I was watching Ice Road Truckers a few weeks ago and I have concluded I want to be a trucker. I don't plan on trucking for any longer than a year, but then again, I don't want to make any promises. Trucking is like the saying, "once you go black, you never go back." It's a way of life and once you're in- you're in. Luckily, I know a ton about rigs because I watch Trick My Truck on CMT and pass a lot of trucks on the highway. Sometimes I move my arm up to and down when I see a truck which causes my fellow trucker to beep his horn as a sign of respect. So even though I already have the respect from my fellow truckers, I want to experience a couple of their perks.

-Hot Hookers
Everyone knows truckers get the hottest and craziest hookers this country has seen since Martha Washington and all of Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate slave wives.

-Big Penis
Some people buy fast or expensive cars to compensate for small genitalia, but it's a known fact truckers are have the largest extremities, therefore they drive the biggest vehicles sanctioned by the highway and safety administration.

-The Community
Truckers are always looking out for each other. If you ever pass a trucker, you'll most likely notice how they always stare down and look at your little peering head. The reason they do this is not to satisfy curiosity but to make sure everything is OK down below. If they care enough to check on that SUV driving MILF or a young couple engaging in road head, then just think about how much they care about their peers.

-Truck Stops
The average American has never stopped at a truck stop. The average trucker has made love, ate a meal, got into a fight, went streaking, got drunk, got high, had more sex, passed out, and motor boated a floozy in one visit to a truck stop.

-Music
Truckers can listen to Jerry Reed's, "East Bound and Down"

Pappas Family Dinner Conversations.

Throughout the years, for me, family dinner has always been one of the most interesting parts of my day. The different topics covered go from average daily wish-wash to discussions of Koko the Gorilla and her ability to communicate through sign language. Before I delve into examples of past family dinners I will give a brief synopsis of both myself and the members of my family, for those of you who don’t know them personally.

Mom:
Name – Marie-Jose
Birthplace – Mont-sur-Guesnes, France. Comparable to a small catholic community in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska.
Religion – Somewhere between French-Catholic and “I go to church once in a while”
Favorite Joke – “Two guys at an insane asylum are painting a ceiling, one is atop
A ladder, the other, holding the ladder, says to the painter, ‘I’m taking the ladder!’ the other responds, ‘that’s ok, I’m holding onto the brush!”
Hates it when… - I imitate her accent.
Loves… - Gardening and Writing in her agenda.
Is hopeless when it comes to… - Being explained which team is UofM during a football game.

Pops:
Name: Kostas (Gus)
Birthplace – Akron, Ohio. Comparable to Flint in the mid-seventies.
Religion – Transcendental Taoist
Favorite Joke – Unknown
Hates it when… - I talk loud and I don’t shut the back gate.
Loves… - Trying not to laugh at my jokes, blaming me for anything, correcting grammar, jumping on and off the UofM football bandwagon.
Is hopeless when it comes to… - Math


Brother:
Name: Alexander
Birthplace – Ann Arbor, MI.
Religion – Unknown
Favorite Joke – “What’s the worst thing about rollerblading…? Telling your parents you’re gay.”
Hates it when… - I bump into him while walking down the sidewalk.
Loves… - Whiskey, Women, Sub sandwiches, and wielding the TV remote.
Is hopeless when it comes to… - Impersonating Bob Dylan.



Me:
Name: Phill
Birthplace – Ann Arbor, MI.
Religion – Doesn’t really affect me.
Favorite Joke – “A Priest and a Rabbi are walking down the street when they see a 10 year old boy playing on the sidewalk. The Priest looks at the Rabbi and say, “You want to fuck him?” the Rabbi responds, “Out of what?””
Hate it when… - Women lie to you about being pregnant just to test you for some stupid reason.
Loves… - Whiskey, Women, Sub sandwiches, and wielding the TV remote.
Is hopeless when it comes to… - Graduating from college


Ok, now that you know the characters that we are dealing with, here goes.

