The Berg and The Lime

There’s a guy I used to hang out with a lot when I was single, The Berg. I knew him through soccer and he lived in my complex, so he was a good fit for a drinking buddy.
The guy has a lot of quirks, like he’s just not quite wired right. He does odd stuff like before he goes out to the bars, he stops at the Circle K on the corner, bring his little cooler inside and fills it with ice out of the fountain drink dispenser to keep his Keystone Lights cold. He steals firewood. Not sure why. He bought one of those little Chiminea things for his patio and on his way home from the bars, he’ll back his SUV up to a grocery store that looks inadequately secured and load up with firewood. Then he’ll go sit on his patio with the fire going until about 5 in the morning. The guy once washed his car at a party. Pulled his car into the host’s driveway and washed his car in the middle of the night. Another time, at another party at the same host’s house, he just disappeared for awhile and went and took a shower. He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and a head full of shaving cream (he’s one of those cats who Bics his head.)
Just a weird, weird guy. But also the kind of guy who’ll be the first to get your back when some shit goes down. But anyways, I was telling this story the other day on the way to dinner because it’s my favorite Berg story and it’s probably worth documenting for posterity.

This one night, The Berg and I were at this joint called Ernie’s. Ernie’s is technically in Scottsdale, but it’s pretty much the antithesis of Scottsdale bars. For one thing, they have Karaoke. Every night. And the people that end up there are usually capping their evening after bowling, Monster Truck rallies, playing poker for foodstamps, or spending a relaxing evening betting on fighting roosters. And to all of you thinking to yourselves, “What were you doing there, dumbass?”, shut-up. I didn’t have to drive and the beer’s cheap.
So anyways, we’re knocking a few back, our ears bleeding, people watching, blah blah blah. We see this one girl walking around the bar, putting her $1500 augmentations in as many people’s faces as possible—presumably to draw attention away from the trowel marks on her face from when she applied the pancake batter or whatever to it. This thing was a real piece of work, desperate for any attention that she could possibly get.
About an hour or so later, the bartender comes over to us and asks if we bought anyone a drink.
“No, why?”
“Well, that girl over there (pointing to BigChest/CakeFace) ordered a Gin & Tonic and said to put it on your guys’ tab.”
We politely informed him that it was bullshit, that we did nothing of the sort and the matter was easily resolved with the bartender. As for the crazy bitch that tried to pull it off, it wasn’t quite over. I was content to let it go, but as I turned to look for The Berg, he’d already started walking around the bar towards her. He stopped in the middle at the garnish tray on the bar and grabbed a lime wedge.
Then he walks over to her table and without a word, winds up like Sandy fucking Koufax and just nails this girl in the grill with the lime wedge. Just drills her. Without even a word. Then he just casually turned around and walked back over to where we were sitting, like it never happened. Didn’t say a word about it.
Don’t know why this always strikes me as funny as it does, maybe it’s one of those “you had to have been there things.” You decide.
The only other memorable thing from that night was me having to make small talk with some guy in a wheelchair for about an hour while The Berg tried to pick up Wheelchair Guy’s friend. He wasn’t a very nice guy either.

Why Going to the Bathroom Anywhere but Your Own John Sucks AKA My Rant Against Public Bathrooms.

As a disclaimer and warning: the following may contain bathroom humor. If you are offended by such or just don’t think it’s funny, you’re probably wasting your time. Go to church or something instead of reading any further.





No matter how badly I feel the need to heed Nature’s call, it’s always a big, goddamned pain in the ass to do it anywhere except my own little water closet at home.
Let’s think about it logically:

You go into the public restroom at your job, a restaurant, a library, a grocery store, etc and whether you pull up to the Yoo-RHY-nal or the stall (derived from where they keep pigs and cows and other stupid creatures. Ironic.) it’s just the beginning of a chain of events that no matter what you do is sure to put you in a far worse mood than you were in before you went in—regardless of how close your bladder was to bursting.

The urinal:
You’d think this would be a slam dunk as far as the easiest, most efficient method to do your business, but no. For one thing, there’s always this mysterious puddle, right underneath the urinal. What exactly is the challenge in actually getting your piss into the thing when you’re standing 2 inches from it with about 6 inches of space between the corporeal exit and the water? Are people trying fucking tricks like freestyle pissing or something? I cannot fathom why the piss puddle appears beneath every urinal around.
Solution? Put indentations in the ground beside it with footprints so people know exactly where to stand since it seems like people are going for distance or something.
And would it kill people to make it so while I’m reading the article in that case, I can actually finish reading the story if I so choose? “Crpl. Adams then hit the dirt as his unit came under fire when all of a sudden….SEE COVER STORY PG. A-4.” Thanks for that. Assholes.

