So it's pretty normal in a seafaring town to talk about, well, seafaring things and one of those things as pretty much everyone know is dolphins.  Not that there's an assload of dolphins swimming around Cape Cod in the middle of November, but every store worth it's salt in the bad taste department that's still open at this very *awkward* time of year which is pretty much every place that sells anything with Cape Cod stamped on it sells the good ole cc namesake dolphin cups, tees, ornaments, bath mats and, of course, the ever popular refrigerator magnet.  In a moment of sheer genius  I bought one of these bad boys for  like $3.99 at a local rest area in an effort to prevent too many assholes from crashing my parties.  Kind of like a Cape Cod evil eye or something.  I figured I could just super glue it to my door or something and anyone strong enough to get past it without throwing up in their mouth had a fairly manly stomach and would probably wait until they got to their own home or at least someplace else to vomit if they drank too much or whatever rather than losing their cookies at my place.  Which, btw, is working marvelously, but that's a story for another day.

The real story is the conversation that this magnetic asshat sparked one evening.

'Um, was that a DOLPHIN magnet on your door?'

'Yeah, you're not throwing up in your mouth are you?'

'No.  But you do KNOW about dolphins don't you?'

'Sure.  They're the things that all my friends from Puerto Rico like to decorate their bathrooms with.   And their kitchens, and their bedrooms and...'

'Dolphins are RAPISTS.  They have RAPE CAVES that they drag swimmers into, never to be heard from again.  Totally had you pegged for someone that was against things like cross species gang rape.  Guess I was wrong.  I think I might have to go now.'

Now you're probably thinking what I was thinking at that very moment-that the friends, neighbors and occasional random strangers that frequent my home have even less of a grasp on, er, reality than I do.  And, in a time before google, we all could sleep very well at night telling ourselves exactly that.  Ignorance is bliss times these are not however and about thirty seconds later the cold, hard, wet truth was staring down the barrel of my smart phone at me in the form of text, images, audio, video and even a podcast or two.  The plain and simple truth is about 629,000 search results just can't be wrong.  Dolphins not only rape, they gang rape, they murder rape and fuck only knows what else.  Page one results were quite enough for me to end my research into the dark side of the sea. 

Which brings me to the save the dolphins movement.  And how it's way more likely than not a cover for something pretty effing sinister if you ask me.  Now like I've said time and time again, I'm not an effing scientist .    But one HAS TO, HAS TO HAS TO EFFING THINK IF NOT ONLY FOR A MOMENT that something as science-y as a campaign to save sea creatures must have at least one scientist attached to it.  Or a para-scientist or a lab assistant or someone who at least paid attention in science class.  And these double blind empirical motherfuckers just have to know that this is going on.  And either they are turning an effing blind eye  or American science has gone more to shit to Star Wars Trilogy epic proportions.

So I wish that I could say that there was a happy ending to this post (no pun intended), but the sad fact of the matter is that our best defense against alien invasion (i.e. the scientific world) is asleep at the wheel and/or a part of a larger conspiracy to cull the human heard by looking the other way as we march like lambs to the slaughter each and every time we take a seaside vacation.

Simple souvenir or warning sign? You decide.

So I recently ran away from home and moved to a teeny tiny east coastal town that shall remain nameless but y'all probably know my exact coordinates so it doesn't much matter but let's all *pretend* this town is anonymous so I don't get my proverbial ass kicked in a dark alley at three o'clock on a theoretical Monday morning, k?<< MORE >>

 

So I'm really *awesome* at telling stories but really shitty at lying. Which, like most things about me, makes ab-so-fuck-ing-lutely no sense. Even the smallest stupidest shit that novice liars can pull off like pros eludes my very limited skill set. Like the ubiquitous 'How are you?' and/or 'How's it going?' Every asshole knows there's only one right answer to that bad boy. And it's 'good' (unless you get all hung up on grammar and then you get all erudite and shit and say 'It's going very well, fuck you very much'. << MORE >>

So I already told y'all (like a hundred and fifty two times) that I'm running away to the beach, but I never offered up why (other than I am pretty much out of my efing mind, which I would be anyway anywhere, beach or no beach). But, like everything else in this world, there's the back story, the front story and the sideways story. Now I know what you're thinking. I'm taking off to the end of the world to make some awesome paint by numbers oil masterpieces by the sea, start my own cult, or (the most obvious of the three) begin my human to serpent transition like that dude in the movie from the 70's that gave me nightmares that lasted well beyond childhood. Well, you're wrong. Each and every one of you. I'm running away to write the great un-American novel (and by un-American I don't mean flag burning asshole, I mean I'm not trying to dress all goth, cut myself when other people are watching to make them feel sorry for me and live some kind of douchebag cliché). << MORE >>

So when I'm not earning money at my real job, eating cheese, getting a little drunk, making up crazy shit, writing crazy shit or practicing square dancing I am doing something else. And that something is making endless 'notes to self'. And by 'notes to self' I mean actual notes on stickies, loose paper, gum wrappers and writing on my or someone else's arm to remind me to do, or not to do something important. Works of art these are not and they are usually pretty graphic and personal and only apply to me and a lot of other people and are really not coherent enough to be blog worthy. Even for here. Last weekend I wrote one of these notes (well actually I wrote sixteen of them but I will only count one since four were in Klingon, two were shopping lists, and nine had to due with the United States Postal Service) and even though it was addressed 'to self' I wanted, for the first time, to share it here.<< MORE >>

So for anyone who has been following along this has been kind of sort of like the summer of love for me, only more like the opposite in a lot of ways. But not really totally opposite like the summer of hate or anything, it's more like the summer of un-love, or the winter of my discontent, only it's summer so you can't really say that either. Which is perfectly fine with me, as I am usually out of sync with a lot of things, so not being personified by overquotes and fancy sayings is a-okay in my book. I don't need a pillow sampler made by Quaker women to spell out one of those rare and glorious times in life when you purposely nail all of the doors shut just so you can say you have no choice but to open a window and jump out. We've all been there. I'm quite certain that many others have walked this path before me. Probably.<< MORE >>

So here I sit celebrating my one week anniversary as a free agent in the relationship game of life. Looking back on the last seven days I've done a lot of the things that newly single people do: pour an entire bottle of nail polish on a paper plate and set it on fire, wear a different Halloween costume to bed every night, and look for leprechauns under rainbows. Oh, and figure out what the fuck I'm going to do with the rest of my life.<< MORE >>

And I don't know why<< MORE >>

So four days ago I became that dude that goes out for a pack of cigs to never return home again or turn up dead on the side of the road or get beamed down like 6 months later after an alien abduction. He just took a walk and *forgot* to come back. It was exactly exactly like that, only swap out the dude for me in my barbie shoes and change up the pack of cigs to a margarita (because cigarettes are worse than smoking someone's ass and I certainly wouldn't go walking around looking for someone's ass to smoke, especially not when I'm feeling all princess-y in my awesome new shoes) and instead of never coming back home it's more along the lines of the other person needs to leave the home that doesn't belong to him before the po-po get invited to the mad hatter's tea party and the barbie margarita girl gets to come back with the dead body she found on the side of the road and her new alien friend and they're all smoking the cigarettes the proverbial dude went out to get a long long time ago. Ya dig?<< MORE >>