I’m seriously really upset this guy left us. Like way more sad than the passing of MJ and the rest of this week’s Celebrity DeathFest 2009 participants. I think it’s because Billy Mays just seemed to be a regular guy. A nice, happy, motivated regular guy.
Anyway, here’s a pretty neat tribute comic. 
(source: http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20090629)
-David Garcia, Still way sad
Seriously, peace out. You ruled.
- DAVID C. GARCIA, BILLY MAYS FAN!!!!!!
I had a delightful conversation with my wife the other day in which she suggested, no, insisted, that I was an elitist, a cynic and a pessimist.
I gave Meggie a “sincere” thumbs-up to let her know “she was right.” Then I asked her to go make me a sandwich because “these pants aren’t tightening themselves.”
Her rolling eyes told me she was about to be super-obedient, so I was way shocked when she got up and left to mess around on the computer my study, a place where there most certainly ISN’T delicious sandwich meat and tasty fixings.
I briefly entertained the notion that my lovely wife was looking up amazing sandwich recipes or that maybe there was a hoagie shop in my study. Then I realized that despite my best efforts, I’m pretty much the world’s worst domineering husband.
“Okay, I’ll get my own sandwich, babe! I love you!”
That’s how I roll, bitches. Domesticated like a motherfucker.
Still, as I made my mega-meaty sandwich and cursed Jesus for making me forget to buy Miracle Whip, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she (Meggie, not Jesus) said. Sure, I’m an elitist and sure, I am a cynic. But pessimist? I don’t want to be a Núñez Negativo (that’s Spanish for Negative Núñez, putos). Then it came to me.
I need a fucking Predator Drone!
Holy shit, if I had a drone, I could stop being a pessimist because I could obliterate everything that makes me furious. And dear God, there are so many things that fuel my rage:
First thing I would take out would be The Hills. That show is so insipid, and whenever Meggie watches it, a piece of me dies. Hopefully, all The Girls Next Door would be around and taken out as collateral damage when my drone’s “missile of justice and awesomeness” hit. Especially Kendra. That retard makes me want to punch really helpless things really hard.
Oh, and also Chris Crocker. Is he still relevant? Was he ever? I don’t know, but his whining still haunts me. Go get Chris Crocker, Predator Drone! Get him with your STFU gun so I never have to see this again!
After all The Hills are destroyed, and all The Girls Next Door are incinerated, and Chris Crocker is liquefied, my drone would self-pilot over to Twitter and drop a massive payload on every green-tinted avatar showing support for the Iranian election trending topic. My drone, fully self aware and capable of rational thought, would know that most people green-blasting their avatars don’t even know where Iran is or what the fundamental structure of their government is (hint: it’s not really secular). Following the elimination of green from the color spectrum, my drone would nuke the bejesus out of any tweeter who habitually uses “marketing” and “SEO” or who thought it would be cool to send me a #spymaster request.
After purging Twitter of things that bother me, my Predator Drone would stop off at Fuddruckers to get me an ostrich burger and then take off on its next mission: Find and destroy Shia Labeouf. Here’s the thing, I really don’t have the same problem all of you have with Shia. I just don’t want him to be in Transformers 2. We already had enough “story” in the first film. Now, all I want is two hours of robots beating the shit out of each other. Shia will just take away from that, and as such, he must go. I’d like to imagine that as I took my final dramatic bite of my delicious ostrich burger, I’d hear a high-pitched squeal in the distance as Shia gets drOWNED by a Predator laser beam (Drones have lasers, right? No? Whatever. Mine will.).
