The greatest male of all time.

om My Family To Yours

Well look at that, the summer is almost over and the Planet Ric family has been so busy it’s just been impossible to keep up with everyone.  You know how it is.  LOL! 

Anyhoo…since we haven’t been able to write or talk quite as much as we should, we wanted to write you this totally awesome letter instead of contacting people individually.  We know that all of you really care what’s been happening to the Planet Ric family over the summer, just like we know all of you care when you get these form letters from members of your own family or distant friends and neighbors you probably couldn’t give fuck all about.  Right?  Right!  So let’s remember the summer that was, 2005!

Starting with Ric; he sure had a busy June and July learning to walk and crawl and keep down solid food.  Oh he’s not an infant, he was drunk a lot and yelling at mailboxes and the “blue people”.

Your Uncle Paul and Ric finally took that gentlemen’s vacation they’ve been talking about for years.  When they got back they weren’t speaking to each other and Uncle Paul had a bandage on his stomach and eye.  Uncle Paul said Ric doesn’t like to be told things twice.  Duh!

Our eldest, Marther, got his long time girlfriend Amy pregnant for a total of three weeks.  That beats his previous record of 72 hours.  He sends his love from Twin Falls.     

Aunt Linda sent Peggy off to college.  It’s a small, liberal arts college so we all expect Peggy to become a temporary lesbian and think she knows more than anyone else on the face of the earth.  Don’t worry Peg, we’ll have those anti-depressants ready to get you through sophomore year.

We lost a close member of the family on Tuesday, August 16^th.  It saddens the Planet Ric family to report that Catheter, our beloved pygmy iguana, climbed into the back of the microwave and never climbed out.  RIP, you will always be loved.

Our editor, Antoninis, won first prize in the Lake Tattern regatta!  Although he wasn’t officially registered for the race he managed to out maneuver the other contestants in his homemade pontoon boat.  Sources say Antoninis inadvertently joined the regatta while trying to escape an aggressive scout party of mer-men.  He had been up for three days on the lake composing a witty post for the blog and sniffing “writer’s bravado”.  Such the perfectionist.

On June 20^th Papa and Marmar cooked their yearly late lunch of salt water mongoose and chives.  It was a great, late lunch.  But you know our crazy family.  There just had to be some drama.  And there was!  Aunt Louise lost control of her emotions saying she married that goddamn Spaniard out of love and not to give him his green card as Aunt Sarah claims.  We probably won’t see Aunt Louise for a while now.

Tabitha and Brown Haired Scott covered each other in sand and one of them lost a thumb.

For the fourth of July we had to postpone the Third Street bbq as Uncle Donn was in tense discussions behind locked doors at a county facility for “alleged” parking transgressions. 

Fresh off her trip to Asia and Finland, for no good fucking reason at all, is Carla.  We’ll be meeting at her apartment in Charlotte for Labor Day like we always do.  This year please inform Tall Alan that he can’t make the onion salad from scratch.

Hope to see you soon and as you know even if we have not been in touch we really think of you and pray for you often and our lives just wouldn’t be the same without you in them.  We really mean it which is why every six months or sometimes just around the holidays whether you like it or not we feel compelled to force you into a glimpse of our lives because we are the most interesting people on the face of the Earth doing the most interesting jesus fingerbanging christ things.

Just wait until our Halloween/Thanksgiving letter when we dress up our animals as pumpkins and savages!

Love, The Planet Ric Family

******************************

Due to the conditions of the restraining order I have on this guy, every tenth letter he sends me must be published.  Call the authorities if you have any contact with him:

 "...Campbell soup mom quarterback..."