The stall:
Is there a more ill-conceived concept than the public restroom stall? Should perfect strangers really be forced to move their bowels in a common 3’ x 5’ area? Whether you’re a germaphobe or just someone who cringes at the idea of putting one’s ass on the same seat that had God-knows-what done to it in the last five minutes, dropping Uncle Charlie in public just plain sucks. You gotta fuck around with that stupid toilet-seat shaped paper that’s made out of the same stuff the barber tries to choke you with and somehow get that to remain in place long enough for you to plop down on it, without it blowing away or slipping so that your skin actually comes in contact with the porceteria.
Either that or waste what little TP is guaranteed to be there by putting several protective layers to ensure the sterility of your cheek skin.
And people, please listen when I tell you: It’s ok to be modest with the noises that come out of your body while you’re doing your thing. Hearing the door open to the restroom is not a casting call for your best interpretation of a tuba as performed by your ass. It never ceases to amaze me what sounds people will emit in the presence of others.

So you’ve done your deed, now:

A) If you’re like most of my co-workers, it’s time to blaze out the door and go back to work, carrying the Outbreak monkey around on your hands.

Or

B) If you’re like me, it’s time to actually wash your hands.

Washing your hands is even a pain in the ass. You’re usually faced with a couple of scenarios:

1. The Super Duper Magic Motion Detector Faucet Turner-Onner: Allegedly, there is a point in space, somewhere in the vicinity of the sink where if you hold your hands there, right fucking there, not a millimeter off in any of the 3 dimensions, water will dispense uninterrupted from the spigot.
2. The one where you press the thing down and water is supposed to flow and then the thing goes back up and it stops. How big, exactly, were the motherfucker’s hands that designed this thing? How in the name of shit, am I supposed to get my hands adequately cleaned with that split-second of water? By the time I hit it and move my hands under, the goddamned thing is turned off already. You gotta put some soap on, then have one hand hold the knob down, and then try to have one hand scrub itself, like you’re thumbing through a stack of money. Or you can just get soap all over the knobs, the sink and everywhere trying to keep pushing the thing down. Look, I’m 28 years old. I can fight and die for my country. I can vote for my leaders. Hell, I can run to be one of those leaders. I can sit in a casino and play poker for 36 straight hours slurping rot gut scotch and get 10 lap dances afterwards should I choose to. I am an of-age, responsible adult and I am perfectly fucking capable of deciding for myself exactly how much goddamned water I think is the proper amount with which to cleanse my hands. I will turn it on when I want and when they’re clean, I’ll turn it off. I’ve already had the low flow shower head forced down my throat and the low flow toilet that can only swallow 1 square of toilet paper at a time. I listened to the whiny bitch on TV who told me to turn off the faucet while I’m brushing my teeth. I hardly ever wash my car. I GIVE A HOOT. Please, please, please just let me operate my own public bathroom faucet.

Now you’ve washed your hands and another couple of things can happen:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find one of those wall-mounted hot-air blower units. You know the ones. Every single one in America has been graffitied by some dumb ass who didn’t realize that somebody in 1983 already thought to scratch out the “on” off the end of “push button.” It’s not funny anymore. The damned thing is most likely out of order. Even if it does work, I don’t, as of yet, recall ever walking out of a bathroom with one of those things with my hands any drier than they were when I left the sink, save what dripped off. Sorry that I don’t have 10 whole minutes to stand there while that thing tries in vain to evaporate the water without burning my skin off.

Or:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find some dumbass holding some paper towels out for you while standing next to his sympathy tip bucket, boxes of cheap cologne, breath mints, cigarettes, playing cards, walkmans, shoe shine, electric razor, chassis lube kit, microwave, VCR, ferris wheel, greeting cards, and delicatessen.
I’m not in the mood to fucking impulse shop, I just want to take a piss. And I’m certainly never, EVER, going to give another man (or woman for that matter) and of my goddamned money to assist in that process in any way. I’ve been practicing for almost 30 years, I don’t need any help, I’ve got it, I’m good. Why do they trust that sonofabitch to turn the faucet on and off for me? I have a college degree. He works in a fucking bathroom. You do the math.

A bit of advice.....

A lot of people ask me for advice. Why? Because I’m one wise motherfucker, that’s why.
Unfortunately, due to the inordinate amount of requests for my time, attention, and guidance that I receive on a daily basis, I’ve discovered I have to go the way of so many other brilliant, American institutions—subcontracting my customer service.
Now don’t worry, your emails won’t be processed by someone in New Delhi or a 3rd grader on break from his lacing job at the Nike factory. I’ve got an even cheaper domestic option. My cat, Lucky.



