Porno for pool players

Last night I was forced to experience the “Lounge” scene. You know the kind of place –leather couches, eclectic hanging laps from a high ceiling, fake fake fake fake fake people (and tits) in every direction. It’s the kind of bar you would hang out at if you were……………..fake. I make no excuses for my trendy lounge bar hanging, but I did it for a client. Thus, I whored myself out….and I feel dirty and ashamed.

………………….I had a martini. Oh my Christ!

Let me tell you about my kind of place. It’s old, smoky, and has a jukebox that needs updating. Most importantly…..it has a pool table. With that in mind, let me tell you about a movie I watched after my bout with the slick and beautiful of Dallas late night.

POOLHALL JUNKIES

Like a synopsis on life itself, this film takes a hard gritty look at the truths and consequences in the world of the hustler. Now, there have been so many movies about pool, pool players, pool tables……..hell isn’t one of them called “Pool Table?” The reasoning behind this particular work -is to be real….as real as you can when it comes to the bullshit of pool playing.

Johnny (Mars Callahan) is one of the best pool hustlers to ever hit the felt. Not only does he have game, but his wit and flair create an irresistible atmosphere to lose your money in. He makes you like it! But, underneath the façade, Johnny wants to be a pro. He has compassion and drive that has been manipulated into a world of shit by his backer Joe (Chazz Palminteri.) The film moves along at an even pace to show you how Johnny struggles to make all that is wrong in his world right. Much like life in perspective.

It’s not just the characters that tickle your eight ball here, but the words they speak. It is truly what makes this film work. Lines like:

“You keep thinking you are a looser, the only people you will ever beat are the ones that think they are a bigger looser than you.”

Also, many of the most prominent lines are surrounded by sums of currency.

“Yeah –you down Nigg-R….about 5,000 dollars. Now give me my fucking money!”

“In this country alone, there are over 17,000 miles of unused virgin pussy.”

“What do you call a 1,000 lawyers up to their heads in sand? Not enough sand!”

This is the type of dialogue that makes this down to earth pool movie the top of the line. A must see for all pool lovers. And lovers of life for that matter.

Now, I’m drunk….and not a freakin’ movie critic, so that’s the best you are going to get from me. But…………rent the fucking movie!

Excuse me while I refresh my cosmo.

FU

Crap the bed MONDAY

It seems to me that no other day of the week has the ability to sum up the quality of your life like the all powerful MONDAY. I don’t know if it’s a message from god that chastises you for being too damn lazy over the weekend, or maybe its Sunday’s bitterness for calling Monday the first day of the week for so long…..thus the curse.

Any way you look at it, Monday sucks sweaty bull balls!

I started this particular one with a toothbrush loaded with Cortaid. I could say that I was attempting to rejuvenate my receding gums, but no. It was supposed to be fucking toothpaste!

Soon afterwards I tripped over the dog….landing softly against the bed mattress. This would have been a hoot –had it not shifted violently askew –knocking over my TV tray/Bedside vanity. Yup…...lamp, alarm clock, a few used tissues…..boom.

I broke a lace. Why are dress shoe laces so thin anyway?

I discovered a pimple right inside my left nostril. It’s unreachable and annoying.

I got in the car and realized I was out of gas. Not totally, but just enough to make my ass clinch up on the way to the gas station. Gas went up again.

Upon making it to work, I pushed on the gas –rather than the break -at my underground parking gate. I backed up quickly, but I think the swing arm is a little bent. Car 5 /Gate 0.

I need a swipe card to get into my office, but it doesn’t work as well as it used to. I started counting how many times I have to swipe to open the door. If you were standing behind me, you would think that my OCD needed immediate attention.

It is now 8:00 am.

I’m fine………………..really.

Next, I discovered that I am in too much debt to have it consolidated. Let’s review that.

No money = Broke. Broke = Can’t make payments. Can’t make payments = Consolidation. Consolidation = Must prove you can make payments???

Proof that you can make payments = DON”T NEED THE FUCKING CONSOLIDATION!!

But that’s just me.

On that note….I’m getting a divorce. Well, at some point. See….I need to sell a very expensive house before I can make this whole thing work (without it biting my wang more than it already is.) But I need to get my expenses in line first.