Dearest Brother,

It has been several hours since the twins were placed in protective custody, and I have been left to explain my actions to an unfamiliar individual in a strange environment called “Child Services.”  The person assigned to my “file” is named Charlie, and I am in the process of determining whether I can stab him in the neck with a sharpened pencil and escape with the children.  While I wait for Charlie to return from his coffee and cigarette break to meet his certain death, I am shackled to the desk in the empty waiting room with a fuzzy television tuned to a solitary news channel.  I will use this opportunity to catch up on current events and write to you about my feelings on the most important issues of today.  I know how excited you are to receive my diaries detailing my innermost thoughts on relevant issues, however I do not understand why you call them “manifestoes” and threaten to alert the authorities.  In any event, the news program is about to begin:

First, the gentleman on the television is introducing himself as the anchorman for the Fox News Channel.  Oh, glorious day!  I have made two guest appearances on Fox television’s America’s Most Wanted program, so I am familiar with this thorough, investigative, hard-hitting multi-national media conglomerate.  I know that the news on this channel will be presented in a manner that is fair, unbiased, and open-minded.  And there will be a special report from Geraldo Rivera himself!

The first news item is about some Jewish people on “the Strip” (Las Vegas, probably) who are volunteering to give their houses to their neighbors who don’t have houses.  This might be the feel-good story of the year!  Just think, in a world of religious differences and violent upheaval, a small group of people will surrender their homes to those in desperate need.  Apparently, our President even sent the Army to help them move their belongings since he was so touched by the gesture.  I think that this area of our great country will be a peaceful place for years to come because of this generosity.

The second news item is a very sad item.  Apparently, four United States soldiers were killed by a bomb in Iraq.  I’m not sure what our servicemen and women are doing in Iraq (of all places!), but it looks like Iraq hasn’t seen the billboards at the bus station that tell people to report unattended bags or vehicles.  The anchorman just told me that it is now more important than ever to support the troops in Iraq, so I will try to locate a yellow ribbon to wear around the Child Services Detention Center to let the families of these soldiers be comforted by the fact that I totally support their dead kids.

The third news item is about some stupid homeless lady who is living outside of the President’s house in Texas.  I thought the President lived in Washington, but the news people say that he lives in Texas now.  The anchorman commented that the woman has a troubled history, including a pending divorce filed by her husband (I’m not sure if he’s homeless too), so this woman must clearly be insane!  Even I know that you can’t just make an appointment to meet with the President of the United States – you have to win a college basketball tournament or be on a reality tv show to do that.

The last news item before we get to hear from Geraldo Rivera concerns a sports figure named Terrell Owens who is not having a good time at football camp in Eagles, Pennsylvania.  I remember getting homesick at sleepaway camp when I was twelve, and I shit my underwear and hid it in the bushes so the other kids wouldn’t make fun of me.  But, Mr. Owens’ problems at football camp must be more severe, because he looks angry wearing giant headphones and camouflage attire while the rest of the team is dressed the same, running around, and sweating profusely.  Shockingly, the coach told him to shut up after he faked an injury, pouted, and complained after practice.  And he’s only making 7 million dollars a year!  I’m sorry, but I think Mr. Owens is right – you would have to pay me 8 million dollars a year to tell me to shut up because he and I agree that:  I don’t have the same last name as that coach…I don’t have to be happy to be productive…Campbell soup mom quarterback…I signed a waiver…not guaranteed money…gotta feed my family…agent said so…more money… my momma didn’t raise no punk ass bitch to take shit from a fat white man with a clipboard who ate too many Burger King chicken fries.  I hope Mr. Owens gets what he rightly deserves from the people in Pennsylvania.

It looks like they are going to commercial before I get to hear Geraldo speak about the Pope’s special visit with the Nazi family.  Sorry to be abrupt, but I need to wrap this up in order to save some of the lead on this pencil to effectively sever my case worker’s jugular vein when he returns from his break.  Godspeed, my brother.

 "...dull the pain of your now sexless marriage"

I drive a lot.  I live in L.A., have a job, and play in a band.  My friends are spread out all over hell.  I’ve managed to make the nerve fraying experience as tolerable as possible with a new, maintenance-free car, and an iPod fully loaded with enough music and podcasts for my full spectrum and catalog of moods.  Aside from the typical, good old fashioned shitty driving skills, I’ve come to despise a long list of things I see on the road.  They make me question how I can be so different from the carbon-based animal in the steel box next to me.