Ostrich burgers always make me sleepy, so I’d take a nap, and when I woke up, the following would also be super extinct, courtesy of my Predator Drone:
bills
work
uneventful poops
homemade commercials
dance shows
Lady Gaga (I don’t even know anything about her. I just hate her name. BOOM!)
wait staff who talk to me like a pal
shaving
Auto Tune
possums
Patrick Swayze’s cancer
Scott Stapp
Nickelback
the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs (asshole)
My Predator Drone would kick so much ass and make me so much happier. When Meggie explained that I was an elitist and a cynic, I’d agree. When she added, “And you are so happy.” I’d turn to my Predator Drone, give an approving wink. Then I’d let off a triumphant, 80s-era cartoon end-of-episode laugh as it jokingly flew off into the sunset.
Someone get me a Predator Drone!
- David C. Garcia, aspiring optimist
Listen, I’m delighted you all have decided to join the Iran cause. I see all of your green avatars. And even though I know that most of you really have no real knowledge of the situation (C’mon, you know you don’t), I applaud your determination to ‘make a difference.’ Your green avatars on Twitter are the new “Live Strong” bracelets.
I went ahead and made my own Twitter avatar to show my support.
-David C. Garcia, just followin’ the crowd
EDIT: It was brought to my attention that the previous image “blended in too much.” I went ahead and made a more apparent avatr.
There’s a special dance in Iran that involves getting dressed up in green shirts and beating the shit out of flaming motorcycles. It’s usually done around voting time.
If anything, this is why you should get a Twitter account. So that I can make you laugh all day with my Iranian politics tweets.
Image source: The Globe and Mail
A few hot summer days ago, I was sitting around in my ill-fitting tighty-whities, sipping warm flat soda with the AC turned off and watching The People’s Court (wait, is that still on? Great, I just fucked up the continuity of my true story).
Whatever. Tighty-whities, warm beverage on a hot day. People’s Court.
Meggie, 1,000 months pregnant at this point, “gracefully” made her way into the living room in an obvious panic.
I couldn’t really understand what she was saying because I had the TV turned way up. All I could hear was the judge’s gavel destroying the bench, as he shouted “order!” and “shut the *BLEEP* up!” at the greasy Mexican migrant worker and fat trailer trollette accusing said Mexican of owing her five bucks. I scratched my sweaty, hair-matted belly and wondered if that Mexican dude had ever drilled his bleach-blond accuser.
“David! Are you listening to me?” Meggie shrieked.
“Oh yeah, totally.”
“Well?” She tapped her domestic foot. I saw my yet-to-be-born baby shift, making her belly move, and I thought of Alien.
“……..” I glanced at the TV and saw the Mexican dude making out with the whore plaintiff. “Yeah, he totally test drove that,” I thought to myself. And apparently out loud.
“Test drove what, David?….I don’t care. You were supposed to be at work two hours ago! Go put on some pants and go!”
I casually got up, shook the sweat off my torso like the furry love hound that I am and grabbed my pants off the floor.
Nobody was going to question my punctuality at work because I put on my special pants. My magic pants.
My badass pants!
I put on my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans, motherfucker!
Nobody fucks with Daddy when he’s wearing his motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. And for the most part, all I wear are my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. Logic would therefore dictate that for the most part, nobody ever fucks with me.
These badass jeans are so magnificent and so tapered that I don’t even have to tight roll them. All I have to do is roll them up, and it’s automatically a tightroll. And they have my badass man smell all over them because I only wash them once a month or so. That’s not sweat and parmesan you smell when I walk past you. That’s power and triumph.
And they are so acid-washed. It looks like a bleach monster with severe allergies sneezed super hard all over them.
Because my badass motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans are the symbol of power, strength, masculinity and virility, they’re not sold at your average clothing retailer. They have to be found.
And I know where to find them: Goodwill.
Goodwill is pretty much the only place I shop for clothes. You know that sleeveless shirt with Garfield on it that I always wear? The one where Garfield’s wearing oversized sunglasses and crossing his arms all cool-like? Yeah, that one. I got that at Goodwill. Same with my giant high-tops and that weird clown painting.
Every few months, I go to Goodwill and drop a couple Washington’s on a new pair of motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. I don’t even wait to go home and put them on. I tell the retard behind the counter to turn his lumpy head around so I can slide into my new gear on the spot.
