Mui Bien Tamale??

I would just like to publicly congratulate myself because I have just now and officially finished 24 tamales in less than seven days. I accomplish things. I have goals. Some people finish college, get real jobs, start families. Some people eat 24 tamales in less than seven days.

We have exchanged corpulence for starvation and either one can kill us.

12 Days and Counting....

…I’ve been sick. I think it’s an appropriate assumption to assume that my days here on this big blue and green earth are numbered. I’m dying. It’s a tragedy the plague cut my life so short. And even sadder I went out with out really contributing to the history books. Didn’t invent anything meaningful, or say anything profound. I didn’t even get my face in a newspaper. If I croaked now my existence could be forgotten and on my tombstone it might as well say “she settled for mediocrity.”

My Will:

All the cash in my wallet…Lone Tree Hill, the homeless Indian guy I met at Pioneer Park. (Please ask him to tell you the joke about the cow and the wife).

And this song will be played at my funeral:

Goodbye cruel world…Geeze you didn’t even give me and Lone Tree a chance.

Batman: Year One

If you know anything about living, you know that life recycles certain themes. For my roommate Lacy and I, it’s bad plumbing. If I didn’t have this blog I might have forgotten lessons learned from a previous encounter with bad plumbing. Read about encounter here. So what did I learn from the last time our plumbing threw in the towel? Peeing in the shower is better than peeing in the backyard and peeing at Smiths is better than peeing in the shower. The Rotor Rooter is still scary, as it attacked Lacy last night. An aspiring superhero, such as myself, prays for their big break into the super hero trade. This was my big break to save Lacy from certain death or at least devastation. In my moment of truth, I turned out to be a gutless coward and Lacy was eaten up by the Rotor Rooter and all the terrible things you could imagine coming up with the Rotor Rooter. Isn’t it ironic that a coward, such as myself, could be so obsessed with super heroes?

Meet my nemesis. My affliction. My plague and scourge. The Rotor Rooter.

You Remind me of a Winter Storm

It’s January 4th and the furnace has said its final goodbye as the heat slowly seeped out of the cracks of our house. In the winter I become a hermit to avoid the unforgiving cruelty of winter. I stay in my pajamas. I read a lot of books and comics. Watch a lot of movies. And do a lot of blogging. Anything that allows me to stay under blankets. I make excuses to not run any errands that involve leaving the house. Well my winter game plan has been spoiled with the slow death of our central heating. Right now I'm wearing every article of clothing I own. My bed is stacked high with every blanket I own. Lacy and I have consumed everything hot in the kitchen. I’m not sure how there were life forms before central heating. Surely everything existed after furnaces and cell phones. One other thing, I’m convinced nothing is more unattractive than long-underwear.


And my socks haven’t matched in years.

Christmas, The End of 2008 and The End of All Things (An ihatemylife.com Production)

The holidays were rather generous to me. Christmas was full of fancy salamis, warm, moist hand towelettes and Christmas cheer. It was especially generous considering we’re marching forward into economic desperation and recession. I’m glad I went out with a bang, not a quiet whimper.

There is no need for excess where we’re headed. I’ll have to pon off my satin sheets and ivory tusks. Sell everything and live the life I’ve always dreamed of: my tiny cottage with a fire place for warmth and a garden. Just me in my drop-bottom flannel full-body pajamas, a dusty book and an old record player. And I’ll eat porage. I’ll hang old socks with holes above the fire place next Christmas. I’ll be my own Tiny Tim story in 2009 and then I’ll understand its true meaning. I doubt it involves fancy salamis.

I don’t know what the future holds. My dark side, which embraces the spirit of chaos, couldn’t help but feel the curious hush and last whispers of American gluttony. And then my honest side thought, “Dude, how could I even breathe with out all forms of Comcast?!”
[Pushin the Drop Bottoms in 2009]

Our Modern Day Plague

The other night I ordered a large pepperoni pizza. It was way past the average person’s weekday bedtime and definitely past the hour dietitians recommend eating anything. I was starving and wanted to eat that huge greasy pizza all alone while watching and crying to the Fellowship of the Ring. I had a Fat Kid pizza fantasy that I would eat that pizza so fast all the blood would rush to my head and I would pass out right on the couch. I wasn’t really ashamed until the delivery boy showed up at my door and I found myself pretending there were people in the kitchen there to help me consume this huge artery lubricating delight.

“Ha oh Pizza boy you didn’t seriously think I would or even could eat this whole pizza by myself?!” “Billy! Johnny! Fat Pete! Come on! Get out here and help me eat this pizza.” “They must be downstairs or in the backyard making pipe bombs.”

I’m on the swift path to corpulence, the Great and Final Plague of America. We’re feeding ourselves to death like those poor little ducks that make delicious foie gras. I bet my liver tastes yummy and would go well with Walnut Fig Brioche.



Thats me and Fat Pete.

Get Down Girl Go ‘Head Get Down

Sorry if I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but I spent my day off today waiting for my car to get a new chin and a face lift. I say that because I’m starting to feel like I’m married to some gold digger who is divorcing me and taking all my money. I thought me and the Dodger were in love and this was forever, but apparently The Dodger doesn’t feel the same way. It’s taking me for everything I own and leaving me high and dry with nothing. I guess nothing is forever. And I’m back on the market or I will be soon.