your eyes like burning paper. You are still alive and breathing, but you are effectively dead. After I write this e-mail I'm going to go book another date to go to the casino. They usually let me stay at their hotel for free during the winter, but they're all booked up and I will have to pay $70 to stay for the night. I really hate paying for the hotel when I'm at the casino, but I'll do it because I'm bored and miserable. Who knows, maybe I'll win enough to cover my expenses. I don't get to the casino that much anymore. Maybe four times a year. It's a long drive. I hate driving back at night. I don't see well at night. I hate the dark country roads near the casino. Everyone tailgates me because I drive the speed limit. In Budapest you have casinos everywhere, but they don't offer live poker with other players; they want you to bet against the house in games of chance, which is like throwing your money away; I find this sort of thing very insidious.

I'm beginning to get used to the United States again; I'm not saying I like it, but I'm getting used to it. It's nice to be able to communicate in my own language. Hungary is a wine country. The wine is good in Hungary, but I am a beer drinker -- The United States is a beer country, and I am a product of its culture. The beer in Hungary is not very good. Before I arrived in Hungary I thought I was going to be in beer heaven because I would be able to drink a wide selection of the imports from beer countries like the Czech Republic and Germany. The German imports in Hungary absolutely sucked, and I could find much better Czech beers in the U.S. than I could in Hungary. I could find good cheep beer domestic beer in the U.S. In Hungary I couldn't even find a six pack of beer. In the U.S. you can buy beer buy the six pack, the 24 pack case -- even the 30 pack case. In the U.S. we cater to the alcoholic. We make it easy and cheap to drink your life away. It is it is an alcoholic's paradise. Hungarians may live in a capitalism system, but they really have no clue how it works. I hope to God that Hungary never figures out capitalism, for if they do, they will become assholes like us.

Restaurants in the United States serve much fresher food than they do Hungary. One of my biggest complaints about Hungary was that the food  in restaurants was not fresh and was way too salty. Restaurant food in the U.S. is so expensive that I've only eaten out once since I've arrived. In Hungary I always ate out. When I got back to the U.S. I was dying for a good cappuccino, but you cannot find good cappuccino in U.S. The cappuccino in the U.S. sucks. The best cappuccino in the U.S. is worse than the worst cappuccino in Hungary. But, weirdly, after a while the desire for a good cappuccino subsides and you don't even think about it -- you don't even order cappuccinos. You just get used to the way things are. The U.S. is a miserable, crap country, vacant of culture and soul, but the longer you stay here, the less you realize it. You just become numb and passive after a while, like other Americans.

Have you seen Erika's son in person? I saw his photos on facebook. He looks like such a cutie. I envy Erika. My niece is terrifically cute too. She's two years old. She sent me a drawing. It is horrible. I'm not sure what to do with it.

I'm attaching a photo. Please tell me what it means. I suspect it is a political ad and the person who wrote the comments on it in pen was making an anti-semitic remark. Am I right?

I'm going to try to call you this weekend. You can tell me about your financial struggles then. I need to ask you about The Hungarian Society of Massachusetts.  http://www.bostonhungarians.org I miss Hungarians; I miss their beautiful and kind faces; I need to find someone who will make me some transylvanian goulash;  I'm dying for this. (They don't have Hungarian restaurants here.) I'd do anything for some transylvanian goulash; I'd do anything for a good Hungarian woman too, but I'm unemployed, so I don't even let that thought cross my mind.

The woman from Szeged

Dear LA Woman,

BTW, I've starting blogging again. Yes, this is after I told all my readers, except for you, to fuck themselves. I've published two e-mails to this Hungarian woman, Erika. She was in my class, really sweet and hot, and somewhere in her early thirties. I of course tried to get to know her better. In a move somewhat ruthlessly criticized by Hedi as being unmanly, I asked Erika to help me to buy some food in a Hungarian restaurant. I chose to indirectly ask her out for lunch. This is just the way I prefer to operate, especially if I have to deal with the person if they reject me. Erika just gave me this strange look and didn't answer the question. I was not sure she understand what I was asking, but I said nothing more. For the next for weeks I sort of gave her the cold shoulder. Any woman who was too good for me, well, she could just fuck herself! I learned later, from Erika that she had a husband and a kid. I was a little surprised because, unlike the other women in the class, who were all married with children, she never talked about her family. It didn't occur to me to look for a wedding ring. I don't have a lot of experience with asking out women whom I do not meet online. Then, one day I was going out with my other Hungarian friend from the course, Barbara, and Barbara was friends with Erika, and Barbara asked if she could take Erika along. So we went out and had something to eat. Barbara asked me how my trip to Szeged was. (Szeged is a city in Hungary about 120 miles south of Budapest, on the Serbian border.) I told them that I had cancelled my trip to Szeged because Aniko, the woman whom I had met through OkayCupid, had decided to abort our relationship. (I'm not sure if "relationship" is the right word, for we had never formally declared it as such.) Well, Erika became very interested in me after that. There was something about my having this relationship with this woman from Szeged that I think fascinated her. I think that my wanting to have relationships with mysterious Hungarian women somehow made me okay. I said in my OkayCupid ad that while I did not have a drop of Hungarian blood, I wanted to be as Hungarian as I could be; it was the truth.

I think I will publish this post in my blog too. Take care.

I hope you're okay.

Dickie

Back in the United States, and no longer in Kansas

View of the Danube from Gellért Hill in Buda, Hungary on a rainy, foggy day. The right side of the river is Pest.

Hi Erika,

I got a cultural shock when I arrived in Hungary, and I got a cultural shock coming back to the United States. When boarding the plane in London, people were speaking in somewhat ugly, Germanic sounding language. I was familiar with this language -- I knew the words, as it was English, but I heard it for the first time as a foreign language. Something seemed very wrong because people were not speaking the beautiful Hungarian that, while I understood hardly any of, I was comfortable with. And the people boarding the plane were so ugly. I had never seen so many ugly people before in one place. In Hungary, hardly anyone is ugly. Hungarians are incredibly beautiful people. I was not used to looking at people who were not beautiful. It was shocking. (There are of course exceptions like Eszter. Don't believe the crap I said in front of Zozo about Eszter being beautiful. Eszter does not look very Hungarian to me; she looks Germanic.)

When I got to Boston, Customs really, really fucked with me. They of course had nothing on me, but they interrogated me, asked horribly personal questions, and looked through every inch of my luggage -- even the dust they inspected. Finally, after clearing Customs, exhausted and really pissed off, having two suitcases, one in each hand, I ran to the bus that would take me to a train, that would take me to my apartment. The rear doors of the bus were open, so I hopped on with all my luggage, and the bus driver closed the door while I was half way in. I managed to squirm in, dazed and confused by why anyone would do something like that. A passenger said to me, "You have to pay." I had to pay? Then I finally realized that I was no longer in Budapest. In Boston, like every place in the U.S., you pay the bus driver up front. They open the rear doors in order to let people out.