When I walk out, jeans clenching my ankles and snuggling my berries, I make sure to keep my wedding ring visible. Because I know that the bitches can’t resist a man in acid-washed jeans.
So, if you’re in the market to boost your badassness, I recommend you consider getting motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.
And in case you are wondering, when I went to work, my red-with-envy boss told me, “Leave this fucking office right now and don’t come back until you are dressed like a professional and not a homeless junkie.”
When I came back in a few hours later was I wearing anything other than my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans? Hell no! A badass never compromises his style and convictions.
David C. Garcia, tapered, acid-washed jeans wearing motherfucker
It’s no secret. I have bladder issues. I have to urinate frequently. Like way frequently.
It’s not that I have a small bladder. I used to think this was the case, but then I realized that for the first time in my life I was wrong…ish.
I drink tons of liquid, and for the most part, all the liquid is a diuretic. Soda, coffee….soda. Some water when Meggie nags me. When I used to drink, the amount of beer I drank quickly proved the old adage that “you only rent beer.” It got to be so bad that as I sat in my lonely apartment guzzling beer after 40 after beer after 40 that I would use the empty 40 bottles to piss in so that I didn’t have to make so many trips to the bathroom. By the way, if you ever find the need to piss into a 40 bottle, choose Hurricane bottles over the others. The wide mouth on The Natural Disaster really reduces stray urine from spraying on your hands and pets. On a side note, you know how urine kind of looks like beer? I have a funny story about that….
So I have to piss regularly and it’s not that my bladder is too small. I think I just have a really entitled bladder. If my bladder were a public figure, it would be Paris Hilton. Totally undisciplined and maybe even a bit retarded. Always getting what it wants. And what it wants is to pee all the time. Right now. Be right back.
Meggie nagged me incessantly, mainly because the pause button on our DVD remote has been worn down from the amount of times I’ve asked, “Would you mind pushing pause, Toots? Daddy’s gotta drain his lizard again.” Finally I caved and agreed to tell my doctor.
And I told him.
And he prescribed DetrolLA to me.
Great. I don’t mind telling people I’m on crazy pills. But bitchy bladder pills? Fuck!
- David C. Garcia, frequent urinator
Drag Me To Hell’s tagline:
Christine Brown has a good job, a great boyfriend, and a bright future. But in three days, she’s going to hell.
Reasons to see this movie:
Reasons not to see this movie:
This movie was so much fun. It retained the campiness, humor and crudeness of Evil Dead and Army of Darkness. But it also brought the horror. Like real horror. Go check it.
EDIT: Go read my friend Retainer Girl’s hilarious post on DMTH: http://retainergirl.blogspot.com/2009/06/drag-me-to-hell.html
On a totally unmrelated side note:
The world’s most pointless machine.
One of my coworkers just watched this and said, “Wow. I can relate to that. That’s like my life.”
- David C. Garcia, button giver
I started following this dude on Twitter named @bigbadblackwolf - I think the only actual adjective that may be truly applicable is “big.” Something tells me this fella is a fucking tub. Maybe not. Probably, though. If he’s not fat, he’s giant and hulking like that Sasquatch in Type-O Negative.
Anyway, I checked out the dude’s site, and he sells demons. Not kidding. This dude sells fucking demons. And apparently vampires and dragons, too. On e-Bay. I considered posting some lines from Big Black Wolf’s site, but there was just so much. Go check it out — www.demonsrule666.com –Comedy gold.
Anyway, I decided to start up a Twitter conversation with Black Wolf. For the most part he replied to my questions indirectly, and instead of using the proper @ response, addressed all answers to the entirety of his Twitter following.
Remember, this demon-wrangler is 100% serious.
I start off like any smart customer would…when inquiring into demons.
And he hooks me up with the info.
Word. Word. My interest was piqued. But I like to know that the demons I buy will be a good investment. I don’t want a lemon demon.
