Replaced Knees Are A Pain In The Balls
by Nick James February 25, 2007"NNNIIIIIICCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!"
I've heard this before. I've heard this about ninety times today. I'm too the point now that I feel like I'm like a mental patient. I rock back in forth in a recliner, wide-eyes glazed over, sweating, sputtering out jumbled up nonsense something like this:
" Dad, he's my dad... I love my dad... His knees are replaced.... He should be replaced.... He should be replaced permanently.... Permanent markers are fun to smell....My dad smells... I hear my name... Is he yelling my name... Nick... Nick... Kill.. Kill.."
Extreme. I know.
My dad got his knees replaced what seems like years ago. In reality, it was about a month ago. His knees were comparable to Barry Bonds' knees (bone on bone, if you laughed, you are a pervert), only my Dad isn't on the juice, isn't belting 450 foot homeruns, and he isn't making millions. He is, however, on Orange juice, belts out farts that can be heard 450 feet away, and makes a million requests a day. If there are any transgressions, he goes off like Bonds goes off on a San Francisco Chronicle reporter.
To top it all off, he does all of this completely naked. I hope you aren't eating or are hungry. If so, I apologize. It's sorta like watching a beached whale struggle to stay alive...and talk. I'll admit, I have no idea what that would look like, but I think it's a fair comparison. Beached whales are probably a little more understanding, given their plight. I'll have to do some research on this one.
Here's a quick run through on what happens on the daily:
7 AM - I'm sound asleep when my cell phone rings. Big Daddy is on the other line and he wants cereal pronto. I'm pissed because my dream involving two beautiful young ladies fades away into the newly sunlit sky searing through my blinds. I get up, tuck my half boner in the top of my boxers, and throw on my "Fuck Kansas" shirt. Stumbling through the living room like I partied the night before with Charlie Sheen and his legion of hookers, I finally make it to the kitchen. The sound of Frosted Flakes colliding with a glass bowl radiates through my skull and makes me want to kill something. With blurred vision, I cautiously open his bedroom door, only to be greeted with his bare ass staring me in the face. Come on in, he says... With pleasure... Problem being, my motor skills have temporarily been paralyzed due to fear, shock, or anxiety. I don't know which one. I dizzily question God's reasoning for putting me on this Earth and meander back to bed.
9 AM - Cell Phone rings. Big Daddy wants a milkshake. A FRIGGIN MILKSHAKE AT 9 AM!!! Are you kidding me? Milkshakes are only good if they are made with the best of ingredients, sort of like loogies. Yeah, I did it. And I'm gonna keep doing it until he figures out what makes those tasty milkshakes so creamy. Then, I'll probably be running for my life from a man who can't walk. I'm a hardass.
12 PM - I'm at "school" during this time, alas, I usually have two or three missed calls from the ole' man. He usually either wants flounder from Long John Silvers or a footlong coney from Sonic. Today, was the flounder. Now don't get me wrong, I like Long John Silvers but everytime I eat it, I think that's it's more than possible that it might slowly be killing me. When I was handed the flounder, I thought they handed me a rotting hamster it smelt so bad. Seriously, I thought it was a joke. I can't imagine working there. Cole miners suffered from the black lung; I'm telling ya, in ten to twenty years there will be a widespread epidemic involving past Long John Silver's employees. I'm trying to come up with something clever for the name, but I got nothing. Maybe, "Flounder's Revenge" or "The Flounder Flu". Rereading this paragraph tells me I got off topic. My dad really likes the stinky, long-term deadly flounder.
3 PM - Milkshake. Loogie.
5 PM - Walking out the door to go to work, my dad calls me into his room. Good news. I get to watch him take a shower, to make sure he doesn't get hurt, when I get home from work. FANTASTIC NEWS.
9:30 PM - I get out of work and begin to think about what I'll be telling my therapist in twenty years after having to see my Dad take a shower and why it's affected my life so much.
10 PM - 10:30 PM - Shower. I'll spare the highlights. Oh yeah, if anyone sees my stomach let me know.
10:45 PM - Time for the nightly back scratch and leg rub-down with lotion. Keep in mind, he's still naked; so, when I rub his legs down, I'm dangerously close to, well, you know. As far as the backscratch goes, it reminds of when a bowling bowl is thrown on a waterbed and the ensuing ripple effect. It's easy to get lost in it and sometimes I think I have vertigo while doing it.
