When The Zombies Attack, We're All Going to Die. Unless You Make Friends With a Navy SEAL.

Every zombie book ever written is in my house.  I'm like 42% sure of it.  There are also zombie movies, zombie tv shows, and of course more zombie books.  I usually prefer Stephen King, but hey, those zombies are damn good writers!
I would expect zombie books to be all "UUUUUUGGGGHHHH" and "AAAAARRRRGGGH" with an occasional "BRAINS!" thrown in.  But zombies are very articulate!  They even wrote a Zombie Survival Guide!  They are much better writers than I ever thought about being.  And they have very active lifestyles, which is more than I can say for myself.  Zombies are out chasing the "normies" all day and night, gettin' their undead heart rates up, blastin' their undead glutes, shaming even the most proficient cardio enthusiast, while we're just sitting at our desks/beds/tables/counters/toilets/prisons/wherever you read the internet getting more and more lethargic.  But the zombies are motherfuckin' beasts!  BEASTS!  Now I know most of you have never met a zombie.  And that's ok.  Eventually, we'll all meet them.  But right now, they mostly want to stay underground (i.e., dead), writing books, and occasionally coming up for bit parts in the next "virus of the year" movie or "Walking Dead" episode.
Now, what the fuck does this have to do with me owning every zombie book, movie, and tv show?  Because I'm PREPARED, bitches.  My house is a zombie proof FORTRESS.  And by zombie proof, I mean that we have a couple of locks on our doors, and by fortress, I mean that we lock them.  Take THAT zombie fuckers!  I'll lock you out!  I have an arsenal too!  It mostly consists of a squirt gun and an ice pick, but I look scary holding them!  RAWR!

Yeah, that's right, I'm motherfucking SCARY!  But you see, we all have these visions of us being bad asses in our heads.  Thanks to Hollywood, we all think that we will magically turn into Rambo and slaughter some fucking zombies and save the world and be great big fucking heroes.  Women and men will swoon at the sight of us, fall to the ground and beg us to make sweet, sweet hero love to them.  Babies will be named after us.  Towns will build statues in our honor!  It won't be the United States of America anymore; It will be the United States of Motherfucking Larry/Bob/Joe/Sally/Frank/Mary Sue/whoever! World Leaders will hand control of all the countries on the planet over to us and make us SUPREME RULER OF THE WORLD!  Everyone is certain that THEY possess the foolproof plan that will save the planet from the zombies so that this dream will happen just for them. But guys, sit down, because I have some very bad news for you.

THE FOLLOWING IMAGE WILL NEVER HAPPEN:

In reality we're all going to piss our pants when those fuckers do rise up and start to take over.  Because while we think we're all fucking Navy SEALS in our heads (thanks, Hollywood), we are in fact, NOT Navy SEALS. We are all regular worthless peons that might be able to survive for a few weeks if we can find a Wal-Mart. Unless, of course, you actually ARE a Navy SEAL, then by all means, you're already a bad motherfucker and that awesome decapitated zombie slayer image up there is entirely accurate.  You will be a fucking survivor, and we worthless peons will grovel at your feet begging for you to protect us.  The secondary image may also be a prophetic vision and you may become our zombie slaying king and we will gladly make you ruler of the world and give you the deed to the planet!  In fact, you've probably already killed a few zombies and your mattress is made out of their corpses and your pillows are made from their heads.  Because you're a bad ass like that, and we...we are nothing.  We will be shamed by you.  We will not be worthy of your protection.  But we will still beg for it.  Because zombies are motherfucking scary...just like you.  You are the essence of all of our zombie slaying fantasies.  Mr. Navy SEAL, that may be a picture of MY zombie killing fantasy up there, but that is going to be YOUR zombie killing reality.

THIS, however, is going to be my (and the rest of you regular fucks) sad zombie killing reality:

Yeah...Guys, that right there is the COLD HARD TRUTH for all of us.

No one likes to see themselves as the actual nerd losers that they really are.

We are all royally fucked unless we all make friends with some bad ass Navy SEALS.  And there's not many of them.  You have to already be a bad ass motherfucker to even make it through SEAL training.  They don't allow pussies to survive SEAL training.  Many try to become SEALS...and many, many, many EPICALLY FAIL at it.  Remember G.I. Jane?  Yeah, you gotta be a bad motherfucker to be a SEAL.