I was in a big department store in the U.S. called BJ's. A woman was getting annoyed and frustrated with her son, because her son wanted to wander around. That is what children do; it is in their nature. Very rarely do parents get annoyed with their children like that in Hungary. People love the hell out their children in Hungary. Americans do not understand children. Children in the U.S. are often treated much in the way you might treat luggage. You lug your luggage around, and it is a hassle. In BJ's when I wanted to get around people in crowded aisles, I would have to resist the urge to say "bocsánat." Something seemed horribly wrong to be living in universe where you don't say "bocsánatot kérek" to get people out of your way.

Yesterday, when I was driving on the hi-way at night, I thought about the view from Gellért Hill and all the places and people and things I missed about my Buda. It was of course not "my" Buda, but it was the only place I had ever know that felt like home. I cried.

This is probably my last post, assholes

My life has taken on a new trajectory. In a few months I will be living many thousands of miles away.

I now have to protect my privacy for professional reasons. I will be disabling or deleting this blog within a month or so. I may start a new blog, where I will be more vigilant about protecting my privacy.

The enemies that I’ve made as a result of this blog will be very happy about this move, as it means that my posts will not continue to embarrass them. I am still not sure what to do about Wediko. I am considering shaking the motherfuckers down for their domain name – I can certainly use the money; I also might just continue to embarrass them. I haven’t decided yet.

It’s highly dubious if I have many regular readers, if any. I would like to say that I hate all of you, with exception to L.A. Woman, for whom I love. (But it is not a romantic love, don’t worry.)

At a certain point I had prevented people from commenting because of all the trolls and assholes posting their brain farts on my blog. About a year later, I turned the commenting back on, but restricted it to blogspot members only. There hasn’t been one comment since. This, to me, says a lot about the human race -- what fucking shits you all are, in that you can only squeeze out your reeking brain farts when you can do so easily and anonymously.

I think you are all fucking scum. And I have one word of caution for you men not living in the U.S: You’re days of pussy may be coming to an end, for your woman may be fucked by me, and I intend to dish out the best fucks that your woman has ever had.

Tables are turning motherfuckers; time that I got mine. And I’m not only after your woman, and in a much better position to take your woman -- I’m also going to take your job, because I’m probably a lot smarter than you are, I work a lot harder, and I don’t take shit for granted. And when I’ve taken your job, I ‘m not going to feel guilty. And I’m going to hope that you end up hanging yourself over your sudden loss of pussy and revenue. You will feel lonely. It will rot your soul -- your entire being. Most of you assholes, who think you are so fucking superior to me, would probably not last a day in my shoes. I hope you get the chance to see the world as I do. I hope it is your woman and your job that I take. I hope, dear reader, that I fuck you real good, for you probably have it coming.

Have a shitty life, scumbags.

Kevorkian dead. Good riddance, scumbag

Kevorkian snuffed someone I knew – she was not terminally ill. Don’t believe everything you hear about Kevorkian, even if it happens to come from so-called humanitarians and liberals and progressives. He was fucking cocksucker.

The Kevorkian freak showing off his “suicide machine” in 1991.

Dr. Death in his later years

We need assholes like you in the service

I watched The Patriots, 1994, directed by Eric Rochant, starring Yvan Attal, and I thought – where has this movie been all my life? With exception to Three days of the Condor, it is the best spy movie ever made. It is about the Mossad. There is this great line in the movie where the protagonist was asked why he was chosen for an assignment. The protagonist did not know. The protagonist was told that it was because “we need assholes like you in the service.” The protagonist, you would think, would say something or at least have some affect – but, like a true asshole, I guess, he did not seem to mind being called an asshole – or he might have just been playing it cool. It was a tremendous acting performance. The characters in this movie will make your skin crawl.

At first I thought it was an Israeli movie, but it is a French director; it figures – only the French could make a movie this devoid of sentimentality.

Life in slow motion

I was supposed to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, but ended up playing online poker until well after the bastard birds started tweeting. Shouldn’t I be trying to get my ass into gear? Shouldn’t I be prepping for the fascist EFL fucks in Belarus who will be interviewing me and busting my balls for no good reason other than the thrill of displaying dominance? I just don’t seem to care. I don’t care about my graying and depleting hair, nor my limp dick. What is the point? If by miracle I land some shit gig in Southeast Asia, what fertile woman is realistically going to want to fuck me? And, say they do want to fuck me, how am I supposed to get this limp cock inside of them so that I may seed them with my brood? I don’t even seem to care about my existential dilemma. I just want to play poker – poker is way better escape than drinking – I haven’t drunk all month and have lost 12 pounds because there is never time to eat when you’re playing poker. I’m not winning, but for the first time, I’m breaking even. I can play poker for real money until the end of time now for free. I play poker because I don’t care. I used to drink because I didn’t care. I don’t even feel suicidal anymore because I simply don’t fucking care. In the past I would say, look at the horror of my life being flushed down the fucking toilet; but, really, what life was there ever to get flushed? What future where I am not neck deep in shit do I have?

Donald Trump, you are a moron and asshole

Donald Trump, who wants to run on the Republican ticket for president, is a fucking moron. Below are grammatical errors he made in about two minutes of conversation on CNN on March 29, 2011.

TRUMP: If it wasn’t for us, OPEC wouldn’t exist.
WHAT'S WRONG: Improper use of the Second Conditional.
SHOULD BE: If it weren't for us, OPEC wouldn’t exist.

TRUMP: I also say that NATO is us.
WHAT'S WRONG: Linking verb complement needs subjective case.
SHOULD BE: I also say that we are NATO.

TRUMP: When NATO goes in, this is us going in.
WHAT'S WRONG: Linking verb complement needs subjective case.
SHOULD BE: When NATO goes in, we are the ones going in.

TRUMP: I just looked at polls today that showed me doing very well.
WHAT'S WRONG: Case of pronoun “me” is wrong. Needs to be subjective case.
SHOULD BE: I just looked at polls today that showed that I’m doing very well.

This asshole, who averages about one grammatical error every thirty seconds, wants to be president. I saw Trump in another interview today bitching and moaning about Obama not providing proper evidence of citizenship. It was the purist shit I have ever heard. He impressed upon the interviewer how he had gone to the best schools. How good can these schools have been when a 95 IQ asshole like me who graduated from Northeastern University, which is a school for mental retards, can speak better English than the mighty Trump? It’s a myth that one has to be smart to make money or be successful. All one needs is a rich daddy. If we did not all have our heads up our collective assholes, we’d take back from these motherfuckers all their undeserved shit. I say we take Trump’s private housing and turn it into public housing for the poor. We deserve it. We speak better English. We’re not on national news blabbing away like banal fucking idiots.

I couldn’t believe how gay that dog was

I had a date today at Jam’n N Java in Arlington, MA. Yes, I know that I said I was going to quit dating. I don’t really want to discuss the date beyond saying that I was grateful she extended her hand to me after the date so that I could avoid the awful awkward hug that I didn’t want to give her.