After everything was done, this exchange occured:
Dad: "You know son, if it wasn't for you, I don't know what I'd do. I know I'm a pain in the ass right now, but I really appreciate it."
Me: (sheepishly looking down wanting to bury my head in the sand) Yeah, I know, I know. (the selfishness is killing me)
Dad: "Now, time for a milkshake. By the way, what do you put in those that make them so good?"
My man Oscar Wilde will tell the moral of the story,
"Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live."
And don't drink my milkshakes.
A Chronology Of What Anna Nicole Smith Meant To Me
by Nick James February 13, 2007
I remember it like it was yesterday, because it probably was. Anyways, I was with my family at the local Target store shopping scrolling through a magazine, then KABLOOM I wanted to become majority stock holder in Guess? Jeans. Now, I didn't know what holding a stock was but she sure as hell had a hold on me. I had never felt that way; the only way I can describe it is with help from a song my friend Bob Seger once sang: "I GOT THAT FIRE DOWN BELOW". Everyone in Target knew too.
The following weekend I stayed at my Dad's apartment, only to stumble upon his Tower of Babel-esque stack of Playboy magazines. Playboy magazine? What the heck is that? I slowly peered over the top issue only to see my buxom beauty on the cover; the sole reason I emptied my piggy bank on what-I-thought-to-be priceless shares of Guess? Jeans' stock ( and people wonder why I'm not good with money). I timidly opened the magazine, and what I saw next changed my life...Playboy Party Jokes. There were all kinds of words and phrases and body parts that I had never heard of. I frantically ripped through the pages, THEN what I saw next really changed my life...a Q&A interview with Bill Maher. He was apparently Politically Incorrect, whatever that meant.
I thought to myself, "Man, this Playboy magazine is really swell; it being full of nonsensical jokes to use while being 'inebriated', whatever that means. Why mass-produce a magazine that had useless jokes and uninspired interviews with Bill Maher about his 'sex life', whatever that means."
Throwing caution to the wind, I gourged through the remains at a torrid pace only to come upon a page that had my girl on the page...only she wasn't wearing those Guess? Jeans clothes. Hell, she wasn't wearing anything...AND I LIKED IT. I had never seen anything like it before; I didn't know what they were or what they were used for, but the next day I told all the boys about it in my third grade class.
"Yeah, they were called 'breasts', or 'tits', guys. I don't know where we find 'em but I sure as hell want some!" That was the day I began selling my Dad's Playboys at double the price in the back of the classroom during breaks. Enterprising at a young age, I encouraged all the girls in my class to partake in growing these "boob" things. I believe my slogan was: "Here titty, titty, titty." OK, I made that part up, but it was way too good to pass up. And, no, I'm not a repeat sex offender. Now then...
Banking off of my best friends was another thing I had in common with Ms. Smith, only she banked off of some guy who was something ridiculous like seventy years her elder. Apparently, they were like peas and carrots, except that he was like turn of the 19th century carrots. But, hey, it was in the name of love, who was I to judge?
Mr. Marshall met his maker a few years later, leading to a big time legal dispute over who got that rights to his billion-plus dollar estate. By this time, I was over my boyish infatuation with what would become a nation-wide infatuation due to her antics and extremities she flaunted in the courtroom.
I was in middle school by now and realized what a money-hungry bitch she was. Post-court was when everything went downhill. She quickly became a proud member of the "Babe Ruth/Rush Limbaugh" diet by eating all food and pills in sight. She exemplified the word "train wreck", and, like the majority, it was fascinating to watch her embarass herself on national TV on a red carpet's basis. Like this little nugget, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cawDKdepR-c . After watching that, we should remove train from train wreck and replace it with the initials ANS.
She died a couple days ago.
The whole point of this note is my wondering of why people were so enamored with her. Everybody, almost exclusively, women have shown great compassion with her since she passed away. Why? I never understood what was so great about her. I'm sure some of you are calling me a heartless prick but seriously, why in the hell should we make such a big deal out of her dying, probably due to complications of drugs, no less. She manipulated everyone/anyone close to her, chased money at any cost, and is even questioned to have a role in her son's death. WHY THE ADMIRATION? Thousands of people die everyday and don't get an inkling of the news coverage that she gets and for what? She was famous for being famous and that was it.
Her tits will be missed.
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