Coworker finished his anecdote earlier. His girlfriend was in a bar. Stupid friends. Bad ending.

He’s a funny guy, and during the course of the past eight months, I have realized I can let a bit more of my past come to light. Illegal past? No. Morally reprehensible? Absolutely. Funny? Indeed. PG stuff. PG-13 even. I’ve been reserved for some time in the workplace. Believe it or not.

Fuck it. On the elevator as we leave work for the day, I sincerely allow a little gem from back in the day.

Yadda-yadda-yadda “I was 26 and drinking too much.” Yadda-yadda-yadda. “Met imbecile girl in a bar.” Yadda-yadda-yadda “Of course, almost any girl who frequents a bar is a dolt who is one to three drinks shy of spreading her legs.”  Yadda-yadda-yadda. “Except my wife who I met in a bar.”

Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Yadda-yadda-yadda.

Don’t do it, David.

“Girl went home with me.” Yadda-yadda-yadda. “Drank some more with me.” Yadda-yadda-yadda.

All right. Time to back off.

“Told her she was cool.” Yadda-yadda-yadda. “Hook, line, sinker…Like I said, moron…College girl…21.”

NOOOOOOOOO!

“Gave me a beej.”

ENOUGH! YOU CAN STILL TURN BACK!

“Ejaculated in her mouth.”

Ugh. Point of no return.

“Girl too drunk and not prepared. Girl Choked. Girl coughed. Semen came out of her nose.”

LOLOLOLOL!!….LOL?

No reply.

He looked at me in disgust.  Too much info? Damn. Need a time machine.

Fortunately, none of that discourse actually saw the light of day. Until right now, that has been a little tale of nasal annihilation reserved exclusively for close friends.

I guess it’s out in the open now. Really, though, that’s almost irrelevant. I am sure if I had actually regaled Coworker with that gem from days yonder he would have LOLOLOLOL’d. Nevertheless, that piece of honesty, among others, has been pressing against the already fragile shield–that filter that keeps all the absurdity in my head from spilling out all over the place while I’m on a conference call or chatting with otherwise decent people. That little filter has stretched thin. Like Kirstie Alley, it’s reached critical mass, and one of these days, it’s going to split, letting all my gooey, not-so-profound idiocy out.

It’s because I haven’t come back here for a while. I haven’t done any writing in a while, unless you count Twitter or text messaging.

I love writing. Love it. And I haven’t done it in a while. And I feel backed up mentally. I usually don’t write anything groundbreaking here. For the most part it’s a soapbox for my ramblings–a place where I can craft the illusion–at least for myself–that people care what I think. At the end of the day, though, it’s a place where I can write. And I need to. I have a book collecting dust that needs my attention. I have another book in my brain that needs to come out. And I need this blog to shoot me back there. I need to make some of you laugh. I need to make some of you ask, “What is this idiot doing here?” I need to jerk my brain off to let some of this backed-up nonsense out–even if it’s just for a brief moment of satisfaction.

Unbelievably, I have received a fair amount of emails asking where I’ve been, when I’m going to post again and what happened to TSAT (It’s dead, people).

So, I am promising myself and the tens of my readers out there that I am back to write. At least once a week–more if I get a little too obsessed–I will put something here. As always, it won’t be groundbreaking, but it will be from me.

And, I am sure my legion of adoring readers will likely wonder what I have been up to for the past almost year.

Here’s the breakdown:

Met the best thing I ever created.

Continued to fall in love with my beautiful wife over and over again.

Realized this is what happens to me if I forget to take my medicine for one day:

Stopped working for a company with great people but run by Mormons with shitty business sense, no decency and a list of corrupt clients.

Began working for a great company with great people, great bosses with great business sense who support a great list of clients

Got an iPhone, finally rendering it cool and not douchey

Proudly saw my brother become a professional chef

Pissed off a Michael Jackson fan (see my reply). Lisa Shetler was actually referring to this post

Realized that my most popular post here is about the Room Store lady (See some of these people’s comments. You people are pervs. Post about this coming soon)

Celebrated three years of sobriety

Stopped liking Kieth Olberman

Continued to like Rachel Maddow

Began liking Bill O’Reilly again

Continued to hope Michael Moore chokes on one of his chins

Viewed entirely too much online porn

Ran McAffee Virus scan more often than most people

Briefly considered converting to Islam

Decided I don’t wear underwear and enjoy bathing, so quickly decided against converting to Islam

Considered Scientology but realized I am too scared of aliens

Considered returning to Catholicism and then considered returning my sacraments because athiesm is just easier

Decided this guy is one of the funniest tweeters of all time

Learned Dee Tremendous took me off his links, became sad (seriously)

I think that’s it. As I was defatassing on the elliptical earlier, I thought of a million cool things I’ve done. Unfortunately, I can’t remember. Maybe I need Aricept.