We’re pretty sure he’s mildly retarded, if, in fact, retardation exists for his species. But for a retarded cat, he’s got quite a unique perspective on things, and when it comes to dispensing advice, he’s, dare I say, precocious.
Got troubles, trials, tribulations or anything else on your mind that you need help with?
Ask Lucky.


Dear Lucky,

I consider myself pretty smart (IQ tested around 135), yet I'm having no luck finding a job. Am I too smart for my own good? Am I just unlucky? Does my brilliance intimidate my potential employers? Or am I just an arrogant wanker?

Niggity Nico,
Orlando by way of Birmingham


Dear Niggity Nico,
I’m sorry to hear of your quandary. Usually when things like that are weighing on my pea brain, I’ll just go over and hop on top of the scratching post, then reach underneath the platform and scratch the rope upside down. Sure, sometimes I end up losing my balance and falling face first from 4 feet high, but after that, I can just go back and lay in the pile of hair I’ve made on the sofa and go to sleep for several hours.
You’re welcome.



Hey Lucky,

What's the secret to life, the universe, and everything?

Cheers,
Arthur Dent


Dear Arthur,

The secret to life is the art of grooming one’s self while making the most god-awfully loud and obnoxious slurping noises possible while people are trying to watch television. Then I can get a nice squirt from the squirt gun and not have to groom myself anymore.

The secret to the universe is to scarf all your breakfast as fast as possible, not even making an attempt to chew even a single morsel.
Then go find an article of clothing, a shoe, or just a part of the carpet that isn’t stained yet and puke your fucking guts out allllllll over it. Make sure to preface the purge by making really gross, wet hacking noises, just enough to get someone to come running from the other room to try to grab you and throw you on the tile only to proceed with the barfing, right as they reach you.

The secret to everything else is to lick where your nuts used to be. A lot.



Dear Lucky,

My wife says that my feet stink. I can't argue much - they pretty much do. It's so bad lately that she won't even touch them when we sit on the couch to watch The Wheel and give me a foot massage like she used to back in the olden days. I really gots no issue with that in and of itself - I mean, I prolly wouldn't touch her feet, either, if they stunk this bad. I mean these suckers STINK. So anyways, to make her happy (and to get my feet rubbed again,) I went out and got me this powder stuff to put in my shoes, and to be honest with you, it didn't work all that well. You know the stuff - Gold Bond or whatever they call it? Waste of money. Anyway, I used it for like ten days and nothing. I mean not a thing - they still stunk to high heaven. So then I got me these little colored balls that are supposed to absorb all the sweat and stink from the shoes. I used them last month and they kinda worked okay. My wife was pleased with the improvement, but was still afraid to touch my feet. I was at a loss. So then I told my buddy at work about the problem and he told me that I gotta wear socks. He tells me that if I wear socks each day, the stink will go away after a while - oh, and to keep using the little colored balls, cause those seem to be working somehow. So I tried his advice and for a couple days it worked wonderfully. Not a stink to be smelled. But then after about four days, my shoes started to stink again - which of course, meant my feet started to stink again. But this time is was even worse. Like rancid pork chops or something. I was puzzled. I didn't know what to do. So I go back to my buddy at work and tell him that it worked for a while then it stopped working. He tells me this time that I'm supposed to put on a new pair of socks each and everyday and to toss the dirty ones in the hamper when I'm done with them. (Like he couldn't've told me this information the first time, sheesh.) Anyway, so I tried his miracle method and like magic, it's working to this day. My wife's pleased. I'm pleased. Even the dog is happy now. Hell, last night, I gots me like a fifteen minute foot rub! (from the old lady, not the dog.) I couldn't've been happier. But of course, that's not exactly why I'm writing you. What this series of events has gots me thinking is this; Do you think maybe Brad Pitt's feet stink, too? and maybe that's why him and Jennifer split up? Cause if it is, he should think about changin' his socks more.

Sonny
Carson City, Nevada.

Dear Sonny,

You know what really stinks? When I go to the litter box and take a big dump then try to bury everything else in the laundry room—the washer, the hot water heater, the floor outside the litter box, the door—EXCEPT my steaming, stinking turd. Now THAT stinks. For full effect, don’t even take a shit in the actual sand. Perch yourself up on the corner of the box and drop that guy right over the side onto the laundry room floor. No one will even remember what stinky feet smell like.
Brad could get Jennifer back if he’d just go sit by the front door and cry like a little bitch, real loudly for about 20 minutes for no reason. It really seems to please the people I live with.

It worked

Ha, I've got you licked, you pig-fucking html tag blog bullshit, now it's on.

That's me punting a soccer ball by the way.

Test

Let's test this:




Shall we?

So Yeah....

Well, gotta get this beeyotch off to some sort of start.
I'll easily conquer the internet within a few months.