It’s the name of the book. 

I will be sharing it with a select group of people while Jess Glass (who has been infinitely awesome in this whole process) and I try and do query letters.

- David C. Garcia

I was walking Sir Rowdimus Megatron today, and for the first time, it hit me: I have finished my book!  Then another thing hit me: My mother and my parents-in-law may read this book.  My kid may pick up the old man’s book someday.

I considered puking from the stress.

Okay, there really is a lot more content to this book than vulgarity.  Nevertheless, I wanted to see what my book might be rated if some sort of board on obscenity was reading it.  So I went ahead and did some word counts.

Seriously, I need to stress this: there is some socially redeeming content to this book.

Whatever.

I plan to have a much larger update on the book tomorrow, but for now, here are some key words and the frequency at which they occurred in my nearly 100,000-word book:

Fuck/Fucking: 493 times
Beer: 423 times
Alcohol: 141 times
Sex: 90 times
Love: 88 times
Hate/Hated/Hating: 78 times
Booze: 61 times
Bitch: 52 times
Codeine: 46 times
Happy: 43 times
Coke: 38 times
Reptilian: 37 times
Drugs: 35 times
Kill: 33 times
Reptile: 28 times
Cum: 28 times
Craving: 7 times
Cocaine: 7 times
Recover/Recovery/Recovered: 6 times
Abortion: 5 times

Check back tomorrow or sometime this week.

- David C. Garcia

Last night, Meggie and I were talking, and she called me an elitist.  She said my elitism is even more pronounced when I get around Rev. Brandon J. Carr.

“Sometimes, when you two get around each other, it drives me nuts.  You two egg each other on.  It’s like you guys think you are better than everyone and everything.”

Whatever.  She just doesn’t get it.

Anyway, in one way or another, our conversation quickly turned to the subject of my recent blog in which I suggest, no STATE, that carpenter pants are ridiculous.

“How are carpenter pants ridiculous?  What is wrong with you?  Is there nothing that is good enough for you?”

“You are, babe.  You’re good enough for me.  Everything else, however, is wrong.”

——-

So here’s another post about clothes.  Jesus.  My site is becoming a fashion blog.  Today’s subject is pants.  I’ll be going through a short list of pants that are wrong/ridiculous/stupid/nonsensical/etc. and explaining why I feel this way about them and why you should too.

CARPENTER PANTS

Are you a carpenter?  No?  Then don’t wear carpenter pants!  Look at them.  There’s a loophole for a hammer and some stupid pocket for a ruler or some other tool carpenters use.  These pants are for holding tools, and unless you are a carpenter wearing these pants, YOU are the tool.  I’m going to start calling people out for wearing these things.  Like if I’m out in public getting nachos or doing something else awesome, and I see someone wearing these pants, I am going to ask them to build me something like a barn.  If they refuse, I will call them out for being a fraud.

Carpenter pants are for tools!

JNCO JEANS/GIANT PANTS

These pants became popular in the early 90s when I was still a retarded teenager.  Don’t get me wrong, I was a relatively awesome/totally badass teenager, but I was still a docuhebag.  It’s part of life.  There is no such thing as a teenager who isn’t in one way or another plagued with elements of douchebaggery.  Look it up.  That’s a fact.

I remember I had a pair of Jnco jeans when I was in 9th grade.  This was before this particular style of pants had exploded in both popularity and size.  Nevertheless, they were still a bit bigger than normal pants.  I wore the pants to school one day.  When I got to school, wearing said jeans, my prom date told me she was cancelling our date so she could kick it with the Nigerian kid.  Then I failed all my classes.  And then the principal LITERALLY beat the shit out of me.  It was obvious these pants were not the right fit.

Jnco jeans and other giant jeans are stupid.  And they have only gotten bigger and dumber.  I was driving downtown the other day, and I saw some kid wearing Jnco-style pants.  He had like 1,000 pieces of metal stuck in his face and an attitude that screamed, “I smoke pot out of apples, and my fascist mom and dad can’t do a thing about it!”  When I passed by this kid, the wind blew part of the jeans into my line of view.  I got so mad that I pulled over and threw the 90-lb brat in 50-lb. jeans into a garbage truck.

