FireVaney's

Today’s become a pigging-out kinda day: four Eggo blueberry waffles, five Eggo cinnamon French toast slices, two big Hershey bars smeared over with Skippy peanut butter. Kraft Mac & Cheese. Fifteen Fig Newtons. Oh, and a few too many low-carb bars, too. All that? Dinner. *   Today is a private-little-meltdown kinda day. Today is a what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-life kinda day. Today is a why-am-I-working-out-for-no-fucking-reason and with-few-fucking-results kinda day. All that fucking sweat and morning soreness for what? Swear To God, my body does not produce enough testosterone. If you want big biceps / triceps, you’ll need two fully functional nuts down there in that sack.  Working out and writing? It’s really the same thing. Sweat, sweat, sweat; scribble, scribble, scribble and NOTHIN’ TO SHOW FOR IT. Thin is not enough; pages and pages of half-baked fiction is not enough. And thin for what? I’m fucking terrified of every fucking girl I’m attracted to.  Aw, fuck it.  I’m gett

Would you do me a favor?  It won’t cost a thing. I promise.  Humor me.  Just humor me.  Please?  Pretty please?  With sugar on top?  And a cherry, too?  A maraschino cherry?  An entire jarful?  Of maraschino cherries? How about that?  Hm?  Eh?  I have a curious problem and I am desperate for a second opinion.  I am going to smile — this is totally not a bit, I swear, I pinky swear — and I would like you to observe my smile. Just, please, allow my smile to wash over you. Okay? Oh — and this is important — I am going to smile three different smiles.  First, I will attempt a closed mouth smile. Following the closed mouth smile, I will undertake two open mouth smiles.  So: The closed mouth smile first, then an open mouth smile with teeth showing; then, finally, a totally open mouth smile — where, if your vision is strong enough, you should be able to see that thing that hangs down at the back of my mouth. What’s that called? You know, that thing you poke if you want to throw up? Is tha

Germs don’t hate at night when you’re dreaming about Jesus basking on the beach under a sunny, cloudless sky, with a joint and a bottle of Guinness. And you want to tell Mr. Christ that Guinness from the tap is much better than the bottled variety. But, you know, he’s the Son of God and all, so he’s probably got the right idea. He’s probably got the best bottled Guinness that’s ever been bottled. I wouldn’t know. I’m sure if I asked he’d – excuse me He’d – be more than happy to share. But I’d be WAY, WAY too intimidated to approach him – if “intimidated” is the right word. Then again, why would the Big Guy be basking on a beach with a beer where / when there’s so much to be done? Probably, he’s an imposter. But you don’t want to take the chance that he’s not. And you don’t want to take the chance that he’s snot. (Because, when read aloud, “he’s not” sounds a lot like “he’s snot.”) It may very well be all part of His Plan. But it’s a dream. Or it’s a possible dream. It’s something I’v

PART I   He scoots over one stool, next to her, says, “Would you mind it very much if I… not literally , at least, not yet … but in the way most men, I am certain, do ... would you mind it terribly if I: came onto you?” She’s in the middle of sipping a beer. And she laughs — a bursting-out laugh — so hard, beer foam shoots out both nostrils.  Howie nods and deadpans, “Works every time.”  PART II   ANONYMOUS BLOG COMMENT:  “As Howie silently congratulates himself for being so suave, so debonair, he does not realize that the lady's laughter was manufactured solely to draw attention from her (perfectly manicured) hand that reaches into her knockoff Prada bag and grasps the can of pepper spray that her over-cautious ex-roommate gave her (upon her abrupt and unaccepted-sapphic-overture-fueled exit from their inexplicably cheap loft apartment cohabitation experience). Howie never knew what hit him. And moments later he did. It was the floor.”  So, yes, he lost the round. But not the figh