Jam’n N Java had incredibly shitty service and shitty coffee. They overfilled my cup so I couldn’t get any cream in it. There’s a pretty good chance they charged me for the ceramic coffee mug that I requested. Since the girl ran off after she gave me the coffee, I couldn’t request a receipt. She gave me a Canadian penny in my change. I put the Canadian penny in her tip jar. That was her tip. A Canadian penny was way more tip than she deserved. She wasn’t worth a rusty washer that you find on the sidewalk. The coffee made me nauseas, but then again all dark roasts makes me nauseas. This is New England, home of Donkun’ Donuts. Natives (I’m not a native, but have been living here forever) don’t like their coffee bitter, but the yuppie coffee shops are fascist and only serve dark roasts, and if you are not yuppie enough to enjoy it, you can fuck yourself. It’s funny that one of the people who worked there knew my date by name – my date was obviously a regular.

There was a bike path that actually cut right through Jam’n N Java. Unlike the Google snapshot of this bike path below, there were a million bike riders swarming in and out of this bike path. It was like a yuppie hornets nest. They and all their bicycles made me really nervous.

What is also not present in the snapshot is the big blue sign that said “America’s Revolutionary Bike Path.” Now, I could be wrong, but I thought that the big decisive battles of the revolution were fought in Lexington and Concord, not Arlington, but who knows, maybe this path went through these towns, or maybe it was just a stupid sign. I am way too lazy to find out.

As I waited for my date, there was this guy walking around with this really tiny and really furry dog. It was the gayest dog I’ve ever seen. It must have taken countless generations of gay dog breeders to create an animal that looked this gay. While the guy with the dog was well-dressed, he didn’t look gay – he just seemed to be a heterosexual with a curiously gay dog – maybe he didn’t realize how gay his dog was – but then he gave me “the look.” I have gotten this look before, but never from a man, if you exclude the time ten years ago when I ventured into a Castro bar to take a crap.

Harassment and intimidation of Romani citizens by anti-Roma vigilante groups present in Roma neighborhoods

I was horrified to learn about what these fucking neo-Nazis are doing to these poor gypsies in Hungary.

http://www.errc.org/cms/upload/file/hungary-gy%C3%B6ngy%C3%B6spata-letter-march-2011.pdf

I would gladly suck your penis or vulva for money

A few months ago, I came upon some article online that said that a Las Vegas brothel was looking for male prostitutes, and that this was the first time that a Las Vegas brothel had ever sought male prostitutes.

I went to the brothel’s website. If my memory is serving me correctly, they said that they were looking for men 30 – 40. They wanted head-shots and full body shots. They warned that if you sent nude shots that this would disqualify you. They did not specify whether you would be prostituting yourself for men or women – nor did I care.

At first I was like, “Woo-hoo!” maybe I can become a whore and finally make a decent wage. All I would have to do is suck some cock. I have never sucked a cock, but I’m sure that the worst, most gnarliest cock can’t be nearly as bad as the worst minimum wage day labor job I’ve ever had. Sucking cock for good money cannot be remotely as humiliating as working a minimum wage job for cocksuckers.

Then reality set in. I was no longer 40. I was 45. I was fucking old. But then I though, I still look good, I’ll send them the photos anyway. But then I thought, no, I don’t look handsome anymore. I’ve lost too much hair, gained too much weight. I’m not going to bother.

I read an essay in an Ethical Humanist newsletter, written by a man, asserting that prostitution was really rape. This is the most absurd argument I’ve ever heard. If the prostitute is forced, against her or his will to have sex, than that is rape. But if a person consents to sell her or his body for sex, to say that is rape is to completely ignore the violence of rape. If you’re going to call the man who buys a prostitute a rapist, then by that inane logic, you should call McDonald’s and Walmart and day labor outfits rapist institutions, for they exploit people’s bodies just as Johns do. Whether the exploiter wants you to grasp his penis or his mop is really irrelevant. Exploitation is exploitation. The feminists get so ideological and crazy that it really starts to turn me off. In fact, it becomes downright revolting. I believe in an egalitarian society. I don’t however like to define myself as a feminist because the label makes me very uncomfortable -- because I know that there are extremist wackos in this camp. And no, I have never paid for a prostitute. The reason why is because I have always looked at it as humiliating and demeaning. Being a prostitute I’m sure is demeaning too, but I doubt if it is nearly demeaning as working for assholes for wages that could barely get you by, living in your car.

The read-between-the-lines rejections are so demeaning

I wrote this nurse on OkayCupid – she was curvy, had some serious breasts, dreamy wide hips, nice legs, and a really tight belly in the one photo where she was not a little plump. (I like ‘em plump – no big deal … breasts and booty are a good thing, not a bad thing – unless of course you’re not into women.)

As you can see below, I didn’t have much to say when I wrote her. She was an incredible longshot as she was gainfully employed, good-looking, relatively young at 37, and seemed to give the impression that she was awfully cool.

My friend is a Nurse Practitioner. When I recently got my CPR and AED certifications I left a message on her voice mail proclaiming that she was not the only one around here who can save lives -- that I too was a medical professional! I was of course exaggerating.

-Dickie

Usually when a woman writes you back, she’s interested. Once in a blue moon she politely tells you she is not interested, and I always hate when she does that. It’s better not to respond. This woman gave me the worst rejection imaginable – the read-between-the-lines rejection.

Thanks for the message! It's good to have skills. Especially ones that save lives.
-A

These types of rejections make my skin crawl. And let me add that with exception to my friend, LA woman, whom I am referring to in my e-mail to this nurse on OkayCupid, I hate nurses. My feeling about them is that, for the most part, they’re a bunch of fascists and control freaks. I mean, what the fuck? – look at that duplicitous, fuck-you rejection – look at the controlling way they treat you in hospitals. They complain about doctors, but a doctor you can at least deal with – when a nurse, for example, doesn’t want you to get out of your bed after surgery to take a piss and, after you have asked her when you will be able to piss and she just ignores you, and you decide to ignore her authority and attempt to get out of bed anyway to take your piss, what she will do is pump you full of drugs and render you unconscious. I can give more anecdotal examples of what type of fit-for-the-Third-Reich behaviors these people engage in. I’m sure you could too. Nurses are no Florence Nightingales. Florence Nightingale herself was probably a fascist and just in it for the power.

Fuck I hate nurses and okaycupid and these bullshit subtle-ass, insulting rejections. I am disabling my okaycupid profile. All I’m doing is embarrassing myself on that site. The unemployed have absolutely no business being on a dating site for any reason, whether that be for dating, sex, friends, activity partners or whatever. The unemployed should accept their bottom-feeder status, buy a suitcase (thirty pack) of Budweiser (preferably from tax free New Hampshire where they don’t even need to redeem the empties) and bitch and moan on blogspot. (I’m not prepared to accept this status, at least not permanently, but I do need to stop embarrassing myself on OkayCupid.

Letter written by a depressed alcohol abuser, with a big fucking existential crisis.

