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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

1/29/2004

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES SPECIAL EDITION: Uncle Patrick’s Advice to Children
Kids, this is all the shit I had to learn the hard way. Now that I’m retired it’s time to pass it on, so you won’t have to suffer the same indignities I did.

Don’t use one of those little Handi-Vac things to empty an ashtray. Because the inrush of air could potentially reignite any fading embers. And, uh, a big jet of flame might shoot out of the thing, surprising you and making you scream like a ten-year-old girl. And you might knock over your beer.

If you’re ever fishing, and a poisonous water moccasin swims up to try and eat one of the fish on your stringer, and you think that maybe flipping the snake out of the water and onto, say, me is a good idea, please reconsider.

Just because you can stick toothpicks in your forehead and they’ll stay there and it doesn’t really hurt all that bad doesn’t mean you should go ahead and do it, at Denny’s or any other restaurant.

All those skinheads over there? They’ll beat your ass.

Yes, popping a paper bag in the mall makes a very loud noise. Yes, you can hear that shit echoing all through the place. Yes, rent-a-cops are all dicks.

Don’t try to pee and ride a bicycle at the same time, even if Jim Marburger can do it. Not that you were watching or anything.

The rash won’t go away on its own.

Should you ever decide to use bamboo sticks and stretchy, decorative string that’s designed to wrap presents to make a bow and arrow, and should you decide to wad up a bunch of duct tape on the end of your arrow and soak it with WD-40 so it’ll, you know, burn better, I would recommend not shooting the flaming arrow onto the roof of a house, or into the lap of your friend’s cousin. Even by accident.

There are no secrets when it comes to fucking. Everyone will eventually find out about it, and probably a lot sooner than you want them to.

God created assistant managers when he was in a really shitty mood.

Knife wounds inflicted on bodily extremities, such as hands, should receive firm pressure with a clean, dry towel or cloth. Elevate if possible. Remember, dry is the key. The wet washcloth is a poor choice for staunching blood flow, no matter what you’ve heard.

Be careful of what you headbutt. Some doors are not as sturdy as they might first look, and it can be hard to estimate your own strength immediately after inhaling nitrous oxide.

Wear the condom. No, for the love of Pete, not the mint-flavored one. Jesus, that thing burns.

Here’s a helpful tip for job interviews: try not to stab your future boss in the arm with a freshly sharpened pencil. If you must stab someone with a pencil, have the common sense to dull the point to a state where you can be sure it won’t easily break the skin.

Burt Reynolds? Nope. Tom Selleck? Uh uh. Try Chile D. Molester. Shave that fucking mustache.

If someone passes out on the couch and you want to put them in a figure-four leglock, ensure that the hold is correctly applied before they wake and fuck your goddamn knee all up.

Head wounds do tend to bleed a lot. Don’t panic.

Pajamas are indeed comfy, but society dictates we not wear them to school, work or the bowling alley.

For that matter, be aware that bowling alley employees may have a limited tolerance for other non-pajama-related behaviors, such as getting all loaded and pretending to be Godzilla and stomping on that windmill over there in the indoor miniature golf course.

You better ask before you try and stick your finger up there.

Socks should match your pants, and your belt should match your shoes. After that, if anyone complains, tell ‘em they should be happy you’re wearing any clothes at all.

If you suspect someone likes to do a lot of cocaine, don’t let them “borrow” your CDs.

Try not to get too depressed. There’s always something to look forward to. Keep alert, and sooner or later you’ll see someone slip and hurt themselves.

Beat off enough and eventually someone will walk in on you while you’re doing it. When this happens, pause, look them directly in the eye and say, “You done ruined the romance, so go ahead and say whatever it is you want to say.” If they don’t immediately apologize and leave, run over there and put your hands on their face.

You should never put a string of lit Black Cat firecrackers in someone’s back pocket while they’re on stage playing bass guitar with their band. Even if they fucked your knee up by reversing the figure-four on you that one time. And even if you crack up at just the idea of someone with their pants are on fire jumping up and down and spinning around and around like a dog chasing its tail while trying to figure out what’s going on. Yup, someone could get their ass burned, so it’s wrong. Despite the fact that shit is really, really funny.