Dinner on a Wednesday: June 14th 1992.
“Time for Dinner Boys!” says mom at the bottom of the second floor stairs. “COMING!!” the boys yell from upstairs. She walks back over to the kitchen and yells into the basement where her husband is undoubtedly doing laundry, listening to NPR, and continuing an hour-long conversation with the house cat, Daisy, who is madly in love with him. He gives Daisy his best, routinely shuts off the lights and radio, much like he has done thousands of times before, and begins to walk up the stairs. The smell of steak and potatoes is intoxicating. “BOYS, DINNER!!” she yells again, this time with a hint of agitation in her voice. Footsteps rumble down the stairs with much more force than should be possible for seven and eleven year old boys. They run straight to the table and sit down. “Phill, get the milk” says Alex “No Way Jos?you get the damn milk” responds
Phill. “Watch your mouth bubba,” responds the father. “Sorry Pops” the boy responds, he knows swearing isn’t appreciated, but he also knows that when used in a proper context he will be able to get away with it more and more. Alex says, “You should get the milk because you are the youngest and I am the oldest.” “You should get the milk because you are the Gayest!” Phill responds. “Ahh NO, you will not eat tonight if you talk like this,” says the mother, her sensibilities tell her that there must be a way to remedy such crass and vulgar speech out of her youngest’s mouth. “Sorry mama” Phill responds with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s okay Mon Cherie, who wants their steak done Medium? “I do!” both boys respond in unison. Reneging Alex responds, “Actually, I want mine medium well.” Upon hearing this Phill alters his order as well. “Well, you both are going to have to take medium, because I’m not putting them back in the pan.” “Is that because you don’t love us?” says Phill. Both parents laugh and smile and say of course not, and then they explain that it’s been a tough day of work for mom and she is tired and wants to eat. Alex is older and understands that his mom wants to relax and enjoy her family time, a very empathetic eleven year old. Phil stares at his mother blankly and wonders why the woman in front of him is wearing an apron that says, ‘IT’S MY KITCHEN’ but she won’t man up to the task. “Weak” he says under his breath. “What was that?” she snaps at him, “ahhh I said STEAK” he meekly replies knowing that he almost blew it. “I want mine well-done ma-dear” Kostas says. “I know honey, it’s already been on the pan for 10 minutes and I will leave it on for 5 more.” “You know dad…” says Alex quite astutely, “I heard that if you leave a steak on for too long it cooks all the nutrition out of it” “Really..?” says dad, “… and where did you hear this?” “We were learning about nutrition today at school, and my teacher said it.” “Fascinating, but see because of my religion I’m not allowed to have any meat that is still red on the inside when it’s ready to be eaten,” dad says this all too convincingly and adds another harmless line of bullshit into the two youths minds. “What religion is that pops?” asks a now seemingly intrigued Phill. “I’m a Philanthropist bubba, it’s the religion that was named after your great-grandfather, Philanthropist Pappas.” Alex giggles due to his extensive knowledge on the word knowing that it actually means ‘he who helps the homeless,’ somewhat incorrect. “When I grow up I’m gonna be a Philanthropist too!” says Phill, “Just like my great-granddaddy.” Mijo walks back from the kitchen with her husband’s steak and sets the scintillating meat on his plate. “Mmmmmmmm, it looks great” he replies. “Can we start?” the boys ask curiously. “Yes” Mom replies, and while the others dive into their meals she takes a moment to soak it all in, a process she repeatedly enjoys at dinner. A few minutes pass. “So ma-dear…” asks Kostas, “how was your day?” With gratitude that someone at the table has an interest in her day she responds, “Well, lets see, I got to school at 7:15am, and then I finished up some work before classes… and I had class all day….” “MMM how interesting” her husband replies. “That’s about as interesting as my poop this morning” says Phill. “Don’t make fun of your mother, let her finish.” “…. Oh I almost forgot a certain someone at school got caught drinking on the job when she fell over in the middle of the lunch room then threw up on a seventh grader.” All three boys are now much more intrigued by the prospect of juicy faculty gossip entering the sanctity of the dining room. “Who was it?” asks Alex, “Yea, who was it” echo’s his brother. “Ah No! I cannot say, but, Kostas I will tell you later.” “What a gyp” says Phill “now that story is useless.” Phill focuses back on his food, well not so much his food, but his knife, which he begins to play with. The conversation continues… “So what about your day Alexander?