Peace out, bizznatches!

-David

I will update soon.

I swear.

Your mom.

- David C. Garcia, slacker

Listen you inpatient bastards, I haven’t updated in over a week because I am all busy with my new adorable poop/scream/fart machine and a new job.

I have a lot of stuff to update, so bear with me and I promise to resume with the funny/badassery.  Don’t take me off of your freakin’ blogroll or else…

This is me (I’m pretty sure that’s a boy):

-David C. Garcia, something something witty…

A few years ago, I was chatting with Rev. Brandon J. Carr, and I mentioned something using the word “origin.”  I probably said something like, “The origin of my badassery is kept secret because of the implications it would have on society and all that we perceive as ‘cool’ and ‘awesome.”  Or something.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“What?”

“How did you say ‘origin’?”

Motherfucker questioning my grammar.  Normally I’d cap a bitch with crazy, silly wit, but I entertained Brandon’s stupid question.

“O-ri-gin,” I said with confidence.

“You mean ‘OR-GIN’?”

“No, stupid.  O-RI-GIN.  It’s pronounced how it’s spelled.  What are you, some sort of retarded…um…retard?”

After a long, heated argument involving repeated use of the words “idiot,” “dolt,” “dick-wrangler” and “cracker” I finally conceded defeat.

I had been using “origin” incorrectly.  Like all the time.  And I say “origin” a lot.

This raised a few questions:

One–How come nobody else ever called me on that?  Was it because people were being nice/didn’t want me to call them a “dick-wrangler?”  Two–How many times had I said “O-RI-GIN” when I was trying to sound all smart?  Three–Why put a fucking “i” in “origin” if I’m not supposed to use it?  That’s so dumb.  And why sound out the “i” when you say “original?”  This shit is way confusing.

It’s standard protocol for me to obsess on things, so the aforementioned questions quickly dissolved, and I began to look at this whole “origin” thing as part of a larger conspiracy.  Against me.  Because I’m not nuts.  And people and things really are out to get me.

Where am I going with this?  I’ll tell you.

It’s my parents’ fault.  They did this to me.

They taught me the word “O-RI-GIN.”  And they did it knowing full well that I would go through life sounding like a complete jackhole.

What the fuck, mom and dad?!

(To be continued…)

Born 1:51 PM (June 30, 2009)

And the obligatory Toxie cameo

-David C. Garcia, dad

Seriously, peace out.  You ruled.

- DAVID C. GARCIA, BILLY MAYS FAN!!!!!!

This is just hysterical.

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

I don’t know if it’s my subconscious’ way of dealing or not.  I found out one week ago that the job I’ve been working at for 7+ years is being put down in four months.  I have yet to feel any real emotion about it.  I’m completely ambivalent, maybe even a bit cheery about it.

So I took Rowdy out for a walk after work.

I had a mixture of emotions when I saw it: rage and complete terror.  I have no idea why.  It was the most average mediocre tree ever.  

It didn’t hover or act menacing.  It was just kind of there, being a flimsy 35, 40-foot tree that would possibly impress Charlie Brown.

Maybe.

In a timeless moment, I saw this tree split down the middle, forming two arm-like appendages and push itself out of the ground, no head to crown from the filthy whore womb of Mother Earth.  Just shoulders starting where the head would be—where the head should have been.  And as it sprouted from the ground, it screamed and made my tears squeeze out with panic.  And my tears burned my face.  And the burning made me angry.  And with that anger, I clenched my teeth until the weakened capillaries of my gums, still thinned from a decade of smoking burst and flooded my mouth with warm, iron blood.

And there were no roots.  Ever–there had probably never been roots.  Just two knobby, sinewy legs that had been immersed in the dirt for however many years it took that beast to form unnoticed.  And it walked toward me, each step a quick, snapping movement.

And the terror in me became so unbearable that I had no choice but to lunge at this tree.  It screamed as I tore into it.  My fingertips splitting, I used the bones in the tips of my digits to tear into the bark and exposed what looked like bovine flesh.  And I tore into it and pulled out the meat and I ate it.  And as it squealed in anger, I scramble even higher to the top of the trunk where the shoulders hung from.  With the rage of a million murderers, just awakened from a restful sleep I roared, and I bit into the nook where the shoulders split or met.  And I chewed and chewed.  And my mouth made acid.  I chewed the corrosive juices into the menace like a Gila monster.  And it dissolved the bark, and the leaves, and the stubborn branches that scratched at my face in a last ditch effort to save it.

When I was done, the tree was a pile of mulch inside of a cage.

Then time started again.

So I kept walking the dog.

- David C. Garcia

I have a personal fantasy.  It involves my zombie mascot (name pending) hanging out with a sick pig and an Ethiopian.  Rev. Brandon J. Carr made that shit come true like an Arab genie.  Thanks, homeslice:

- David C. Garcia, happier than a retard