CAPRI PANTS

Capri pants are dumb.  I am a big fan of committal, and these fashion abortions are the most non-committal things I have ever seen.  Are they pants?  Are they shorts?  I’ll tell you what they aren’t: cool.  Capri pants make me want to throw bunnies and kittens and angels into a freshly-stoked furnace.

The only thing worse than a chick wearing capri pants is a dude wearing capri pants.  I read an article about a group of gay dudes who beat the shit out of a guy who was wearing capri pants because the guy was too gay looking.  True story.

PLAID PANTS/GOLF PANTS

Like Terri Shiavo, these things have died sooner.  Like in the 70s.  And then burned.  And then buried.  Forever.  Plaid pants are so annoying; I actually suffered an aneurysm searching for pictures of them.  Why do these hipsters think it’s cool to wear golf pants?  Oh my God, I am so pissed that golf pants exist that I may actually take a trip to Aokigahara Forest and end it all.

The only person who is allowed to wear golf pants remain awesome is Rodney Dangerfield.  And he’s dead.

SUPERTIGHT EMO PANTS/SKINNY JEANS

Fail.

- David C. Garcia

There are a number of things that perplex me:

Christian Rock
Economic cars with high-end upgrades
The Hills
Fauxhawks
The name “Chance”
Hentai porn
Carpenter pants
Going “green”
Meat-flavored meat substitutes
Rent-to-own
Live strong/any kind of douchey rubber bracelet (insert safe-distance cause)
Creed/Nickelback
Dane Cook/Carlos Mencia/Larry The Cable Guy
Kwanzaa
Chihuahuas being considered “dogs”
Pop Art

And now there’s one other thing: That fucking douchemouth white college kid at Giant yesterday who was wearing a goddamned Rasta hat.

I hate Rastafarianism, Reggae, dreadlocks, Jamaica.  Fuck it. I hate the entire goddamned Caribbean.  Nothing personal.  It’s just that Africa and the Pacific Islands are too far away to hate.  I’ll take the Caribbean to hate.  How can you hate the Caribbean, David?  I’ll tell you why.  Jamaica is there, and Jamaica is where Rasta hats come from.  I think.  Whatever.  I choose to think Rasta hats come from the Jamaica, though.  Bite me.

And there’s really no reason I should hate Rasta hats.  Well, except that they look ridiculous.  They’re not even hats.  They’re just multi-colored bags.  Hats have brims or at least some sort of actual hat form.  Rasta “hats” are not hats any more than Scientology is a religion.

All right.  Deep breath, David.  It’s okay.

Anyway.  If there is anything more annoying that the Caribbean or Jamaica or Scientology or Rasta “hats,” it’s loudmouthed, white liberal arts college kids who wear Rasta hats.  White kids who wear Rasta hats are equally if not more confusing than black guys who wear Klan attire or tall Mexicans.  It’s just not right.

So yesterday, I stopped by Giant to pay an exorbitant amount of money on taco shells and other assorted Mexicanesque food because with the last name Garcia, I am ethnically obligated to eat over-spiced, corn-based food.

The store was busy because it was a bit gusty outside, and whenever there is even a hint of non-placid weather in Virginia, these pussies scramble to the store to stock up on food, fearing God plans to trap them in their homes for weeks on end.  I got into the 15-items or less lane.  A few seconds later, this lanky dickmouth wearing fancy leather coat, sporting a well-groomed goatee and donning a shitty Rasta hat got in line behind me.  And he was WHITE!

White kid, nice leather jacket Mom and Dad bought, a well-groomed goatee.  AND A FUCKING THIRD-WORLD RASTA HAT!  The absurdity/irony did not escape me.  Even before this kid opened his dipshit mouth, I was praying someone would shoot him in the face with a big old cancer AIDS gun.  GRRRR!

What most people refer to the “big things” don’t generally bother me.  It’s these “little things” that weigh me down emotionally and make my blood pressure rise to near fatal levels.

I took a deep breath and pretended the kid wasn’t there.

Then he opened his mouth.  Two customers down, some lady was loading well over 15 items onto the conveyor.  It didn’t bother me.  I assume most people are just stupid, and I figured she couldn’t read the “15 items or less sign” much less count to 15.  Apparently, it bothered my little white Rastafarian pal.

Out loud, so everyone in line could hear, he pointed out.  “That’s…umm…That’s over 15 items there…”  He said it with a slow and apparent passive aggressive drawl that would have made Bill Lumbergh proud.  I let it slide.