…” asks the father, “…Stop playing with your knife!” “Well, after I got to school with mom, I spent the first 45 minutes before school finishing homework and I helped a girl named Jessie do hers.” “That’s great,” says dad, “and how did you and Jessie do on your assignments?” “Well, I got an A, but I don’t know what she got.” “See bubba, that’s why staying focused in school is so important, so that you can do well and also help others to do well.” Dad says this with a deep belief in the importance of staying focused. After all, he received 4 certificates throughout his academic career, three for never missing a day of school in elementary, middle, and high school, and one for valedictorian of his high school. He is one of the pillars for youth focus. Phillip is, however, unfocused, and he pays his father no attention. With a slight hesitation in his voice and the collective rolling of eyes between wife and first son that they are going to hear something astoundingly absurd Kostas asks, “So… what about you bubba, what did you do today? The youngest child’s mind snaps from his ADHD torn reality to answer the question. “We had our last day of sex-ed today in Mr. Gaynor’s class. It was sooooo funny, we learned about gay people.” Food gently falls out of the open mouth of his mother. Alex laughs, expectantly knowing what’s coming next. With a light smirk his father asks, “And what did you learn about ‘gay people’?” “That it’s either two guys or two girls and they have sex differently than normal people, and that sometimes, the guys can get stuck.” Mom hides her smile behind the tipping glass of wine in front of her lips. “NO they don’t!” says Alex. “And who told you that they get stuck?” says his father. “Well, teacher said that they have to do it through their butt-holes, and he said that can cause problems.” “Well, I’m at least glad that they decided to get an early start on important topics,” says mom. “Why is being gay an important topic?” asks Phill. “Well, it’s important to understand other people’s sexual preferences so that you can respect them, and then you won’t judge them for any wrong reasons,” she responds. Giggling out of control he says, “That’s the gayest answer I’ve ever heard.” From this point the meal takes on a much different tone. “Philippe, don’t talk like that or I will ground you for a week!” His mother is clearly agitated by his response and her patience is running thin. Meanwhile, Alex is in stitches laughing uncontrollably at the lack of tack his brother has just displayed. “Dad, you know it was funny,” the boys say in unison. With a stoic look resembling Mt. Rushmore, he simply responds, “No it was not.” If his wife wasn’t beaming he might snicker but he holds it in rather easily. He starts to get up, clearing his plate and begins walking to the kitchen, and his wife does the same. Upon seeing this sight, the boys start throwing napkins at each other, knowing two things, one, that they can get away with some horseplay for a time being, and two, that Phill will escalate the horseplay to a level where it will no longer be tolerated. These two things are unavoidable. “If the two of you are going to act like this YOU BOTH can do the dishes,” says mom. Mimicking her accent Phill repeats, “YOU BOTH can do the dishes.” She yells at him and then storms off. Pops sits down in his La-Z-Boy and flips open the newspaper trying to ignore the rampage that’s happening in the next room. Going against all of his natural inclinations to yell at them to stop before they break something, he sits in silence for twenty seconds, then, he blurts out, “STOP IT BEFORE YOU BREAK SOMETHING!!” Alex is now chasing Phill around the dining room table and trying to tail-whip him with a twisted up napkin. Upon the fifth lap around the table Phill pulls a chair into his brothers path. As Alex crashes to the floor, shattering a plate on his way down, Phill realizes that two things are inevitable. One, he will get blamed for everything, and two, his brother will give him a beating. After the initial crash of the impact, there is a silence that amplifies the certainty of the two previous statements. Dinner, for the night, is officially over.