1) Maybe this is a SoCal thing, but Latinos, what is the deal with the “In Loving Memory of…” stickers on the rear window?  For those not in the know, Latinos seem to love commemorating loved ones who have passed on by affixing painted or sticker words stating such on the rear windows of their cars.  This is done in a variety of painstaking but always tacky ways.  I mean, what the hell is that supposed to accomplish?  Is your car supposed to be some kind of traveling headstone?  Are we supposed to bow our heads for Ernesto Hernandez, 1936-2002, at the next stoplight and say a quick prayer?  I don’t fucking get it!  How long after the funeral do you wait to have that crap done?  How much are such idiots willing to pay for it?  Again, why?  Aye, carumba…

2) Soccer moms/dads, usually of the paler complexion and suburban ilk- no one fucking cares how many people are in your family or what their names are.  Stop pasting little stickmen stickers on your rear window indicating just that.  Just another moronic fad that falls into the “why would you possibly think we give a fuck?” dept.  Are we supposed to be impressed that you fucked your wife at least __ no. of times?  Congratufuckinglations.  You’ve got more kids than Frank in Accounting. Great.  It’ll help dull the pain of your now sexless marriage to your fat, bitchy wife, who, along with your kids, will slowly run what’s left of your pathetic, repetitive life into the ground.  Or, you could have an affair and lose not just them, but most of your friends, too.  Great setup.  I know I’m jealous.

 3) Love birds.  You know who you are.  Do we think more of you because you were so pussy-whipped and/or codependent that you got each of your initials on your vanity plates, separated by a heart icon?  How lovely.  Nothing says devotion like a sweaty prisoner, fresh from an early morning anal rape fiasco, stamping out you and your loved one’s cry of love on a piece of sheet metal.  What about the girls with the license plate frame that reads, “Back Off! I’m _________’s Girl!”? Seeing that makes me want to forcibly pull you over, tie you down, and gratuitously hit on you for an hour just to spite your poor boyfriend’s ego.  Having a small dick is rough on some guys, I guess.

 4) That’s a nice lead-in for my next one- guys with any kind of ground effects, neon lighting, or tail fins added to their cars.  Please.  You’re not fooling anyone.  You’re still driving an ‘87 Nissan Sentra, no matter how hard you try to convince us otherwise.  Guys who drive jacked up trucks, you belong in this fantasyland boat, too.   I think the height of a man’s truck is proportional to how much bigger he wishes his dick was.  My fave are the guys who have two balls hanging from the trailer hitch in the back of their trucks.  You know, like his truck has a full set.  That’s gotta turn the girls on…in Kentucky.

5) Here’s another local to SoCal thing that rubs me wrong- people with two letter stickers in their window advertising where they live.  The irony is, it’s always some shitty place most people make of fun and I would never live myself, let alone advertise the fact that I do.  So, for all of you OC, HB, and other _____ Beach dwellers who seem to think you’re cool just for keeping it real with whitey 24/7, we’re all laughing at you.  It’s bad to brag about what most people would lie about…The day I see a “SFV” sticker, I’ll probably follow the person home for an on the spot intervention/beating.

6) This last one’s reserved for all the Jesus freaks, one of my faves.  Where do I start?  From the fish on the back of your trunk, to the bumper stickers, to the HDN 4 HVN vanity plates, you people really are a rare flavor of annoying- one of the strongest I’ve had to have the stomach to savor.  Trying to talk rationally with these people is pointless, so I won’t bother going for a breakthrough here.  Contrarily, my favorite opposing thought that I’ve seen pasted on other cars asks “Jesus, please save me from your followers”.   Here, here.

- Travis Q. Tucker,

- Travis was the host of “Guzzle This!”, a short-lived extreme reality game show whose pilot episode failed to connect with test audiences

 

Animals Suck

Party Ric Says, "Another year another bridge to burn."

This time the victim was my most recent day job.