Maybe I should consolidate.

I ended up with my fathers lunch today (yes I am staying with my parents temporarily/permanently.) I hate egg salad. WTF is all that in there?!

Today I had one of my biggest clients (once again) pull a disappearing act on me…taking their $35,000 buy with them. This has happened enough now, that I think they’re all on a Caribbean cruise together….laughing.

It’s now 2:00 pm.

There’s a smudge on my window. It is annoying, AND outside. I have never seen a window cleaner here, so it looks like I will be repelling off the roof soon. That smudge taunts me.

I only notice I’m getting fatter on Monday. Everything seems tighter than it did on Friday.

I would continue….but it is now 2:30 pm. This is where I go give myself a swirly!

Luv’ Monday……FU

Cell Tele-Robert Invasion!!

Have any of you had this happen yet? I remember when the cell phone was the last bastion of security from the host of “Great Deals” and “Free Vacations” phone calls. But last night that all changed.

It took them five years to find me (killed my land line in 2001) but the slippery little bastards found out my super secret. Ass!

It went like this:

Me: Hello?

Ass: Well, HELLO there Mr. Upton! My name is Robert Winnikki!

Me: ……………..Huh?

Ass: You have been chosen over THOUSANDS of eligible names to participate in our study of a new high-rise condominium complex going up on the STRIP in LAS VAGAS!!!!!!

Now I’m not only confused, but annoyed by my new buddy Robert. I was so out of the “Tele-sales” loop for so long, that I no longer had the necessary tools to deal with the situation. AND –this was my fucking cell phone! So, I fumbled through the possible explanation for this invasion.

Me: Who is this….really?

Ass: Why, it’s Robert Winnikki! (be sure to envision the announcer-type linguistic)

Me: Is that you Cory? You asshole!

Ass: Umm…..excuse me sir?

Now it hit me –like a squeaker fart you never saw coming. This was a real life telemarketer. It was like the fall of the Roman Empire.

Me: Dude! This is my cell phone! How did you get this number?

Ass: As I said Mr. Upton, you are ELIGIBLE for a free trip to LAS VEGAS to try out these SUPER FANTASTIC CONDOS!..........FOR FREE!!

Me: I’m not even eligible for a library card Robert.

This went on for a while, and my patience grew thin. It was clear that Robert was not going to give in on the whole “Not fucking interested” deal, so I was forced to hang up on him. AND, because of the fact that this was my cell, I was not even allowed the joy of slamming the phone down on the receiver. All I could do was mash the end button with great conviction. It was anti climatic. So, I threw the fucker against the wall.

It was now infected, and I wanted it out of my sight…..so it could think about what it had done to me.

Watch out boys and girls…..Robert is now cellular!!!!

FU

Half Conversations

“….so then I realized that the end was too big for my mouth!”

Yeah, that’s what I heard as they passed me. Two seemingly innocent girls walking down the hall, but surly……I misunderstood. I mean really! Could they be? Talking about….that?

This happens to me at least five times a day. I’ll be minding my own business, working on work related activities, and I will hear half a conversation –or even just a blurb. The question is why does it always seem to be about sex? Am I sick? Is my mind a dark place of deprivation and lurid images of things better left on film?

I guess. Correction –yes, yes it is.

Here is a list of things I have heard this week (I know because I write them down……for posterity.

“….it smells funny (something, something) so I washed it.”

“….only when on top. It’s more comfortable.”

“….I keep it under a quarter of an inch, otherwise it’s just out of control.”

“….he’s a dick!” (can go either way with this one)

“….batteries (something, something) then I wasn’t bored all night.”

Now…..what the hell is going on with all this? I know what I heard, but could women really be sick little monkeys like us? Or, am I just hearing little parts of a very normal….and work related conversation?

Fuck it! It’s more fun this way!

FU

Elevator Un-truster

I have a deep seeded fear of the whole elevator thing. Not so much the fact that I’m in a box suspended by a cable that some guy named “Bob” or “Hank” installed, although that does bring up issues. No, its more about the automatic doors that gives me The Fear.

I don’t trust them.

First of all, they really have a mind of their own. When you get in, you promptly hit the desired floor. Then….nothing. Its like the door is thinking it over.

“Do you really want THAT floor dude?”