And if you encounter a Navy SEAL zombie...Just lay down and accept your fate...I'm sure he will make it quick.

So in essence, when the zombies finally do come:  WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE BITCHES! RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIVES! THE ZOMBIES ARE GOING TO EAT US! WE ARE NOT BAD ASSES! WE ARE JUST A LIVING BUFFET! WE'RE ALL FOOD! IF WE RUN, WE'RE JUST GOING TO DIE TIRED!  WE'RE ALL FUCKED! FUCKED I TELL YOU! THE ZOMBIES WILL WIN!

I Met the Coolest Old Dude Today, So I'm Dedicating This Post Entirely to Him.

I was at Java Jacks today actually trying to be productive.  Now, I am actually going to do my best not to swear in this post.  Don't ask me why, because it just seems like it would be disrespectful to the Awesome Old Dude.  His name is Mr. Burns, and he's a lawyer (and he was a drill Sergeant in the Air Force and he was in the Naval Reserves, so instant respect from me right there).  So, I was sitting there, drinking my awesome crackhead coffee (that is another post) when somehow I ended up having a conversation with this nice old gentleman.  Guys, this is the most AWESOME guy ever.  He has some great stories...He has lived an amazing life and met and worked for and with some insanely famous and infamous people.  And he has the pictures and proof to back it up!  I wanted to actually interview him, take his picture and put it here, but he declined, saying that he's 82 years old and just wishes to have a quiet life with his coffee and his mystery books and his law practice (wills, probate, etc.  Nothing wild and exciting and court related anymore).  But I have to say that I was actually proud to say that I had met this gentleman.  He knew Charlie Wilson (Yes, THAT Charlie Wilson), personally, was an assistant to a president (I want to say it was President Johnson, but I could be wrong.  He knew SO MANY POLITICIANS!), grew up pretty much next door to Reagan (Yes, again, THAT Reagan) in Illinois, and if there is a philanthropy plaque somewhere, Mr. Burns' name is probably on it.  He doesn't have a Wikipedia page (I checked. I was a bit sad about it), but guys, I spent a few hours talking to this man and I have to say that at the end of it all, I was amazed.  He reminded of my Grandpa (The awesome one. My dad's dad.).  So, I didn't get any of the work done that I had gone to Java Jacks to do in the first place, but you know what?  I don't care.  I had half of a drawing done on my laptop on the next table over, while I was comfortably curled up in a chair with my crackhead coffee chatting away with Mr. Burns, listening to his poetry that he had written for his late wife over the course of their 60 year marriage, laughing with him at his awesome stories, and making a new friend.  So, no, there is no funny drawing to accompany this post, or weird story about me being insane or my Speshul dog (though I have a great post coming later about that. It may be posted tonight, but not in this particular post).  No, this post is dedicated entirely to Mr. Ken Burns, the most Awesome Old Dude I've ever met, and I hope that he's there the next time I go to Java Jacks to drink insane crackhead coffee.
Mr. Burns, thanks for making my day really freakin' awesome.  You totally rock.

Posting From My Phone. Because My Computer is Being a Douchebag.

Just so everyone knows, I'm not dead or anything. I haven't abandoned the blog already. Drawing my crappy pictures takes a lot of time. And I am on shiny new medication for my bi-polar crazy disorder.  This results in 2 things happening: extreme mania where I will draw for fucking days, do random retarded shit, write insane stories, and take notes for new blog ideas, but nothing will actually be COMPLETED.
Then I will crash. And I will crash HARD. But don't worry kiddies, because I am coming out of that horrible crash and starting to level out and act like I have some goddamn sense. So all those retarded stories that are half written and unpublished, will eventually be finished and published (and edited so you fine folks will know what the fuck I'm talking about), and the drawings will be done very soon as well.  Aside from my bi-polar crazy disorder, I am also plagued with migraines. These also impede my productivity.  But when I'm just being an ass and being fucking lazy I have a very beautiful woman named Allie in Oklahoma that is on my ass daily, texting me and telling me to post shit so I can become famous. You all should worship her because not only is she cracking the metaphorical whip over my head to make my lazy ass be more productive, she's also my muse and even though she's 9 hours away from me, for almost 2 years now she's kinda been one of my few reasons for functioning. I don't function MUCH, but when I do, she's one of the reasons. Oh and she's the subject of a GREAT story that I can only describe as "Bathroom Triage."  It's a fucking epic story. You guys will love it. And before anyone says anything about the events leading up to it, SHE ASKED ME TO TELL THAT STORY. So there.
Oh and my doctor gave me some crazy steroids for my boob pain (I'm sure you all wanted to know that) and I have been throwing up everything like I've got the fucking Ebola virus or herpes or whatever disease makes you puke until you wish you were dead. And my boobs still hurt...bastard pills. I quit taking them. I would rather have sore boobs.