Inspired by the success of their hit show Cavemen, ABC announces four new shows that are currently in development:

Chad the Cell-Phone Guy

In this hilarious sit-com, a tall, bleached-blond retailer alienates his four nerdy friends who all happen to work for rival cell-phone stores at the local mall. Angry at the popularity of his brand, the four nerds conspire to lure Chad’s customers away with crazy antics that inevitably backfire. Despite the success of Chad as a salesman, he’s still the biggest loser as these four buffoons, who secretly loath the very sight of Chad, are the closest thing he has to real friends.

More Meat!

In this touching drama, a former fat guy named Jared loses over 200 pounds by eating healthy, low-fat sandwiches. In each episode, he travels to a new town where he meets a fat kid in need of help. With proper diet and exercise, he helps the fattie to regain their health and their self-respect. To lighten the mood, a new professional athlete will make a guest appearance in every episode, constantly demanding sandwiches with “more meat!”

Repair Man

In this cop drama, a federal agent played by an overdramatic former B-movie actor is on the trial of a serial killer called the “repair man.” The murderer is a kindly elderly man in a blue jumpsuit that used to repair appliances until the manufacturers started making their appliances so durable and long-lasting that he became obsolete. Now, he comes to people’s door willing to repair anything, televisions, cars or even plumbing. However, once invited inside, he ruthlessly murders all the inhabitants. Can Agent Mayteeger catch him before he kills again?

Envy of the Neighborhood

A middle-aged loser is completely inept at everything he does, from his debilitating lack of self-confidence at the office, to his clumsy and awkward attempts at bowling and golf, and, his biggest shame of all, his inability to satisfy his wife. This all changes when a “magic pill” starts mysteriously showing up in the mail. The man, desperate to get out of the useless rut that has become his existence, takes the pill and suddenly everything changes. He gets a “big” boast of confidence and suddenly becomes the “cock” of the walk. His “small” minded neighbors look on with envy as this man struts through life with ease. His wife, once a nagging pain, is now deliriously happy to such an extent as to border on creepy. Jam packed with more penis-related double entendres than you can shake a phallic symbol at, this comedy will have you both laughing and feeling painfully inadequate.

Basically I have nothing to write about and school is starting to bug me. I like school as much as Michael Jackson likes women. Women his own age. Sometimes I wish school was a hot piece of ass. I'd do things with her. Sexual things. Lead her on as if I liked her, but never call her back and then liberate thousands of her slaves she calls students. That would be awesome. I'd be the official cool guy, but only until I stopped saying, "I'm not going to lie."

One thing I do like is math. Math is so goddamn cool. SO COOL! Math is about as cool as Sam Donaldson that eye brow aficionado pictured above. Correction it's about as cool as a Pontiac Fierro and if you don't know what that is, than you don't know cool.

An Excerpt