“Uhh….yup.”

“I hear that the girls up on 5 are a trip!”

“No, no….7 is fine.”

Still the doors remain open. WTF! I’m ready for elevation!

Only when you reach for the Door Close button (which I am convinced is attached to nothing at all) do the doors begin to lumber shut. I’m now matching wits with this fucking thing! But that is only the beginning.

Have you ever been running to the elevator as the doors are about to shut? And someone is inside –staring back at you? “Hold the elevator!”

Yeah, you better hope it’s not me in the box, because I ain’t sticking my arm out to stop the door like some short, chubby version of Superman. Wait for the next one.

Where is the research on the automatic stop and re-open function on this thing anyway? I’ve never seen it. Now I have The Fear.

What if I put my arm out, and the door shuts on it? AND THEN IT STARTS MOVING?!! Not me man. I write with my left, and jerk with the right. I need them both!

THEN, there is always the other scenario where some guy gets there just in time to throw HIS arm in the closing maiden of dismemberment! Now I’m in trouble because I will be stuck with a severed arm in the box……WITH ME! What do you do? I’m not touching it. What if it moves?

These are the things that rattle around in my noggin every time I head up to work.

Maybe I just don’t want to go, and I’m trying to lay it off on the elevator. Sorry for being so harsh taxi of the vertical. Let’s be friends.

Ok…..I hit 7………..let’s fucking move!!

FU

Reality?

This morning while I was flexing in the mirror, pretending I’m being photographed for my highly anticipated cover of muscle magazine, I had an interesting thought. We all have a horribly false sense of reality. It was when the snoopy towel fell from my waist that this shocking truth rang true. Don’t live in denial boys and girls –ALL OF YOU do this after a morning shower (remember: liars go to hell.) Somewhere in our own minds we are just one week at the gym or an hour in the tanning bed away from looking like a sexy monkey! Maybe it’s the vulnerability of being half naked. I personally think the steam from the shower distorts our reflection. But, whatever it is, there is one fact that we can’t deny –our ego is specifically designed to lie to us like a vacuum salesman.

So, if this is true, then what is reality? I quickly turned to the most valuable resource available to answer this overwhelming philosophical question…..my television. After all, this is where all the heavy hitters and CEO’s go for their daily dose of “what’s happening”. I hear Bill Gates never misses an episode of The Surreal Life. Common now; it says reality television right there on the description. Who am I to argue? So, this is where I decided to begin studying our daily perceptions.

With the understanding that some of you are quite dense, I will take you through this step by step- real scientific like.

My hypothesis is: All humans are openly seduced by reality television because of their own mirror posing distortions of “self”. The mathematical equation for this is:

S= REALITY x HOME ON FRIDAY NIGHT
all over value ~PARIS HILTON

Let’s make the VALUE of S be “Stupid.”

After a full week in front of my TV watching nothing but these shows, I truly wanted to gouge my eyes out. I did manage to take notes between six packs and piss breaks (you can thank me later). I then carefully evaluated the data. Although everything written after eight pm was completely illegible, I was able to render some very interesting conclusions.

First and foremost, my (now educated) calculations have shown that stupid is not the value for S. Instead, it’s Shut the F up! Thusly, the answer to the former calculation will now be written:

(Sf ) to the power of Are You Fucking Serious?

There is a gaggle of shows highlighting the twisted lives of the rich and retarded shuffled in between hour long rants by the left behind Hollywood stars of yesteryear. I don’t remember ever having a midget and a female wrestler having an argument about toast in my kitchen. I don’t know about you, but nobody has ever challenged me to a cockroach eating contest either. I’m usually satisfied with a good game of quarters –maybe even hide the cookie if it’s a particularly wild Friday night.

So, raise your hand if you have had the chance to roam the United States in an RV suckering country folk out of goods and services. Yeah –that’s hot…but me neither. And as for the Gastino girls, I’d have them in a sandwich, but if I have to hear how busy and full of drama their lives are for ten more seconds I will indeed kill myself.

This is not reality folks. Reality is the random hair that keeps growing off the top of my ear. "What do you want with me hair?!" It also seems pretty fucking real when the student loan Gestapo calls me for the fourth time this month. Sorry, I gave at the liquor store.