In late April 2004 I started working for a new company as a temp.  My old job, where I was on salary with all kinds of benefits, was awful.  So I wrote about it:

Planet Ric will be changing its orbit Monday morning.  My daily commute to downtown is officially done.  The months I've had to pay for my own parking have expired.  My days of being concerned if my PTO (personal time off) adds up to a significant amount are over.  And while we're talking about PTO, my former company thinks vacation time is the same as sick days.  Should they indeed be considered the same thing?  Should your worker bees have to pay for the privilege of parking their cars near your office building?  Not unless you want your employees to publish company memos they don't understand (see below)

To U.S. CFOs and Receiving Team Leads:
In our last cutover plan, Accounts Receivable was scheduled to be shut down as of close of business on Wednesday, March 30 PST, and Accounts Receivable in O was to open on Thursday, April 7. This plan provided sufficient time in the extract, load and validation processes, as well as time to pre-validate the extract, as previously communicated to the Opcos. To provide the Opcos more time for quarter-end cash receipt and cash application, the (team) has further revisited this cutover timeline to assess the risk and workload for both (teams) of delaying the AR close in C. We have concluded that it is technically feasible and we’ve made resources available to extend the closing of AR. This will also necessitate of further delaying the opening of AR in O. Therefore please note that our revised cutover schedule indicates the legacy (C) AR module will now close at 5:00 PM PST on Friday, April 1st and AR in O will be opened on Monday, April 11, 2005.
We understand that the risks that this represents, while real, are overshadowed by the business impacts of an early closing. Given that this introduces complexity to the cutover activities, (the teams) will need to pay extra care and attention to the AR export, load and validation processes to ensure there is no detrimental impact to the US cutover schedule.

After a year I still don't know what the hell any of that means.  So farewell to the people I worked with.  Goodbye to:
Texas WASP guy stuck in the 50's
Asian Woman With Bad Cough For Past Nine Months
Guy With Flaky Face
Weasel Eyed Overweight Soccer Mom Haircut Supervisor
Strange Gay Man Always Snacking
Fat Republican Consultant Dude With Hoarse Voice
Pakistani Guy I Could Never Understand
Korean Guy I Could Never Understand
Girl Who Threw Up At Desk And Didn't Think I Saw
Those Guys From Scotland/New Zealand/Accent Land
Woman Who Reminded Me of Star Jones
Man Who Always Talked Loudly About His Boat
Guy Who Married Indian Woman Who Complains All The Time
The Elevators/Food Court That Were Always Under Construction
Borderline Retarded Guy From Print Shop
Building Security aka Latin America's Finest
and
The Worst PC Ever Given A Human Being

"...the average New Englander will tolerate and accept freakish/abnormal behavior from anyone except for himself."

Growing up, my grandmother would always ask my brother and I why we weren’t “nicer” to the girls we brought around the house.  Questions like this have always given me difficulty, and I handle them poorly. They seem to be wired to the same primal corner of the brain that makes you do things like punch the mahogany-slab coffee table you just barked your shin on or crack a stranger in the back of the head at a youth football game. Neither are good habits to be known for and few judges would find “reflexive behavior” a reasonable excuse for assaulting someone from behind with a first down marker.  Cannibalism may be the only universal taboo, but I’ll bet equally few cultures excuse punching out your grandmother for any reason. The karma backlash must be massive, something on the level of being reincarnated as a  dimple-faced orphan with a lisp who gets adopted on his sixth birthday by a very discrete gang of pedophiles.

In all honesty, I’ve never even considered hitting my grandmother.  I love the woman and try to take into account the doublewide generation gap questions like these are launched across before I volley back the first wise-ass answer that comes to mind. Fortunately, in this case the answer was honest and easy.  “They're gonna figure out what I’m really like sooner or later, so why not be up front about it?”

I could tell she understood my explanation in theory (she was nodding) but her rapid blinking and dismissive shrugs told me she couldn’t get her head around the idea that I would be crazy enough to use it in practice. Of course, the concept is far from new, but somehow it still comes off as radical.  Propriety of this sort is a New England proclivity, and it fits with the snugness of a straitjacket. The difference between a “Massachusetts liberal” and a “West Coast Liberal” is as obvious as the difference between John Kerry and Jello Biafra. New England is where neurotic blue-staters still take a concept like liberal guilt seriously.