Dickie! Actually, the reason why I'm leaving OKC behind me is... I've met someone great and we're bf-gf. He's the sweetest guy on earth, too. [UNDISCLOSED BF NAME.] He's tall, adorable, works in nonprofit and is a film critic for fun. I can scarcely believe my good luck, after 2.5 years of being unattached. It's still pretty new, but it's going pretty well. Would I sound like a jerk if I say hang in there, Dickie, and it will happen for you, too? Because it will, just gather up your faith and keep hoping and wishing and acting like the lucky soul you are. Enjoy your corn chips, but don't you give up!
What are you doing for fun lately?
-L


Hi L,

I'm afraid that I have become so cynical that it never occurred to me that someone might want to leave OKC because she or he has found someone.

But, good for you. I hope you get some good love.

I am not seriously looking on OKC, and will probably disable my profile again. My priority is to get out of this asshole country so that I can put a roof over my head. It is quite beyond belief the obstacles I have faced and continue to face to make this nightmarish dream of teaching English in some other God-awful country come true. Patriotic assholes love to say "love it or leave it!" Well, I fucking would if I could! Their simplistic view of the world and problem-solving belies their position and diminishes my view of them as intelligent beings.

Christ, L, the most fun I have these days is drinking copious amounts of Budweiser, and this, as you may or may not know, is not that fun. I should stop being so blatantly honest with people, but I'm just like, ahhh, fuck it, who cares?

-Dickie

Spirit of Aquai

I was so disappointed when the Mohegan Sun casino in Uncasville, Connecticut changed their website to make their job offerings more accessible, because I had planned to blog about it. Before, they made people who wanted to look at their job listings go through a seven step process. You would have to click a button that said “Can you continue the Spirit of Aquai Continue” after each step. What was funny is that they never explained who or what Aquai is;

Thanks to the Internet Archive’s WaybackMachine I was able to find a copy of the old version of Mohegan Sun’s site so that I could write about it.

My second favorite step is step 4, “Grooming Standards,” where they asked you to agree to “bathe” and “brush teeth daily” and “use an effective deodorant.” (And, remember, this is just to look at their job listings.)

Now, I can understand why the Mohegans might want to insult the white man, as I’m sure the white man has fucked them over pretty well, but my family came off the the damn boat at Ellis Island. My family was way too busy being fucked over by gentile white men to fuck over a Mohegan. There is no reason to insult me like this personally; my family never did anything to fuck over a Native American. (It is arguable that my being here is an invasion of their turf; however, I have been trying desperately to get out of this asshole country for my whole life and have not been able to afford to do so, so, again, I am not responsible for fucking Native Americans – I cannot help that I was born here.) Furthermore, the Mohegan tribe has profited off of me by taking 10% of my poker winnings and from collecting the many two dollar blinds I have posted in order to immediately get into poker ring games. They were not just insulting a potential employee, they were insulting a customer whom they have made money from. It’s just not cool.

My favorite step is step 6, “Your On-Boarding Journey Begins…”

They said in this step:

“If selected, the map below represents what your on-boarding journey will be. It outlines the steps you will travel through, from the time an offer is presented, to your 90 day follow-up orientation.”

They showed you the map below:

Notice in this map how you start in Northwest Connecticut and must make a long, arduous, non-linear journey to Southeast Connecticut.

Do you see what this is? This is an allusion to the Trail of Tears. They are symbolically telling us that they want to make us pay, just as we made them and their Native American brothers and sisters pay.

In step 2, “Core Values,” the first core value they listed was “Blowing Away the Customer.” I don’t think this is a good value to strive for. As a customer, I never want to be blown away. It makes me nervous when people are too enthusiastic about pleasing me. I just want to get what I paid for and have people act courteously and professionally, that’s all. I’m pretty sure that this is what most people want.

After you had agreed to all seven steps, they gave you a few crappy job listings and did not post salaries or benefits. In the current version of their website you no longer have to go through the seven step process in order to get to the job listings, but they still don’t list pay or benefits. There is no mention of the Spirit of Aquai either. I guess that didn’t go over very well.

I don’t recommend working at Mohegan Sun or its neighboring casino, Foxwoods, because, although they have finally instituted no-smoking sections, you’re still inhaling a lot of the second hand smoke from the smoking sections, which are not properly sealed off. You’re just getting less smoke. I would put my money on both places being toxic from second-hand smoke, and you don’t want to spend thousands of hours of your life in places like these. Maybe they are good employers. Who knows? But whatever they pay is not worth the physical suffering and monetary costs of emphysema and lung cancer.

I never play against the house, so can’t really judge Mohegan Sun as a casino, other than it being smoky and tremendously tacky, as the building is designed to look like a giant wigwam. If you’re interested in poker, Mohegan Sun actually has a superb poker room with very professional dealers. The problem there is finding a full-ring table. I think the reason why this is is because they operate too many tables at once. If you are like me and you hate playing short-handed games, you are better off playing poker at crappy, zooy Foxwoods, with its abominable dealers, tasteless large-breasted waitresses with breasts hanging out all over the place (while you don’t see any nipple, there is more breast to be seen from these women, then three completely naked breasted women combined – it’s simply garish), and gimmicky, waste-of-hard-earned-money Bad Beat Jackpot (which also encourages idiot players to be river rats in hopes of hitting that asinine Bad Beat Jackpot, which nobody ever really wins because you probably have a better chance of being struck by lightning.) At least you’re pretty guaranteed to get good action at Foxwoods.

The dreaded i93 and how I became a supporter of the Republican cause

My shrink – my cognitive behavioral guy, wants me to take things slower with my highway driving phobia – but he is not the one hemorrhaging his life savings on $3.50 gallon gas. I need this money for my lofty retirement in the trailer park of my nightmares. I need to try newer and harder targets. I don’t have time to keep hitting the same targets to reduce anxiety, which is really very minimally effective. My shrink tries to impress upon me that while driving on the highway I am safe – that I am creating the fear. But this is pure bullshit. It’s very unsafe. I drive a fucking 2000 Toyata Corrolla. It handles like shit. It is made for durability, not driving. A strong gust of wind will make that car wobble at 55 m.p.h. It’s disconcerting. Very. You have to either be a better driver than I  (and perhaps I am a shitty driver) or a fool to drive that thing much over 65 m.p.h. And then there are the fucking maniacs – especially the truck drivers who get two feet behind you, literally, to bully you into getting into the slow lane, but you can’t because you can’t even see out of your rear view mirror because they are so close that all you see is truck! I am afraid that if I ever meet one of these sociopathic, aggressive motherfuckers face-to-face, that someone is going to get very hurt, and I am going to end up very in prison.

The Connecticut drive was far less scary than I thought. i385, which runs down the state from Massachusetts is a wussy interstate with only two lanes. A joke. Yes, you must drive on a major highway -- the MassPike to get to i385, but it’s only 35 miles, and considerably less scary than i95.

Taking i95 to Providence provided a lot of fodder for driving terror, with its Route 128/i95 bottleneck and, as soon as I hit Pawtucket, Rhode Island (you, know, Pawtucket Ale – “Family Guy”) it got zooy, and increasingly zooier as I hit downtown Providence. The plan was to turn around farther down in the Providence suburb of Cranston, but my feeling was, fuck this, I’ve gone far enough, let me get the fuck out of this madhouse before I wig.