No reply. I dig deeper.
The seasoned demon retailer could tell I was not just your run-of-the-mill customer. But I think my question regarding demons’ tax capabilities irked him.
Now that I was aware of what demons could do (or not do) for me financially, I decided to get some info on how a a newly introduced demon would get along with my wife.
He quickly replied.
Oh snap! A demon master! Apparently not a comma master, though. It was at this point that he stopped replying directly to me and started answering my questions for all of Twitter to see.
I was delighted to see that he was a cautious retailer. Like the Chinese salesman in Gremlins He didn’t want to let his product into the wrong hands. Still, I felt it was a bit unfair for him to assume I wouldn’t be able to handle the great responsibility that comes with owning a demon. I inquired into his demon-owner vetting process…
I think Big Bad Black Wolf thought I was second-guessing his demon knowledge…
Damn, Black Wolf. Chill, homie! I decided to calm the little fella down by presenting my consumer questions in a way that would allow him to feel like he was in charge.
And with that, he was back.
Whoa! Something in that sentence had something to do with someone’s body, mind and wallet! But I wanted to know more.
He replied.
I don’t know why everyone hates Vista so much. I don’t think Vista “SUX.” Then again, I’m not a world-renowned Demon retailer. I wondered why his demons would not work on Microsoft, though…
No reply, so I went ahead and closed up, reassuring him that I was indeed interested in getting some demons.
Thus ended my most recent adventure with another crazy on Twitter. If you have a Twitter account, follow @bigbadblackwolf. Totally worth it. And if you have a few dollars laying around, go buy a demon from his e-bay store.
- David C. Garcia, first time demon buyer
I decided to give my blog that title because as I was writing this particular gem of a post, a coworker pal came in and explained, “I think Fortune Gourmet gave me Hepatitis A.” I just thought that was really funny, and even though there’s no good way to segue from my buddy’s comment about the liver disease he got from our local Chinese food restaurant into the subject of this post, I felt it would be important to disclose.
All right, onward.
There’s no arguing. I’m an attention whore and currently recovering from years of self-centeredness. Is that a word? “Self-Centeredness?” Spellcheck says it is.
Really, though, I think I’m really, REALLY imporatnt. That’s why I have a blog, Twitter and Facebook accounts and a serenity-destroying voice that is perpetually set to “unleashed.” I need to make sure I’m heard. Constantly.
I totally lie to people and tell them that I’ve made leaps and bounds during the past few years–that I am humbled and only kind of important. I’m sure they believe me. Or not. They probably don’t believe me. Whatever, irrelevant.
Last night I had a dream that I was hanging out with friends and family. Their focus, of course, was on me. I was telling them something really important about something I wrote and posted on my blog. I am not kidding. In my dream, I was demanding the attention of friends and family as I boasted about my most recent juvenile ramblings shat all over the Interwebz via my website.
[NOTE: I don't want to hear a single dream analysis.]
They were all paying attention to me until someone brought in their fucking baby. Then they turned their attention to that baby, leaving me to explain my most recent literary masterpiece to myself. I was pissed. That baby didn’t post a goddamned blog. He can’t even talk for fuck’s sake. How is shitting your diaper and not speaking in complete sentences interesting?
Ugh.
And I know that little bundle of rudeness wasn’t mine because my kid’s gonna know not to interrupt Daddy when Daddy’s talking about his blog or whatever else Daddy wants to discuss. My kid’s going to be born with manners and totally rule.
I got super-pissed when I realized I was talking into thin air. I left the room we were in, stepped outside and deflated the car tires of everyone who stopped listening to me.
When I woke up, I realized that as much progress as I have lied about making, my dream persona is a stubborn fuck and hasn’t changed a bit. Such a character. ELL-OH-ELL.
On a side note, someone just e-mailed this Cyanide and Happiness strip to me, and I realized this is totally a prediction of my parenting future:
-David C. Garcia, narcissist and soon to be badass father extraordinaire