The irony is that the average New Englander will tolerate and accept freakish/abnormal behavior from anyone except for himself.  It’s like an interlocking trap designed to snare anyone who places a higher value on what their neighbors think than they themselves believe to be true.  It’s a willful pact of shared dishonesty between neighbors. Things like “normal” and “abnormal” are clearly defined and collectively agreed upon.  Just keep an eye out for any weirdos lurking around your neighbor’s house.  Don’t worry. He’ll be watching your back.

Okay, maybe that’s a little melodramatic. There is, after all, some good news. In general, the rules for appearing normal aren’t difficult to figure out. Deep down, I know how my grandmother wanted me to act, and by and large all it requires is a basic understanding of tact, manners, and decorum. We may not be able to define it exactly, but it’s safe to say most of us can tell a reasonable person when we meet one. In fact, any lunatic with a shot glass worth of common sense can figure out ways to conceal their peculiarities in public. It’s one skill that psychopaths and pedophiles typical share in common with their neighbors. The only difference, of course, is that the psychopath and the pedophile are hiding something worth hiding…

So, with that in mind, am I really going to worry if my date finds out I think Oprah Winfrey is a self-righteous cunt or that I firmly believe any man who orders a Michelob Ultra is an unredeemable pussy?  Should I worry that somebody might point out I used two different words for vagina in the last sentence, or that I just dropped another in the first part of this one, plus three more here at the end (box, snatch, spicy tuna finger roll)? Isn’t this precisely the shit we should be up front about?

Next time you slip out to the woods with a case of hot dogs and a crate of dynamite ask yourself, “wouldn’t deer hunting be better if I had someone to share it with?”

We don’t even have to like the same things to help each other. The office-wide circle jerk you sponsor as a hump-day morale-booster may not be my bag, but I could tell you that Sandy, the Fed Ex girl, mentioned her soggy cookie fantasy to me and you should give her a call. She'’s good people!

So I guess the question I’ve got for you, grandma, is what good is being “normal” if all it gets you is missionary sex and country line dancing?  Unless of course that’s what you’re really into…then it might be “nice.”

NEXT TIME: My grandfather teaches me five ways a fire truck can be used as a weapon.

Written by MOHRE - the official Planet Ric Minister of Human Research and Experimentation...or Kris

I Get Your Emails

Most of the time my family and friends send me some pretty funny emails. I do have a few pals and extended family members who try to send me the prayer chains and that's a waste of time but it's easy for me to hit the delete key so go ahead and keep sending them so God doesn't kill you on the way to the supermarket.

What I received recently is such a sublime piece of complete shit and terrible writing I have to share it with the rest of the world. This is not a cute and funny email that makes it's way around cyberspace and has folks breaking their fingers because they can't hit the "Forward" button fast enough. I'd venture that even the people who watch and laugh at Leno will be repulsed by what I am going to re-print. And I am going to re-print every last crap-saturated word to prove my point. My comments will appear in Blue. Here's the email:

Top 10 Dog Peeves About Humans..

1. Blaming your farts on me... not funny... Not funny at all!!!

Grand opening, Dickneck. I haven't heard the blaming it on the dog joke in about two days.  Your "Not funny" statement that followed was a foreshadowing. Nice use of three exclamation marks to get your lame message across. Where's the LOL and the winking prick face?

2. Yelling at me for barking ..... I'M A FRIGGIN' DOG, YOU IDIOT!

It's the internet. Just use the word fuck. Here, I'll use it in a sentence for you. Your email is so stupid you should die. Fuck.

3. Taking me for a walk, then not letting me check stuff out. Exactly whose walk is this anyway?

It might be your mom's walk because that's what I'd do if I found out where she lived. I'd break in, put a leash on her and drag her around the block for having you as a child.