This weekend I attempted i93 North. There was the i95/i93 intersection, where the lanes go from four to three that always freaks me out, but this time, instead of staying on i95 I went on i93. While the trip to New Hampshire was 20 miles less than the Providence trip, this drive was scarier because it entailed going from one interstate to the other.

I managed to keep it together for the last 5 or ten miles of the trip. When I got off at the exit at Salem, NH, that’s when I really started getting nervous. This was New Hampshire – there was not supposed to be many people in this state, but there was a huge traffic jam on the road taking me to Walmart. I had plotted Walmart into the GPS as a piss stop before I went back. There was so much traffic. That’s when I started to get that get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here feeling. I kept going though. It took me ten minutes to drive one and half miles to Walmart.

I don’t shop at Walmart. To do so is to donate to the Republican cause. But this was tax free New Hampshire. I needed some cheap beer. I was too freaked out to go fishing around for liquor stores. Walmart was selling 30 can cases of Budweiser for $17.00. It was insanely cheap. And, since this was the “Live Free or Die” state – its motto is written right on its license plate, I didn’t even need to return the empties. It was an alcoholic’s paradise. (Beer isn’t even allowed to be sold in Massachusetts outside of liquor stores because the liquor store lobby successfully persuaded the moron voters to preserve their monopoly in a ballot initiative.) The only reason why I didn’t buy ten cases of beer instead of only one was because I knew that I would drink myself into oblivion. Then I saw a case of Dasani water for only $4.00. Holy fuck I had to have that. I bought two. One more than I needed or probably will be able to drink in my remaining time in Boston. And then I saw these teeny Dannon Greek yogurts for only a dollar and put it in my wagon, and then I saw a whole shitload of cheap Gatorade, and I said to myself, fuck my boycott of Walmart, let someone who actually has money boycott Walmart. I need the savings. Fuck this. I wanted to buy a bathing suit. I wanted to stuff my car with as much tax-free crap from China that as I could get my greedy little mitts on, but the need to get the fuck out of that state before I completely freaked out was more powerful.

It took me a long time to get back on the highway due to all the traffic. Salem, NH is really a shopping Mecca. All the big stores are there, including Macy’s. This is all probably to cater to people in Massachusetts who don’t want to pay their 6.25 sales tax. Who can blame them? Massachusetts once had a ballot initiative to go from a flat income tax to a graduated income tax. Had the moron voters voted for it, we probably could’ve gotten rid of the regressive sales tax, which hemorrhages a lot of our money to New Hampshire and the Internet and lived off the fat of the multitude of rich assholes in Massachusetts – the same rich assholes who have our asses kicked from nine to five each week, if we are lucky enough to have a job. But, this is the U.S. – we do things backwards, even in Massachusetts, one of its most progressive states (technically a Commonwealth.)

Coming back is always ten times easier. I deliberately took a harder route coming back: i93 to 495 to 3 to i95. Four major highways in a row. It was easy coming back, but the shit had been sufficiently scared out of me going there. I needed to do some heavy drinking with my New Hampshire beer when I got back, though I did it at night, after more driving. The thought occurred to me that I should clean the empty beer bottles, but then I thought – why? – you don’t need to store them because they don’t need to be redeemed, because where I bought them, in New Hampshire, you “Live Free or Die.” So I just threw them out. What freedom! What a state!

The next target will be the i93 going into Boston from the South – the SouthEast expressway, a really scary highway. Ten miles of this is a lot harder than 40 miles on the interstate to New Hampshire. If I do not need to be scraped off the SouthEast expressway, there will not be much else to do after that, and I will probably push for graduation from therapy soon after, probably against the protests of my therapist. Fuck him. Had I listed to him I’d have spent half my life savings on gas and gone a fraction of the distance.

The MBTA gets back to me

Commentary about this e-mail sent to me by the MBTA is below. Keep reading…

MBTA Reference # 02720524

March 17, 2011

Dear Dickie Richards,

Thank you for contacting the MBTA. We appreciate your business and value your feedback. 

We appreciate you taking the time to write and sincerely apologize for the Operator’s dangerous actions while driving Bus Route 60.

With the information you provided, the Operator was identified, interviewed, and reinstructed on safe driving.  Any further infractions may result in more severe disciplinary action.  The MBTA has a progressive disciplinary policy, up to and including termination.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.

Should you have additional questions or concerns regarding this issue, please contact the MBTA’s Customer Communications Department at 617-222-3200 or 800-392-6100, Monday through Friday, 6:30 AM to 8:00 PM and Saturday and Sunday from 7:30 AM to 6:00 PM or visit our website at www.mbta.com.

Thank you again.

Sincerely,

Flora

Customer Communications Department

This email/electronic message, including any attached files, is being sent by the MBTA. It is solely intended for the recipient(s) and may contain information that is proprietary, confidential, legally privileged, and/or exempt from disclosure pursuant to state and federal law. If you have received this message in error or are not the intended recipient(s), please notify the sender immediately by reply, and delete all copies of this email/electronic message and any attached files from your computer. If you are the intended recipient(s), you may use the information contained in this email/electronic message and any attached files only as authorized by the MBTA. Any unauthorized use, dissemination, or disclosure of this email/electronic message and/or its attached files is strictly prohibited.
Please consider the environment before printing this e-mail.

This was sent a month and a half after I reported the incident. Here is my bitching and moaning about their not responding to me the first time.

First of all, there is a serious grammatical error in the MBTA’s response. The MBTA says:

We appreciate you taking the time to write

This is wrong because you need to use possessive pronouns in front of gerunds. So it should be:

We appreciate your taking the time to write

You could argue that President Obama makes this very same error, so what’s the big deal? Obama’s job is to bomb babies and children in Asia and Africa, take away people’s subsidized heating oil, fuck federal employees, and raise the taxes of the poor while keeping taxation of the rich unsustainably low. Obama should know proper English to set a good example, but, as an executive officer, he is really not in the field of customer service.

Because the MBTA failed to provide me with any evidence that they reprimanded this individual, there is absolutely no reason to believe that they actually did. I think that what I am receiving from them is a load of sugar-coated crap, but even if they did reprimand this individual, it would not have done anything to correct the undesired behavior. The driver does not remember what happened a month and a half ago. In order for punishment to be effective, it must be unambiguously and immediately paired with the undesired behavior. You learn this in any introductory psychology course in behaviorism. We’ve known this fact for about 70 years. It is not revolutionary or earth-shaking.

Furthermore, the MBTA completely failed to address my demand for the videotape of the incident. This is not a private bus company; this is a public bus company being paid for by your state and federal tax dollars. Any videotape that was made of the incident should be public domain. I have a right to it, and I would’ve put it on YouTube had they met my demand, so that the entire world could see the psychotic assholes at work on the MBTA. You have a right to see this! It’s your tax dollars at work on your public property!