But a few seconds later:

“I guess some people just can’t follow the rules.”  Again, loud and apparent.

My heart pumped docuhebag antibodies through my system.  On the plus side, I would not be infected.  The problem is that these antibodies cause extreme frustration.

“Listen, dude.”  I turned around and got an eyeful of Rasta hat.  “She can hear you.  Everyone can hear you.  Get over it.”

“I have a class at 7, and now I’m going to be late.”

I made a quick character assessment of this asshole.  Passive aggressive, young, attention seeking.  There was no way he would actually get physical, so I pushed him further.

“Listen, Bob Marley.  If your class is so important, just come back.  For fuck’s sake.  Just go away and stop spewing the idiocy.”

Whenever I engage in confrontational behavior, my adrenaline rushes, and I felt my insides tremble a bit. 

“Whatever, man.”

“Seriously.  Just go, stupid.”

White guy with Rasta hat walked away, and I felt vindicated.  I could have sworn he uttered “Fuck you” as he strolled off with his “cool guy” swagger.

Ultimately it wasn’t this kid’s loud-mouthed antics that got to me.

It was his ridiculous Rasta hat.

Fuck you, kid.  I hope you get Alzheimer’s.

- David C. Garcia

I’m kind of torn whether or not I should join or not.  Without going into too much detail (I kind of gave my word I’d keep the information quiet), I am contemplating joining a pretty neat forum.

I was sitting at Borders the other day, reading the latest issue of Scientific American, when this strange middle-aged guy came up.

Great, I thought to myself.  A damned Amyway scammer.

He was sipping an herbal tea.  It smelled pungent.  I think it was the tea.  Maybe it was the guy.  He wore a shabby brown sports coat, and maybe the smell was coming off that.  Whatever. 

“How’s it going?”

“I’m not interested.  Amway, right?”

The guy laughed.  “No.  Not Amway.  Mind if I sit down?”

“Umm.  Sure?”

Okay, he was not Amway.  He wasn’t some creepy perv.  He was interested in discussing the accuracies of the Mayan calendar, possible doomsday and 2012 and even extraterrestrial visitors. 

I’m a skeptic, but I listened to him.

And he started to make sense.  I quickly dismissed notions that this guy was one of the local crazies.

He made some fairly interesting points, especially when it came to extraterrestrial correspondence.  I’ve always had this strange feeling that there are in fact intelligent visitors among us.  He explained, in detail, why this may be happening with me - why I may have such strong feelings about this.

That’s all I am going to say about the conversation.  Like I said, I gave my word I would not discuss this matter.  At least for some time.  What I am struggling with now is whether to join this guy’s secret forum, “Pandora’s Forum,” as he kept calling it.  Like-minded people with similar experiences and strange inclinations of possible 2012 doomsday and E.T. connections are enticing, though.

More updates as warranted, but I feel like I may be getting into something that is exceptionally enlightening.  Something  fantastic.  I think I’m in.

- David C. Garcia

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  Meggie was on the phone screaming, no SHRIEKING at me because our pet was out of control.  I was at work.

“David!  Your fucking animal got into the trash and made a fucking mess!  He ate my shoes, chewed a hole into the couch pillows and humped them.  And he also pissed all over the bed!”

“Um..Are you sure it was the little guy and not one of the cats?”  I knew it wasn’t one of the cats, but maybe if I laid the groundwork for some doubt, she would calm down and I could work this in my favor.

“No, David.  It wasn’t one of the fucking cats.”  Meggie was dropping f-bombs - a rare occurrence, so I knew she meant business, and I knew laying the foundation for apprehension was a moot point.  “I know it wasn’t one of the cats because I SAW that little minion pissing on the bed…ON MY PILLOW!  And when I went to swat him off the bed, he lunged at me and tried to molest my leg.”

I just sat there, listening to the angry breathing.  For some reason, I felt that if I kept silent, Meggie would somehow forget about the havoc caused by our little critter.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Sooo?”

“Okay.  I guess we can bring him to the shelter.”

“Nobody’s going to want that little demon seed, David.”

“So, what should I do?”

“I don’t know.  All I know is that your pet is no longer part of this house.”  She stressed “YOUR.”  Like I’m the one who adopted the little hellion.  Women have no sense of accountability.