4. Any trick that involves balancing food on my nose... stop it!

Another exclamation mark. This never gets old for you. Did you read about those chimps that went crazy and attacked that guy and bit his nose, nuts and fingers off? Did you know he wrote witty emails about animals and sent them around the internet?

5. Any haircut that involves bows or ribbons. Now you know why we chew your stuff up when you're not home..

Assbag. You can't personify an animal to this degree. Unless you're that chick from that other email I got who is getting it from behind by that doberman. That dog is a gentleman and a scholar.

6. The sleight of hand, fake fetch throw. You fooled a dog! Whoooo Hoooooooo , what a proud moment for the top of the food chain.

Whoo Hoo, livin' la vida loca, show me the money!  Listen, when Billy Crystal and Jerry Seinfeld did routines about dogs back in the 80's they were OK bits but they weren't the funniest things those guys did. If Billy and Jerry scrapped their faking the throw bits, what made you think you could even attempt it?  Now go pick up your kids from soccer practice.

7. Taking me to the vet for "the big snip", then acting surprised when I freak out every time we go back!

When you thought of "the big snip" you got so enamored of your own writing ability that you poured a celebratory glass of five dollar wine and jerked off into a teacup.

8. Getting upset when I sniff the crotches of your guests. Sorry, but I haven't quite mastered that handshake thing yet.

There's a war going on. It's inside of me and it's asking to be visited upon you.

9. Dog sweaters. Hello??? Haven't you noticed the fur?

The "Hello???" phrase was almost amusing when Mike Myers did it in Axe Murderer way back in 1994. Other than that it has never made anyone I know laugh. And the people who I have heard use that "Hello???" phrase over and over are mindless, spineless zombies who work in the corporate sector in middle management...or HR.

10. How you act disgusted when I lick myself. Look, we both know the truth, you're just jealous. Now lay off me on some of these things . We both know who's boss here!!! (You don't see me picking up your poop do you ???)

Count them. Three exclamation marks and three question marks. Also, we have the use of the word poop so all the little kids under eight who check their email accounts won't be offended. Sweet Heavenly God, forigve me for deleting your holy chain emails and make this writer have swamp ass for two weeks. Then let me please drive behind him so I can car fuck him, run him off the road and into a library where he can learn how to compose better emails.

"He was quite bothered by my generosity with the kids."

Dearest Brother,

Instead of my usual letter to you advising of disheartening scenarios, I pen this particular message to inform you that I have secured employment.  For 30 years, others have told me that obtaining a job would give me more self-esteem and a greater sense of worth, and I am here to tell you that it also allows me to buy soap to clean myself.  I even made such a lasting impression in my first job assignment that I was assigned to work remotely for the organization, spreading the message of the company.  It is quite a joyous time for me, and I will share with you the story of how it all started.

I shall begin by describing my exhilarating job interview.  As I was examining a shiny object in the mall parking lot to determine if it was currency or broken glass, my friend Pookie greeted me loudly from the sidewalk.  Pookie warned me that I should wait until after dark to search for money in people’s cars while they are inside shopping, and I thanked him for his wisdom.  Then he mentioned that our mutual friend, De-La, was asking about me.  Apparently, De-La is the Chief Executive Officer of his own company and a few positions in his organization had just been vacated unexpectedly.  So Pookie said he would arrange for an interview if I would give him a handcrank in the gas station bathroom.  Minutes later, I was off to my first job interview.

I approached De-La in his corner office, behind an abandoned bus on the corner of Main and Broadway.  He quickly spun around and mentioned that I should never approach him unannounced, and he inquired if I had any ninja training.  I told him I enjoyed the Chinese confections at the Hu-Nan Eatery, but was otherwise unskilled in the martial arts.  I was relieved when he said such experience was not required to fill the position.  He then asked if I was retarded, to which I responded negatively.  And with those two questions out of the way, he gave me my first assignment. 