They left me no e-mail address to respond to. What I think is funny is all the legal mumbo-jumbo at the bottom of their correspondence. I love how they say:

Any unauthorized use, dissemination, or disclosure of this email/electronic message and/or its attached files is strictly prohibited.

They are a public agency. By definition, any record that they create should be freely made available to anyone. What they sent me is PUBLIC DOMAIN -- it is not their fucking intellectual property. What the MBTA doesn’t understand is that this is not North Korea. We, supposedly, live in a free and open democracy, where the public has a right to know what its government is paying for.

All I can say is that the MBTA sucks elongated and discharging gonad.

Jam your lousy senior discount up your ass, Dunkin’ Donuts

Walking out of Dunkin’ Donuts, something seemed wrong to me as I looked at the receipt. Why was the small coffee I had bought so cheap?

In horror, I saw that the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier, Lasiah C, who was probably about 18 years old, had unilaterally decided that I was a Senior Citizen and therefore eligible for a 10% Senior discount. At first I thought that I must have been given some other customer’s receipt by accident. But this was sort of like believing that fairies exist, or that when you die you will remain alive through an afterlife, or that if you think positively enough, good thinks will happen to you.

I always knew this day would come, but I thought that the universe would at least hold off for another ten years before it deemed me old. I mean, I’m a young 45. I’m slightly encrusted, yet considerably less encrusted than men my age. I have at least some sex appeal left, don’t I? Certainly, I could not possibly be categorized as a Senior Citizen. The reality is that that is what happened, and the reality is that I need to live in reality.

This prompted me to make the decision to apply for the EFL course in Hungary before every fertile woman on the planet believes that I’m a Senior Citizen -- and for all I know, they might already. I was heavily leaning towards this decision anyway. This was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This will mean that all the money I had saved up and planned to use to live in some glorified trailer park in this asshole country will be used on a course to give me certification to work as an EFL teacher in God-forsaken third-world countries, where I will probably be exploited and still live a life of shit.

What was I thinking to think that I could get a crappy job in some place like Dunkin’ Donuts and persuade some woman to gestate my brood? Maybe my age will be too great a hurdle in a poor country overseas too, but I have at least an opportunity there to not live the total life of fucking shit that I fully suspect I would live here, taking shit jobs.

I don’t have to commit myself to working overseas yet. I can take the lousy course overseas and make my decision about working overseas later. It is the middle road decision. It will give me a taste of what it will be like without having to take the complete plunge. The decision is costly -- it will be a lot of savings hemorrhaged, but I don’t want to live in this asshole country if I can help it. I believe I have slightly more to offer this world than serving up donuts in Dunkin’ Donuts or towels as a cabana boy. I think it’s better to live in China and help them speak English so that I can enable them to sell their cheap crap full of lead and God knows what than to be on the front-lines here, wearing a blue fucking apron, stocking Walmart’s shelves with China’s leaded merchandize.

And fuck my asshole father who says I need to see a shrink because I refuse to submit to a life of shit here. He thinks there are better options in this country for a middle aged guy (now, apparently a Senior Citizen) without a fucking resume, yet when I ask him to name one, he can’t. What homeless shelters has he ever lived in? What cars has he ever slept in? What cockroach infested rooms in bad neighborhoods has he ever endured? He has no clue how mean this countries’ streets are. It’s my life. It is not his! Even if I were to find a shrink who actually gave a fuck, he or she wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to help me. I know this because I’ve literally seen a hundred of these depraved motherfuckers.

If I fail I fail; let me fail on my terms!

Scintillating!

I reopened my OkayCupid account. I’m not really dating though; I’m primarily interested in sex. I make this clear. I’m sure I’ll disable the account, soon, once I feel I’ve embarrassed myself enough.

As a writing exercise, I wrote a college professor who said that she didn’t want someone who was "easy-going" or "laid-back. This is what I wrote her:

Look, there is nothing wrong with "easy-going" or "laid-back." I am the most laid-back person in the world up until the point where I have a wig out.

I'm writing to you because I just can't resist sexy college professors, not that I've ever had one. Also, I saw that photo of you by the beach, and I know you must know the butterfly stroke. I know that you can help me!

(Okay, running a little long for a personal ad intro -- can't write too much or I will look desperate, and I am only moderately desperate.) You look really sweet. I hope you find someone, whomever that might be.

I wrote this off the cuff. I am a good fuckin’ writer. Had I lived a life of gainful employment, I am sure that I would have gotten a lot of nookie from smart and horny women.

I don’t’ feel any loss that this woman never wrote back. She said in her profile that she wanted “scintillating conversation” and “international adventure.” I’m not sure what “scintillating” conversation is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in this type of convo. As for international adventure, I can’t afford it. Brainy women like her, I think, want their cake and want to eat it too. They are perpetual losers like Heather.

I took the interstate, mofo!

I took the (MassPike) Massachusetts Turnpike to Interstate 395 to Mohegan Sun. The MassPicke is a major highway. The irony is that i395 is a pissy little two lane highway. Could you image all the time and aggravation spent avoiding i395, all the fear involved in the thought of accidently getting on this road when I would take alternative routes. It was three and four lane highways that gave me major panic, not two lane highways.

I ate the MassPike and i395 for breakfast today. Tears came to my eyes while I was driving because I realized that I was not as fucking hopeless as I thought I was. I had to stop the emotional outburst, as I needed to be able to see the road.

Maybe, I thought, other things were possible. Maybe I didn’t have to be a pool boy and/or a lifeguard and/or a Walmart worker. Maybe I didn’t have to listen to the negative of people like Heather or my father, who told me that I couldn’t do certain things. I begin to seriously think about going overseas again. Maybe if I can drive out of state on the interstate and also obtain a CPR/AED certificate – maybe I can do more. Maybe I can take the EFL course run by the EFL fascists in Hungary or Boston. Maybe if I can do that I can carve out an existence somewhere in China or Vietnam or some other God-awful place. It will suck major cock, but maybe it will be lesser cock than my bleak future as a member of the working poor here.

I busted Heather’s ovaries too much

I went too far with Heather in my last post. What you saw was an angry, immature, slightly mad person. I’m not going to edit or delete what I wrote, for that’s how I feel. I’m a bitter and ugly person. It’s just the way it is. It’s not pretty, but that is who I am. Psychiatric professionals tell you that you should love yourself, but it’s really quite impossible to have self-love for a person as ugly as I am. I have a grudging respect for myself. That is all. And that came only after nearly 40 years of self-hatred.

I wish I were more of a man. I wish I could say to Heather that there are no hard feelings and that I wish her the best of luck. I really do wish that I could say these things, but I don’t entirely believe them, so can’t. Maybe in the future I will be man enough to do this.

I can fly, Heather. You can’t!

I am no longer friends with Heather; however, she may still be reading this blog. One of the myriad of horseshit excuses Heather gave me for why I was not good enough to create children with her or anyone was that I could not drive on a highway. “You want to have a child, and you can’t even drive on a highway,” she said.