How My Mom Told Me Where Babies Come From

                When I was seven years old and in the first grade, my mother gave birth to my little sister.  Here’s my problem with that:  I do not remember my mother being pregnant.  There was never the sit down where she said, “You might have a little brother or sister!”  I also had no knowledge of reproduction.  I never had that defining moment in childhood where I asked my parents: “Where do babies come from?” My mom never had to tell the stork story.  Or the cabbage patch lie.  Or stammer through a half assed truth about marital relations (When a mommy and a daddy love each other…).  I feel like she missed out on a defining moment of parenting.  But she totally made up for it at the hospital. I thought I had an Ivy League degree in reproduction at 7 years old!  Let me start at the beginning:
                As I stated before, I had no idea my mom was pregnant.  I don’t remember my mom looking any different from the way she does today.  I remember that my paternal grandmother (Grandma) woke me up for school one morning.  When I asked where my mom was, Grandma replied that she had to go to the hospital the night before.  I was confused, but not worried; mostly because my mom is a trooper.  Thanks mom, great way to leave your 7 year old sleeping at home alone.  Though, in her defense, they probably woke me up and I had no idea.  I sleep like a motherfucking brick.  I went to school as usual, experienced an almost regular school day and Grandma picked me up afterwards.  Now I went to a private Catholic school.  Not to be content with having me tortured by nuns, my mother was also the school’s secretary.  So I had to have A LOT of “act right” in me.  All of the teachers kept asking me if I was excited to have a little brother or sister.  I looked at them like they had just grown a horn and fucking extra eye.  In fact, they could have been speaking backwards Japanese pig Latin with a stutter.  That’s how much I understood what the hell was going on.  Hence, it was an *almost* regular school day.
                Cut to the hospital.  I go in and my mom is laid up in the hospital bed.  And there is a baby in one of those weird plastic baby holder carts. 

The conversation went down like this:
Me:  “Mom, where did she come from?”
Mom:  “Uh.  Well, they brought them in here one by one and I picked the quietest one.  All the rest were screaming and crying.”

Me:  “But…I wanted a brother!”
Mom:  “Well, they only had one boy.  And a nice black couple down the hall had already picked him.”
Me:  “This one is all wrinkly and red.  I don’t want a red sister!”
Mom:  “That will go away.”
Me:  “OH MY GOD! She has a black crusty belly button!”
Mom:  “It will fall off!”
Me:  “What?!?!”
Mom:  “That’s how you tell that they’re new…and uh, fresh…”
Me:  “Get an older one!”
Mom:  “We can’t!  Your dad already paid for that one!”

Me:  “Keep the receipt.  This one might be broken.  We might have to return it.”
                I think my dad and my Grandma almost pissed themselves at the explanation my mother gave me.  But it worked.  Like most of the parental explanations I received during my formative years, I never questioned it.  My parents wouldn’t lie to me!  (We have yet to speak about why Santa Claus has not paid me a visit in the last 13 years…jolly fat bastard owes me some damn presents!)

My mom had me convinced until I was 10 years old that you bought babies at the hospital.  No wonder my teachers thought I was retarded.  I’m 27 years old now.  My sister is 20.  I still want my parents to get a refund.

Anti-Fortune Cookies

Once upon a time (ok, like 4 or 5 years ago) the Yeti and I went to our favorite local Chinese eatery to fill ourselves with noodley foodstuffs.  It was delicious.  Of course our obligatory fortune cookies came after the meal.  AWESOME.  I love fortune cookies.  I could eat those stale little fuckers all day long.  I have perfected being able to remove my fortune without breaking the cookie.  The Yeti has not.  Now, some fortune cookie aficionados will tell you that you have to eat half of the cookie before you read the fortune or else it won't come true.  I'm so glad I didn't.  Because this is what my cookie said: 

Yeah, I'm not making this up.  I think Peking received a batch of Anti-Fortune Cookies.  This fear was confirmed when the Yeti opened up his cookie:

Seriously.  To top it all off, we already fight like retarded cavemen.  Swinging clubs and beating each other senseless.  That had been going on for a good majority of the week prior to the consumption of the noodles.  The prophetic cookie was NOT what we needed to see.  But the absurdity of the printed cookie paper hit home.