I get frustrated with Meggie when I’m told something needs to be done but am told than any viable - no RATIONAL option - is not acceptable.  This causes me to turn to my childhood alter ego, Sarcastic Man.

“Fine.  You know what?  I think the shotgun shells are in my closet.  Do me a favor, get them out…You know how to load a shotgun right?  Get the shells, load one into my gun and I’ll take that thing you hate so much out to a field and blast a round into the back of his thick little skull.  Okay?”

“No, David.  That’s horrible.”

“What would you have me do then?  Can’t keep my pet, can’t bring him to a shelter, and I apparently can’t execute him gangland style.”

“Just…I don’t know, David.  We just need to get rid of that beast.”

No.Accountability.Or.Sense.Of.Reason.  Freakin’ women.  I disconnected the call, blared  Judas Priest on my office computer and gave a passing coworker the finger as he walked by.

I love my little monster.  Granted, he has been a bit crazy at times, but you don’t just get rid of pets because they get out of control.  They are living beings.  Just like us.  And they depend on us.

But, I guess I have no other recourse.  I don’t want to have to pop the little fella with a lead game shot, so I am putting out a plea: Someone please adopt a loving pet with a bit of energy.

He is a mixed breed.  He’s got thick black fur with brown furry feet.  He is house trained and loves long walks.  He is an inside pet, but if you have a backyard, he would love to run around in it and chase after the squirrels.  He’s got a beautiful smile, and those sharp little teeth in his mouth are more adorable than threatening.

I’m getting a bit teary-eyed just writing this.

He does get along with strangers, but I recommend having treats on hand to make sure that he warms up to guests.

He eats dry food.  Trust me, you don’t want to get wet food into my little guy’s system.  He’ll stink up the place with some HORRENDOUS gas.

He is also neutered, so don’t worry about him breaking off the leash and running off to find a mate.

And speaking of leashes.  I will go ahead and throw in the choke-chain, leash and collar.  You don’t have to worry about going to buy all that stuff.  It’s free.  So are the chew toys and his little bed.  That little bed he would curl up in at night.  I remember stationing his little bed next to the window so he could look outside.

He’s got all of his shots.  I have the papers.

Anyways, if you can provide a good, loving home to my sweet little pet midget, Sasquatch (I love ironic names), give me a buzz.

- David C. Garcia

Physicians are supposed to be neutral, right?  They’re supposed to be objective and yet maintain an air of concern for their patients, right?

So, why did I feel so self-conscious as I waited in the doctor’s office today?  I was just there to get my crazy pills refilled.  My Polish head doc left town a few months ago, so I’ve had to call in refills at my primary care physician’s office.  Today, though, I had to sit in his office waiting to actually see him. 

It was that uneasy feeling you get like right before a court hearing.  Like that feeling you got when you were a kid and sat waiting for the principal to come in and tear you a new one.

It was shame.  That’s why I felt so small.

The last time Dr. Cook saw me, I was laying, half-conscious, in a hospital bed.  IVs in my arm and doped up on inhuman amounts of Adivan.  Having not bathed in weeks and likely smelling like death, I half-greeted Dr. Cook with an indiscernible gurgle. 

He didn’t say anything to me.  He had seen me in that bed two other times during a three-month period.  Detoxing.

Well, I was better today, but I felt so tense.  I felt guilty.

As to be expected, everything went normal.  He asked how I was.  He asked about my family.  He asked how long I had been sober and if I still “drank a little bit.”

“Nope,” I told him.  “I can’t drink a drop.  I’ll die.”

“Probably.”

He checked my blood pressure, heart rate and gave me a script for more crazy pills.

It went a lot smoother than I expected.  For some reason, I don’t know why, I expected the doctor to come in and yell at me.  Call me a raging lunatic.  To tell me I was a horrible person.  Call me a drunk.  A piece of garbage.

Deep down, I knew that wouldn’t happen, and it didn’t, but it’s what I expected for some reason.

I had been dreading that doctor’s visit since I got sober almost two years ago.  I think it was healthy to face that irrational fear, though.

Now, I have to go make a dentist appointment. THOSE fuckers guilt everyone, so I’ve heard.  Irrelevant.  They’re not even real doctors.

- David C. Garcia