I think the closest morsel of truth in any of the shows I watched was The Apprentice. Even that was complete bullshit. None of these wannabe millionaire suite types would get anywhere in the real world. Sure, they may be a sucess in the BIZ world, but let's see them do what I do! That does not really amount to much.....really a monkey could do it....better. ANYWAY!

I know this whole thing was supposed to be scientific and all, but a migraine just set in. In conclusion, the only reality we all share happens on the crapper. Love Ya’ -F U

Ok FINE!

I recently broke my ass. No...really, I broke my ass! At 31 you would think that I had come much closer to such an injury in the past. Hell, I was the clever bastard that decided that a piece of four foot plywood and six broken bricks could make a secure ramp in the alley. No broken ass after that one, but my face was never quite the same.
See, I was just minding my own biz-wacks watching the new episode of 24. Yeah I know...shut the hell up! If I want reality I would watch the tuft of hair on my lower back grow. I like to dose my existence with the unreal -because reality is....well, reality! Moving on to my ass!
I smoke, so like a good boy I do this outside. During the commercials, I'm off the races. Puff-puff with my face smashed against the window -watching consumer blips of the new H3 race across desert, a yeast infection something or other, a thing with a frog being flipped off a spoon (I have know clue about that one), and other "buy me" like stuff.
So there I am all face smashed, and puff-puffing, when I realize that cancer has beaten me again! I'm missing my fucking unrealistic show! Jack!!!! Wait for me!!!!
I fling open the door like a madman, bank around the lounger leading into the living room, and........did I happen to mention that I'm in socks on a freshly waxed hardwood floor? No? Well I was until both my feet (damn feet) shot forward like I was about to leap on that horse thing in gymnastics.
Needless to say, as I flew through the air in slow motion, I realized two things. ONE, my knee caps don't look the same. I think the left one is bigger than the right. TWO, I am not a fourteen year old female gymnast. Thusly I came down with an ass breaking thud! DAMN YOU JACK BOWER!! DAMN YOU TO HELL!!!
I soon found out that no matter how professional emergency workers are, they still get a giggle out of the broken ass scenario. They don't laugh at you outright, but comments like "What color butt donut would you like?" and "You won't be riding any horses any time soon!" didn't help my pride any. Some guy named Jose kept laughing when he left the x-ray room, but he swore it was about the lady who they just got in. HA HA! She totaled her car. HA HA! Something about her spleen.
Anyway, all said and done, I got some pretty cool drugs out of the deal. You know, the kind with warnings on the side like Don't drink alcoholic beverages when taking this medication, and Taking more of the prescribed amount may cause.......drowsiness. Yeah, I was jazzed too! But, I felt I would be adult about the whole thing, and not waste my precious ass medication on juvenile jollies.
This brings us to my current problem.
Upon exiting the shower this morning, all squeaky clean and shaved down (like you don't) I placed one of my joy pills on the counter. I told myself deodorant, brush, spit, take pill. Well, I instantly forgot. Somewhere around spit I got lost.
A good twenty minutes later I finished breakfast, and popped a pill from the container. Joyous pill down my gullet, I love thee! -that's my little song and dance with the pill thing. I headed for the door. Then oops! I forgot my cell phone....I know....It's in the bathroom! As you can see, this forget thing is a bitter trend with me. So, I happily trot over to my toilet nook, and pick it up.
OH LOOK! MY HAPPY PILL! It was just sitting there on the edge of the sink. Looking at me like "Forgot about me you jackass." Indeed, I had forgotten to take my pill....right? So I took it.
I'll let you think about that for a second..............................
Ok, so........I'm high now. Not really on purpose, but high as a kite none the less. My drive to work was interesting to say the least. Not only did my steering wheel get a mind of its own, but I swear a tiny little clown car raced past me in the fast lane. Red and white streamers flying behind it, and a bumper sticker that read: I GIVE GOOD NOSE. What the hell?!
Now I sit here at my desk, surrounded by particle board walls, and I know that they are coming for me. Who are they? Where do they come from? Why am I talking to my highlighter?
Oh well, what the hell! Power to the junkies! Excuse me while I go seek out the buffalo that brushed past my cubicle.

Til next time..................FU

Here I am!

It starts today!