The Yeti and I looked at each other, and started laughing so hard that the restaurant patrons stopped eating to look at us.  Realizing that we were creating an awkward situation, we quickly left the restaurant.

We still eat at Peking.  We love Peking.  We're still hoping they get another batch of Anti-Fortune Cookies.

The Hog Approves Of This Post

So a while back we bought a hedgehog squeaky toy at Lowes.  It was supposed to be for the Speshul Dog, but I think I'm having more fun playing with it than he is.  So now everything in my house has to be "Hog Approved."  Technically the hedgehog doesn't squeak.  He grunts.  It's actually fucking adorable.  So adorable in fact, that I'm thinking of buying another one and making it the official blog mascot.  In order for something to be "Hog Approved," you must make him grunt twice.  I don't know why he has to grunt twice, but it seems like a good idea.  Now, I have a lifelong love of the mighty hedgehog. 
Look!  Here's a picture I drew of the hedgehog:

And the hedgehog approves of this post.  Because the hedgehog is awesome.  You and I will never be as awesome as the hedgehog.  He is EPIC.  And he will poke the fuck out of you if you piss him off.  Actually hedgehogs are perfect for warfare.  If you put them on a string, they're like a living mace. 

Or a little spikey hand granade. 

Or you could let one curl up around your fingers and punch someone in the face with it like a pointy fist.

 I dare you to get smacked in the face with one of these spikey little fuckers and not admit immediate defeat.  You can't win against the hedgehog.  He's too fucking great.  The hog will own you.  FOREVER.  And you can't kill the hedgehog.  He's too goddamn cute.  Therefore:

Deal with it.  The hog is greater than you.

Paper Spamming the Real World

Tomorrow I'm going to paper spam my town and the next town over. Mostly at the coffee houses.  What is paper spam?  It's a sign that tells people why they need to read my blog.  This is what I wrote:

This is paper spam.

Now that I have your attention, go look at my blog so you can enjoy it.
(I don’t actually spam; I’m just a blogger that loves to do weird things.  Like paper spamming.  You tend to run out of ways to amuse yourself when you’re unemployed, so you have to start annoying the general population.  Math is involved.  Math can prove that I am statistically more annoying than a fly.  Isn’t math fun?)

You see, I’m trying to become internet famous.  But I don’t have any people reading my blog.  So, I’m spamming you via a piece of paper in a desperate bid for attention. 
(I obviously didn’t receive enough attention as a child.  Isn’t that sad?  Is it sad enough to make you want to read my blog?  Yes.  Yes it is.)

I’m also super awesome, and I deserve to be famous.  And you’ll be awesome by association, just because you read my blog.  You’ll be so awesome that doors will magically open for you!
(Note:  Doors aren’t magic.  Awesomeness is strictly metaphorical.  You will have to find an automatic door and pretend that it was forced open by your awesomeness.  Trying to open a non-automatic door with your newfound awesomeness may result in black eyes, nosebleeds, and your friends peeing on themselves because they’re laughing at you.)

“But why does your blog exist?  Why do I need to read it?”
It exists so everyone will know what kind of sandwich I had for lunch!  By reading my blog, you will be on the cutting edge of sandwich news.  It’s vital that you know about my lunch.
 (Actually, that’s not true. The blog exists for me to make fun of things and share my silly drawings.  I tell people about my lunch on Facebook and Twitter.  But you can totally “Like” my page on Facebook and follow me on Twitter.)

Just read the stupid blog.  Read it and then join my verbal/paper spam army so more people will make me famous!  Copy this note and spam your friends!  Put it up at your dorm, job, or office!  They will love you forever for it!
(Note:  No one likes spam.  You might actually lose friends if you do this.  But that’s okay because I’ll fill your friendless life with bloggy goodness.  And you’ll be too busy being awesome to be troubled by real friends.)