You can whoop those two guys easy enough. But what if they come back with a friend who’s big enough to lift you off the ground and pin you to the wall with one hand? What then, slugger? (You’re going to feel like a fucking idiot, that’s what.)

If, while chugging a beer, the phrase, “I bet this is going to be the last coherent thought I have tonight,” runs through your head, get someone to take you home. Now.

The cops never think it’s as funny as you do.

Be advised: the “Minnesota wristwatch” maneuver is correctly performed by using only the penis. The scrotum and testicles should neither be substituted nor included in any way.

Yeah, I know Sid Vicious wore a lock on a chain around his neck just like that. But the first time you try and pogo with that thing on it’s gonna chip a tooth, Road Warrior.

Sure, she’s good-lookin’. She’s also crazy. Crazy as a shithouse rat. Run for your life.

Just because one of those made you feel nice and two of ‘em made you feel even better, taking the whole bottle will not exponentially increase your good time. In fact, you may get dizzy, or throw up, or end up spending half of the next day wondering where the hell your pants are. Or die.

The bouncer at Mons Venus always knows best. If he says you should stop, then you should stop.

Strictly speaking, ranch dressing is not an ingredient.

Yes, you got grounded for having the very same porn stash that turned up in Dad’s closet six months later. You still can’t bring it up. The cosmic scales of justice will never tip in your favor on this one, trust me. Bide your time patiently, and one day you might get the chance for revenge. Like, by unplugging his dialysis machine. Or something.

Now that you’ve climbed up there, it’s a lot higher than it looks, isn’t it? Dumbass.

You can use Krazy Glue in lieu of surgical stitches. For when you’re, you know, too poor to go to the emergency room. Or trying to avoid explaining things to the police.

The Renaissance Faire may not be the source of all your problems, but it sure as shit isn’t helping any.

You’re probably doing something that bugs the next guy twice as much. Clam up and get on with your life.

Powdered cocoa won’t put out the fire.

If you accidentally rear-end another car while driving, Florida law dictates that you must stop and confer with the affected party. Turns out just waving to let folks know you’re alright while driving away is a little something the state troopers like to call “leaving the scene of an accident.”

When it comes time to pick out that first tattoo, remember: it doesn’t matter how much you like that one comic book. There’s always a chance that eight years later someone will make a movie of it that stars Sylvester Stallone. And you’ll be fucked.

You might not be able to remember it, but if you wake up the next day with a bloody nose, no money, barf all over your jeans and a finger or two smelling like poontang then you had a good night.

Always look behind you before you make that first cast. That boat may be smaller than you think. And Jim Marburger’s dad might be taking up more space than you think, too.

Dungeons and Dragons never goes away. Girls will still sense that shit 20 years later.

Last but certainly not least: if you don’t want Sweet Dick Willy to give you a lapdance, don’t sit so damn close to the stage.

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1/20/2004

STUFF
Okay, so I'm going to be really busy with some mundane crap the next few weeks and will be taking a semi-hiatus from the Diary of Indignities. In its place I will post an embarrassing, humorous picture of me or one of my friends every few days or so. Enjoy.


Hell, I am that kid from Diff'rent Strokes! Shit! That sucks. Fuck! And why did my parents dress me like motherfucking Austin Powers? Why did they hate me so? Fucking shit.



Me on the left, sis on the right. I am eight years old, and reading an issue of High Times. 420, bro! Bob Marley! Dude!



Jon eatin' crawdads. He love them crawdads! Mmmm-mm! Ummmm!



Scott loves that rock 'n' roll music. Look at him go.


1/06/2004

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
November, 1987 – Okay, it’s not exactly getting an eyeball scraped with a razor blade, but one time a doctor stuck a Q-Tip in the pee-hole of my wing-wang. By Q-Tip, I refer to the cotton-tipped swab, not the pleasant fellow rapping on the TV that all you kids seem to like so much these days. Still, it was mighty uncomfortable.