I would like the opportunity to tell Heather that I can drive on the highway now. I am seeing a cognitive/behavioral shrink in order to get over the phobia. I am still working on it. Getting rid of phobias is a long hard process, but I am succeeding.

It was such an utterly stupid excuse that you gave, Heather. The inability to drive on a highway does not preclude one from being a good parent. Ironically, Heather could not fly. I have always been able to fly. So now I can drive. I can drive anywhere on the the entire continent, and if I want to visit Budepest or China, I can do this, and might be doing this soon. Unlike Heather’s, my fate is not yet sealed. I am still free, still vibrant, and my world, unlike Heather’s is not closing in on me.

Why couldn’t you have had the ovaries – Heather, to just tell me right away that the reason you would not like to be with me is that you are one of the myriad of excruciatingly boring, bourgeois assholes, that money is your God and whore. You have no vision. That it your problem. At least an opportunistic bloodsucker like Nancy had vision. Yes, money was her God, but it was a means to end, which was to create children. She at least was preoccupied with creating something greater than herself. She was on a mission. You might even call it a spiritual mission.

Now, I understand that you have economic concerns. You have your family to take care of, but, really, there are ways of letting people whom you are already friends with know that they are not right for you without fucking forcing them to bare their soul to you over skype, because you are too freaked out by the fact that a poor man might like you. You could have extended me the courtesy of speaking to me in person. It was really not a lot to ask. In addition, you didn’t need to get all wiggy when I arrived at your house, still out of breath, after having a panic attack on the highway. You did not need to disrespect me by so diligently impressing upon me the importance of my leaving your household, because of your need to do work. Certainly this could have waited until I caught my breath. (I mean shit, you were planning to see a movie with me – so you had a few hours to spare.) You would actually have been slightly less of an asshole had you suggested a nice hotel for me to drive to in order to catch my breath in order to recover from my highway terror. You didn’t need to be such an asshole. I knew you had a deadline. But you didn’t need to be so motherfucking rude. I have never shown you that level of disrespect.

Of course, you dismissed my having a panic attack. And, because you said I didn’t have one, it must not have happened. You are superior to me, aren’t you? It is ironic that you always accused me of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and one of the hallmarks of this disorder is a lack of empathy. It is you who seems to lack the ability to put yourself into other people’s shoes. It is not I who said, nonchalantly, “you’ll get over me.” You also lack affect. There is something wrong with you. I am not a shrink and, unlike you, I don’t give armchair psychiatric diagnoses of friends’ psychiatric disorders, unless of course they are ex-friends, and I am trying to impress upon them what a fucking loser I think they are, in a final fuck you farewell.

I can honestly say that I say these words to you not because I am angry at you (which I am), but because I truly mean them: You are a loser. I am a loser. I may continue to lose, but at least I think like a winner and play to win. I’m not interested in you. I fell in love with your sweetness. But now I finally realize that you are not really sweet, that you have nothing whatsoever to offer me. You have no vision. Perhaps you have passion in your area of expertise, but I have not seen a lot of passion from you. While you are vastly more intelligent than most, you seem to lack the ability to formulate cohesive arguments. (I lack this as well, but I’m not the one with the Ph.D.) I was impressed by how someone with your knowledge and brainpower could use such a pathetic argument to defend your war-mongering, poor-bashing, Republican wannabe president. But, I guess, your love of Obama is only natural. You are defending your class, of which I was born into but find, as I have mentioned, obscenely and excruciatingly boring. But, hey, as Robert Gibbs said, I wouldn’t be satisfied if Dennis Kucinich were president. (But, unlike Gibbs, I understand the subjunctive and have at least some grasp of the rules of English, unlike Secretary Clinton, Obama himself, and the other fuckwads in Obama’s cabinet.)

Let me get back on point. You always used to nonchalantly say to me, “I’ll get over you.” It was your way of writing off my pain and/or discrediting your own importance. Well, you’re right. I have gotten over you, finally. In fact, I’m forgetting you already. So there’s no need to get all bothered about some heavy-breather like me wanting to move in with you, eat your food, hog your bed, and create embryos that stick to your uterus. I can find better women. Women who want to fuck (me), who have emotion, who feel and who love and laugh and cry. I want a woman who has vision. Passion. Who sees the beauty of children. Who is not deceived by the bourgeois mirage.

I have a nice penis. I have never mentioned this before. The few woman whom I’ve been with have complimented my penis and asked to either suck it or get it inside them. I don’t blame them. It is, after all, a pretty nice penis. I have never asked a woman to suck my penis. I don’t really enjoy it because felatio is way too toothy for my comfort. What I’m into is licking vulva. I am good lover, not just because I enjoy giving a good lick, but because I am sensuous and truly enjoy making love, not just shooting my load into a vagina, which I have a freakish capacity to do many times without even losing my erection. You are and were deserving of none of the good love that I can give -- sexual or otherwise, nor my DNA. My sister had a niece. My niece is cute as fucking hell. My sister’s baby kicks any baby’s ass that you’ll ever see in movies. My sister and I share virtually identical DNA. I know that I have the ability to create a baby as cute as my sister did. I am however looking for a winner to have a baby with. There will be no lick and no penis for you! If you are still reading, you are probably thinking how you have no desire to be licked and fucked and impregnated by someone who is as immature and Narcissist-Personality-Disordered as I am, and that is exactly why I don’t want you. My penis is yum and I am a fun and lovable and loyal as fucking hell. My penis, my lovemaking, my DNA, and my soul will be saved for a more deserving woman.

I’m sorry, but I am not quite done with you. I must attack you some more, because you were such a fucking insensitive asshole to me. Your days of soft and tight skin are numbered, Heather. Your DNA is breaking down as you read this. Evolution no longer sees you as a breeder, but as a caregiver of someone who has already bred. Your hold-out for your fantasy bourgeois breeding partner and mate has and will continue to fail. You offer nothing at this point. Yes, you are smart, but, newsfash – most men don’t give a flying fuck about intelligence. You certainly aren’t sweet. Ironically, one of the excuses you gave me why you weren’t good enough for me, which I believe you actually believed, was that your breasts were too small for me. Like all of your hair-brained excuses for why we wouldn’t work out, this one was quite wrong. Your breasts were perky and felt quite heavenly when I hugged you. You have – or at least you had nice breasts. Your breasts made me hard. If they haven’t already, your tight breasts are going to lose their shape sooner or later, as you begin your inexorable menopausal decline. You are stuck in your little asshole town with your not-able-to-take-care-of-themselves family. I, on the other hand am free. I can move out of state. Unlike you, I can fly out out the country. I plan to do one of these things soon. The world is still mine for the taking. Your world is closing in on you. You live in a world of shrinking possibilities. I am still aging gracefully. Unlike you, I still have time.