My name is Willis Napsachowski or, as the members of the Curb Dwellers Local 504 call me, Slick Willy Napsack. My life has been a series of ebbs and flows that rival the tides of the greatest oceans. At age 13 Forbes magazine crowned me, “One of the nations most brilliant and progressive child business prodigies…” for my invention of the “Super Soaker.” Earlier today I shit myself while waiting in line at the abortion clinic and then beat off to a TV commercial of “Tony Bennett Sings the Hits.” I am neither proud nor scorned by the path that my life has taken… it just ended up that way. Most people ask me, “Slick Willy, how did you manage to piss away 20 million dollars between the ages of 13 and 17?” The response is always the same “I was addicted to Meth,” I tell them. The Truth…. POKEMON! I couldn’t get enough of those little bastards, from the one that looked like a combination of a Platypus and Melissa Etheridge, to mother fucking Bulbasaur. I had ‘em all. I was planning on auctioning them off when they reached their highest possible market value, but sadly, the government took them all away when I got court marshaled while serving in the first Gulf-War. I guess ‘serving’ would be the wrong word to use ‘playing with my balls’ would be more appropriate. In fact, that’s the reason that I was kicked out of the army. I guess they didn’t appreciate my beating off non-stop in the most useless foxhole in the middle of the desert. So I did my time in prison where I became the leading artist in Toilet-Paper-Mache renditions of “The Battle of Gettysburg.” Sadly, that went fucking nowhere, where’d it go…. FUCKING NOWHERE. I was out of prison at 19 and all I had to show for my life up to that point was a completely ridiculous skill that I could never use, unless I was in D-block of the Jacksonville, FL. State penitentiary, and a tattoo that read, “I Drank, I Vomited, I Blacked Out.” I felt I was nearing a low point in my life, and I needed to do something about it. So with the determination and aspirations of any hardworking American, I set out to be somebody. After spending 10 years on the graveyard shift at McDonalds working the Fryer, I quit. I felt that I had given them ample time to move me up the corporate chain, but it came to a point where I realized I must have been interpreting a few signals wrong. Plus… I hated Terry, what a prick. After that, I bought a Mega Millions ticket and won. I hit four and the Money-Ball, so my winnings were $142,602. I bought $140,000 worth of plastic surgery, lipo,’ collagen, jaw and nose realignment, facelift, calf, butt, and triceps implants, and I got a layer of Kevlar surgically implanted into my chest and back. At the time it seemed like a completely necessary and reasonable idea. With my last $2,602 I banged a transsexual hooker named Nick for two weeks. I felt that I had almost reached rock bottom. Just then lady luck CAME my way in the form of an Ad for paid sperm donations. With all the plastic surgery that I had just had I was a great candidate for the job. I used to just stand outside the waiting room of the fertility clinic and hit on all the women who were married to guys whose peckers didn’t work. I now have 4,200 children that I’ve signed off on and agreed to meet once they turn 18. It made me feel good to know that one day thousands of children would be seeking me out in search for the answers to life-long questions; and it made me feel even better that the only advise I would give them would be, “If you are at the beach don’t wear one of those man-thongs, it’s just too gay.” Quite a satisfying feeling knowing that day is soon approaching. I’m currently lying on the curb with my friend Ernie, we call him "Pissface” because he has jaundice and smells like urine. We have one other friend who we call “Cat Fucker…” his name is relatively self-explanatory. Ernie and I have had quite similar lives, he was a successful banker on Wall St. for 35 years and then decided that he spoke to Jesus who proceeded to tell him to drink the rest of his money away and live on this curb. If you ask me, it was some pretty shitty advice but it’s not like I’m one to talk. I guess we’re not that much alike after all. Hold on, there’s a young lady walking by in an amazing Prada outfit, I’m gonna bother her for some money.