It all started with one of those rare bouts of sexual intercourse that included participation from both myself and a living, female human being. And, happily, I did not render myself unconscious at any point during the brief consummation of the act. Though I did get a little distracted wondering why girls that act all liberated and dirty and sexually adventurous with their clothes on always turn out to have so many uptight rules when it’s naked time: “What are you doing?! Sorry, I don’t do that. Don’t touch me there! Don’t look at me! Just what do you think you’re going to do with THAT thing?! Untie these ropes right now! I’m allergic to dogs!” Etc.

Anyway, I lay there as instructed, flat on my back with my arms at my sides, staring at the ceiling while my partner ground away, satisfying her sadly pedestrian urges. The television was on at the other end of the room, and at one point I got kinky and sneakily tried to watch the video for Big Audio Dynamite’s “C’mon Every Beatbox” (which is a bad jam) over her shoulder, but her stupid hair got in the way.

A week or so later my nether regions developed a mild itch. Now, this was hardly unprecedented. My groin area was (and is) a thing of mysterious, uncomfortable functions. And, biologically speaking, the male crotch is as unpleasant as, well, the word “crotch,” and is considered by leading scientists to be the source of much that is evil in this world. Many men routinely experience itchiness and mild groin discomfort, as evidenced by my personal observations of the standard greeting employed in my apartment back when most of the band Hot Water Music took up residence in my living room:

“Christ, do I ever got me a case of the man-itch. I’ve been putting ice cubes on my balls all day.”

“No shit? My red-ass was so bad yesterday I scratched it with the cheese grater.”

Despite the prevalence in society of this sort of relatively benign male itchiness, I nonetheless heroically summoned my full powers of neuroses and convinced myself that my discomfort was the direct result of those recent romantic fumblings. “Great,” I thought. “Chlamydia. My reward for an awkward orgasm that was just slightly less satisfying than a good sneeze.”

I didn’t want it to fester too long, so, being unemployed and destitute, I made an appointment to go see the fine doctors at the free clinic. Where I had this delightful exchange:

“What are your symptoms, Mr. Hughes?”

“Well, doctor, I did it with a girl who’s considered to be kind of slutty, though frankly her performance didn’t live up to her reputation. And now my ding-a-ling is itchy.”

“Hmm. Have you experienced any discharge?”

“Uhhh… Discharge? Ew. Thankfully, no.”

“Can you milk up some discharge?”

“Can… I… milk… up… some… discharge?!”

The doctor unwrapped a Q-Tip that was about three feet long. “If you can’t milk up some discharge for us to test, I’m going to have to painfully ream out your pee-tunnel with this bad motherfucker,” he said. (Those might not have been his exact words.)

“Fuck! I’m milking! I’m milking!” But it was to no avail. I sat there frantically yanking and tugging on my peener for a full minute, but my sad little pee-hole was as dry as the desert sands. It coughed up a miniature tumbleweed and a few grains of dust, and the doctor smiled as a malignant gleam crept into his eyes.

“No discharge, eh? Taste the brutal Q-Tip of destiny, pee-hole!” (Again, those might not have been his exact words.) He held that fucking thing waaaaay back at one end and with a sniper’s accuracy plunged that thing down a pipe which had until now been an exit-only orifice. My scream, which cracked the glass on his framed diploma, was cut short by a choking cough as the cotton end of the swab made its way up my throat and out my mouth.

He twisted and worked that thing around like he was churning butter, then after what seemed like an eternity withdrew it with a sickening “plop.” When I was done crying he had me fill out a few forms and handed me a bottle of antibiotic pills.

“The lab will contact you with the results for you in two weeks, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “In the meantime, take two of these a day on an empty stomach, and stay away from dairy products. And, um… call me sometime, okay?”

The clinic called two weeks later. Turned out nothing was wrong with me. Or with my pee-hole, anyway. Except for a lingering soreness.

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