Have I gone too far? Have I been really mean? Absolutely. But you had it coming, Heather. You really had it fucking coming. You disgust me. I regret having not told you to fuck yourself that day when I visited you when I had the panic attack on the highway and you got all wiggy. When you asked me where I was going to change my clothing, did you expect me to just get naked right in the middle of your living room? What did you expect me to say? Had I ever acted inappropriately with you before? Was there anything that I did or had said to deserve that insulting fucking question? So don’t be insulted by anything that I’ve said today. You’re an insensitive fucking asshole, and I’m just putting your ass in its place, though knowing you with your affective disorder, it probably won’t even phase you. It is one thing being a bourgeois asshole – I’ve dated hundreds of them -- it’s wholly another thing to FREAK out when someone who is not a bourgeois asshole says he desires you. You didn’t have to wig. You didn’t have to make inane excuses. There was no need to embarrass me like that. All you had to do was just say no, and I would have understand and not wigged myself. Had you just been honest we me, you would not have told me anything that I hadn’t heard a hundred times before. It would not have been a big deal. It was all the fucking bullshit that was the insult. So don’t be hurt by anything I say now. Take it like an adult. And don’t fucking call me, don’t skype me, don’t e-mail me. Piss the fuck off. I am writing this to get you out of my system. I never want to think about you again. I have found another person to help me with my English. I can do my own hack proofreading for now on, so I won’t be needing any of your services or need to contact you again for any reason.

Do you know why I saw you after our first date? – I felt guilty. After our first date – the Christmas date, when I got home and you sent me a photo of your little spider-like dog, I cried. You seemed so lonely, so needy. I know what this loneliness is like. Against my better judgment, because of guilt, I went on a second date with you. After that I knew I just couldn’t do it anymore and weaseled out of calling you as I said I would when I got back from Florida. A year later you complained about my lack of wanting to walk through all the dog shit on the ground during that second date. You reasoned that because of my lack of wanting to walk through your town (Beverly, MA), which is literally full of shit, I was somehow unqualified to father children. Prima donna maybe. Unfit to father children because I dislike shit on my sneaker? Just another of your myriad of offensive excuses for why I was unfit to father children. And then there was more talk of Narcissist Personality Disorder. Jam the fucking Narcissist Personality Disorder up your ass, Heather. I mean, jam it. Jam it good. What the fuck would you know about empathy. You have about as much empathy as one would expect an extra terrestrial to display, who has no concept of empathy.

Yes, this all is payback; I am saying all this in anger, yet in truth. Take it like an adult, Heather. Don’t cry. Don’t become indignant. I’m just paying you back for all the shit treatment you gave me. You have it coming. Just take it.

I’m not hopeless, Heather. You may have given up on me, but I never did. I am not inferior to you, Heather. Even if I weren’t able to drive on the highway, you would still not be better than I. So please fuck yourself, Heather. Your little bourgeois prying eyes are not wanted on my blog. Please piss the fuck off.

By the way, I hope your little dog is alive and well. I don’t dislike your dog; I dislike you.

Put the damn Christian in the YMCA, will you?

Those assholes at the YMCA want $36 a month for a scholarship membership on top of their $50 annual membership fee. They wanted my financial information. So I gave it to them. I can’t talk about money here, but it is beyond pathetic how little I make. Without the help of the remnants of LBJ’s moribund War on Poverty I would be out on the street. I tried to tell the YMCA that I already plunked $350 (full price, non-member) for their lifeguard course. (I recently failed their swimming test though did obtain their CPR/AED certification. I nearly needed a lifeguard to save me after attempting to swim 500 yards.) I tried to tell them that I just need to use their pool for five hours a week for two months in order to pass their lifeguard certification. But they just don't fucking listen. My mother offered to pay, but I want the goddamned YMCA (Young Man's Christian Association) to honor their Christian mission of helping the poor to help themselves. Who knows, maybe I’d find Christ if they actually fucking helped me to help myself. It is their fucking job to help me find Christ -- they are at heart a Christian organization, and I am a poor Jew badly in need of a fucking savior! I might just demand my money back for the course. The Aquatics Director did tell me in writing that I could get a refund minus the Red Cross handbook in the event that I couldn't complete the swimming requirement.

But that's not really why I would abort the lifeguard course. I'm having second thoughts about the Walmart Strategy. There is no more money coming in, and for the first time in five years I'm feeling that cold hard bite of poverty. I had forgotten how painful it is to buy gas and to buy even the simplest things. And you know what? I fucking HATE poverty. I think I have a better chance of not living in poverty as a hack EFL teacher. And you know what? --fuck my father who thinks I should see a shrink because I feel the only real escape from abject poverty is overseas. I would like to see him try to get a job as a middle-aged man with a severe fucking learning disability, with no marketable skills, and no resume. I would like to see him make it as a $9 dollar an hour life guard or pool boy and moonlighting 30 hours a week as a $8 dollar an hour Walmart worker. What a shit fucking life. And I’m living in a dreamland to think that I could find a woman who would be interested in creating a child with a grunt like me. In the miracle event that I find a woman to impregnate, how in the fuck could I afford to provide a life for this child that is not complete shit? The answer is that I can’t! Love is not the answer. Love is not enough in this asshole world. You need cold hard cash.

I don't fucking have to listen to my asshole father. I am my own man. I don’t have to listen to anyone who I feel has his or her head up his or her ass. The only person I really need to listen to is myself. I think overseas EFL may be a better option. I'm going to play three thousand more hands in poker rooms. I can do that in the next month while I continue my medical treatment here and possibly work on trying to pass the lifeguard course. If I can't reliably make at least minimum wage at 2/4 poker, I think that I may seriously reconsider teaching EFL overseas, despite what a tortuous job and shit life this looks to be. I need a safety net, even a small, shit one, if I am going to condemn myself to the life of the working poor. As unqualified as I am to teach English, my English is better than President Obama’s. At least I know to use a possessive pronoun in front of a gerund. It is also better than Secretary of State Clinton’s English. She mixes singular and plural pronouns, and it’s really pathetic and embarrassing. I think I’ll probably be able to at least fake being an EFL teacher who knows what he is talking about. I’m no longer thinking about teaching in Central/Eastern Europe. I’m thinking about teaching in Vietnam. They pay a lot more, and their language is a lot easier than Russian and Hungarian!

MBTA ignores me of course, so I waste more time by writing the gonad suckers again

On February 4, 2011, I reported to the MBTA via this web form a driver acting inappropriately and endangering my safety as well as the safety of other drivers. The bus route number was #60. The date of the incident was February 3, 2011. The time was approximately 6:15 p.m.

I'm puzzled why no effort was made to contact me. I am curious how many complaints the MBTA ignores before bus drivers like John McCarthy are fired. (John McCarthy was an MBTA bus driver who was recently fired by the MBTA after being charged with being drunk on the job.)

Let me reiterate my demand for a copy of any electronic recording of the incident I reported on February 4. Also, I would like to know if there was any attempt by the MBTA to investigate this incident.

I have a right to this information, and I am exercising my right. I hope that we can resolve this issue amicably without my having to bring in a third party. You have two days to respond.

I will continue to keep the public informed, using my blog, of the MBTA’s lack of effort to ensure the public’s safety.