“Excuse me miss, could you spare some change?”
“Ewww, Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bum.”
“YOUR MOTHER HATES YOU AND THAT DRESS IS A RIPOFF YOU TWAT!”

Good lord that was satisfying. Maybe next time I should start off with the second line, bring her self-esteem down a little bit first, and then ask her for the money. Yea, I think that would work. Cat Fucker is an ex-fireman. From what he’s told me he loved his job and his life, but he started having this recurring problem. You see, every time that little Timmy’s cat got stuck in the tree Cat Fucker would respond to the call, like any small-town American firefighter would, however, that is where their paths would go in drastically different directions. After Timmy’s cat would be stuck in the tree for an hour it would then spend the next 45 minutes stuck down Cat Fucker’s pants, in front of Timmy who most likely was howling like a banshee at the prospect that “Hercules” was being ridden much like Johnny Quest and Hadji used to get it on. An amusing site, I’m sure. I’m thinking about becoming a bounty hunter. I saw an episode of “Dog” the other day, and I just kept thinking to myself two things. One, how does that mullet look so damn good? Two, is that a silverback gorilla… or his wife? Either way she has HUGE TITS. Well, I’m done writing today; I think I’ll go bowling.

As much of a surprise it may be to those who know me, I no longer smoke weed. That’s right, Phill Pappas, aka Philly Blunts, aka White Owl, aka Blunts Mcgoo no longer smokes weed. After nearly eight years of smoking weed all day every day, I stopped. There are good things and bad things about not being constantly high, and I would like to talk about some of my experiences.
Good: I have almost 65% of my memory back! Which is fuckin’ sweet. I have accepted the fact that I smoked all the brain cells that have to do with remembering a girls name, whether it’s at a party or at the library studying with her and she’s is in all of my classes, unless she blows me her name is gone instantly. However, I can remember where my keys are, and remember to wake up to do shit. These are both qualities that are a sweet addition to my daily life.
Good: I no longer have to tell my therapist that the reason I was late is because I lost my keys again, and when he asks me, “And why did you lose your keys Phill…?”
Bad:…I don’t get to yell at him, “BECAUSE I’M A STONER YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER!
Good: looking at a menu in a restaurant is no longer as challenging as ‘deal or no deal.’ I personally feel that waitresses often pressure me to make a decision way too quickly. As a member of the race of ‘Idiots with ADHD’ I have enough trouble concentrating on the fact, while she’s asking me what I want to eat, that I want to shave her head, stick one side of Velcro all over her body, and start throwing her into things to see what she sticks to; or of the laws of magnetism. Honestly, this is Me at a restaurant without being stoned. Ordering when I was stoned created the same confusion for me like when you watch Ethiopian porn, you can’t tell whether they’re enjoying it…or dying.
Bad: Since I am the only one of my friends that doesn’t smoke herb anymore, I am now the official first option for buddies who are drug testing and want me to piss for them. Now usually, this wouldn’t be a problem, lord knows. My good friend bailed me out for eight months senior year of high school. It’s not the fact that I don’t want to help my friends, or think that I’m better than them because I no longer puff or some pretentious shit like that; it’s the fact that cats who are blazing a shit load and have an upcoming drug test are like the fucking KGB when it comes to making sure you haven’t smoked weed that day. My buddy who I will leave anonymous…Schlecte, was calling me three times daily to see if I had smoked weed that day and if I could drop for him the next week. After answering no and yes, respectively, the next five days of this I felt myself wanting to smoke herb for no particular reason except for the fact that I once again had someone telling me that I couldn’t smoke weed, and I hate him. It ended up getting ridiculous with drunk dials from him at 4:00am, when I have work that morning…

Schlex - “YOBROTHA PMONEY! WHAAAAAAAAASSSSAAAAAA”
Me – “nothing man …sleeping”
Schlex – “ HEYYYYY MANNN, YOU DIDN’SMOKEANY WEEED TODAY DID YA?
Me – “Naw man I told you I don’t fuck with that anymore.”
Schlex – “ALLLLLLLLRIGHT, CUZ I NEED YOU TO DROP FOR ME NEXT WEEK.”
Me – “Go fuck a hooker you asshole, leave me alone.

So that’s pretty much the pros and cons of quitting getting blunted. I can still find my keys, can’t remember girls name unless certain criteria is met, still hate my psychiatrist, still can’t order shit from any eatery with the confidence that I’m going to enjoy whatever the fuck just came out of my mouth. And Schlex… is still a deushbag, hahaha, I love that bastard but, my bad for smoking weed the night before you had to drop, it was out of spite. The main difference that I noticed is that it is just a little harder to be clean in a field of green.


NEXT WEEK: I Fed My Cat a Can of Diet Coke and 3 Mentos… Fuckin’ Amazing!

Daylight can be tough to handle, especially after drinking wayyyy to much whiskey. But, it can also be an extremely inviting source of energy. When I think of all the winters that I have experienced living in Michigan I think of the greyest skies for months on end. A thick grey unlike anything you've ever seen. The weatherman may say that the sun is going to come out, but it's January, and you know that he’s a FUCKING DEUSHBAG. So, you get through January and the sun came out once, but you missed it because you were hung over from drinking the pain away. Then it's February, and HOLY SHIT DOES THAT SUCK. As you lay in bed with all your windows staring at you, you wonder why the fuck they're there. Looking outside in the morning in February is like the first time you went to the zoo. You can't wait to see the monkeys, can't wait to see the monkeys, but when you finally get to the monkeys THEY FUCKING SUCK. Then you decide that you don't want to get out of bed one day because when you look out that window you can't tell the difference between the grey ass sky and the dirty shit snow that's on the ground; this goes on for the entire month. Then one morning in March you see a tiny bit of sun peeking through the clouds about ten miles away. Now, this is not a direct hit of daylight but all the same it does give you hope. Unfortunately, that's Michigan, the huge bitch that she is mind fucking you.
Then the next day, its two degrees and a foot of snow just fell on the ground, plus you haven't gotten laid in like three months, you're failing every class but wheelchair basketball, and you keep walking in on your roommate taking huge nasty shits, yes life sucks. The next day you wake, not because it's 2 in the afternoon, but because a huge ray of light has come through the window and is plastered directly on your face, and after all the months of pain, torture, depression, want and need you can finally be so happy there is daylight, lots and lots of daylight for everyone to be happy about. But is that what comes to mind? No. As you sit there staring at the sun in silence for about twenty seconds you think… fuck me, I need to buy some blinds.