Make me famous by next Thursday…Please?

www.badfriendsanonymous.com

I'm that fucking awesome.  That is EXACTLY what I wrote.  And if you got here because of one of my paper spam campaign notes, then you passed the literacy test.  And you can be my friend now.

Wine by the gallon and buzzed blogging

Heehee.  Is it wrong to buy wine in a gallon jug?  'Cause that's exactly what we did!  Now mix that with a 550 piece puzzle, Yeti's ADHD, and my obsessive system for putting a puzzle together, and you have...Well, I just told you!  But the Yeti, with all of his class and elegance, decided that a Styrofoam cup with a lid and a straw was a-okay.  Oh and there's ice in it too.  We have taken redneck to a whole new level.  Now, currently, I have a fairly decent buzz.  Which in turn distresses my Speshul dog.  He is so very Speshul, that he doesn't need proper spelling.  Speshul dog has also wrapped his chain around the beam of my porch.  But, I've decided not to help him just yet, because if I do, he doesn't learn anything.  Not that he was very good at learning to begin with.  I just thought that it would be fun to go back and read this tomorrow when I have a hangover and ask myself, "Am I retarded?"  There will probably be a picture.

Hey look!  I drew a picture commemorating my gallon jug of wine.

Uninvited Tattoo Conversation

I have quite a few tattoos.  19 of them.  And some are quite prominent.  When I go out, I would have to wear a full burqua, gloves, and a scarf to cover them all up.  Some of my tattoos could be deemed offensive.  Now do I care?  No, not really.  But for the love of god, if you have a tattoo, I don’t want to know about it!  I'm sure there are others out there that have dealt with this stupidity.

These are some of the stupid things that I REALLY have dealt with:

No, please...I don't want to be friends with you...

I'm sure it is...

No...You only appear to have half a brain cell...

Please...Please stop talking already.  I just want to finish whatever it is I'm doing.  And this usually happens when I'm at the grocery store.  I don't know what it is about fucking grocery shopping that makes me a target for this type of asshattery.

I want to become internet famous bitches. Read my shit.

Ok, internetters.  I'm gonna need you all to start reading my shit.  Like, NOW.  Seriously!  Get off your asses and do it.  Actually, you don't have to get off your asses in the literal sense.  But metaphorically.
Oh, why do I want to be famous, you ask?
Well, I'm currently unemployed.  Severely.  I live with a "Yeti" that makes awesome money as an electrician, though, so I can afford to be unemployed.  But my dream is to become famous for being unemployed.  Red fucking carpet famous.  I want this to be my motherfucking job!  I always wanted to be a writer, but since I have the attention span of a ham sandwich, I figured a blog might be best.  All these blogs out there get book deals and crazy shit, so why can't I?

Here's my problem:

• I don't have kids...So, I can't be a "mommy blogger."
• My life is really pathetic, so I can't be a "humor blogger."
• I don't troll a ton of websites, so I can't be a "troll blogger." (But I can direct you to some awesome troll blogs.)

What I can do:

• I can make fun of stuff that I think is really retarded.
• I can offend a lot of people.
• I am in no way politically correct.
• I have a black friend that's severely racially challenged.  She's not very good at being black.
• I have a jewish friend.  There's actually nothing funny about that, I just want everyone to know that I have a jewish friend...who is also a badass photographer.  Really, she's awesome.  Hire her for some photos. Here's her website Jill English Photography
• I'm kind of REALLY gay.  It has it's moments of hilarity as well.
• I have a mentally challenged dog.  And I'm not exaggerating, he is 100% special needs.  There was an accident when he was a fully functioning puppy.  He doesn't function on a normal scale anymore.
• I am (Seriously.  It was diagnosed.) bipolar.  It has it's moments of hilarity.
• I am unmedicated.
• I like to drink.  But I don't do it very often anymore.

Here's what YOU can do:

• Read my blog.
• Tell your friends.
• Tell me about your horrible friends.
• Comment on my blog.
• Don't get upset about my blog.  Really, this is all just in good fun.
• If you see yourself in a post, please, don't change or get upset.  You provide me with hours of amusement.  If you change, I can't make fun of you.  If I know you personally, you totally deserve it.
• Send me hate mail.  Because then I can post it here and make fun of you!
• Get me some kind of a book deal.



Uncle Sam told you to.  So do it.  Now.  Do it for your country!