De-La handed me twelve plastic baggies filled with a white, chalky substance and gave me an address several blocks to the northeast.  He advised me to hand the baggies to a gentleman in a red bandana in exchange for $600 and then return the money to De-La forthwith.  I asked De-La the subject matter contained in the plastic baggies, and he stated that it was “mutha-fukin candy, bitch.”  I surmised that the gentleman in the red bandana has an affinity for expensive candy, and I accepted the task at hand.  On my way out, I asked De-La if his organization would prepare business cards for me (since you are so proud of your cards, brother, I knew that I should ask for them right away), and I gave him the correct spelling of my name to ensure accurate production.  He must have thought of a funny joke as I was speaking because he was laughing until he coughed very hard.  I concluded that my request was already being processed.

On my way to the address of the gentleman in the red bandana, I happened upon several children playing double-dutch in the schoolyard at recess.  Oh, how talented the kids were!  I was reminded of my twins as I watched them skip and play.  I applauded and presented the prodigious athletes with all twelve bags of De-La’s candy and a glimpse at my manhood, since such artistic feats should not go unrewarded.  I told them to enjoy the candy, and I would tell the gentleman in the red bandana that he would just have to settle for grown-up food instead of eating his candy today.  The kids were overwhelmed, and they rapidly ran to the playground monitor to express their good fortune. 

I didn’t stay to receive the positive response from the teacher because I noticed Pookie running towards me from several yards away.  Apparently Pookie had been following me from De-La’s office to guarantee the delivery of the candy, and he was quite bothered by my generosity with the kids.  Pookie gave me the three dollars he had in his socks, and he told me to go far, far, far, away.  I was reluctant  to quit my job so soon after being hired, but Pookie said that it would be considered a favor to De-La to start up an office in a neighboring city, but I couldn’t mention De-La’s name ever again or tell people that I had ever met him.  I remarked that I have heard of such secret branch offices under similar corporate structures, and since I always wanted to own my own business I took Pookie’s three dollars of start-up money and incorporated in Middletown.  I am currently awaiting word from De-La on how to proceed with the business plan.  I am extremely excited about this opportunity, although the candy business has been slow since I have no inventory.  I am working on a marketing campaign involving an adolescent jump-roping theme, but I have not yet revised the flow chart.  In any event, I will save some of the revenue I accumulate in the near future to pay back the $400 bond you posted for me last Halloween.  Take care.

 

"...the United States Postal Police Are Monitoring Your Mailbox..."

Greetings to my brother, and to those who may or may not be my brother:

It was wonderful to see you over the joyous holidays, notwithstanding the fact that father “pretended” to make me eat outside in the garage.  Thank you very much for the gift of money, and please tell Travis that it was not a stupid thing to do, as I have not yet spent the money on Old Milwaukee or OxyContin.

I write to you this forenoon because I find myself in a precarious predicament.  I am in receipt of a missive from a woman claiming to be the birth mother of my precious twins, and she is demanding that I alert her to the whereabouts of the children so that she may exercise her court-ordered visitation rights.  Below is an excerpt from this imposter’s letter:

 

“…and the thought of touching you makes my skin crawl.  The only thing I remember about the night the twins were conceived is a vague recollection that you made a  “special” drink for me to have, and then everything just goes black.  That is the only night we ever spent together and I would like to keep it that way.  I found the note allegedly written by the twins to me when they ran away, and I find it less than authentic – mostly because the note was written in your handwriting when the twins were 16 months old, and it was duct-taped to the broken bedroom window at 3:00 AM…”

 

Woe is me, my brother, I fear that the twins will be pursued by this irrational stalker until they are wrongfully removed from my custody.  To remedy the situation, I responded to the letter from the woman with the following:

 

“Dear Worthless Whore,

Why don’t you go bang some more random dudes and try to take their kids from them.  You should just shut up.  You're a fat one, too.”

 

My letter, combined with my evasive maneuvering of the Winnebago, has proved to be effective in holding off the female accuser.  At this moment we are traveling in a very remote part of the country (I don’t want to name it for fear that the United States Postal Police are monitoring your mailbox for clues to my whereabouts), but you can reach me at the Bellagio or MGM Grand.  Godspeed, my brother.

 

Gino  

"I Should Have Made a Play For The Shower Or The Car"

Howdy campers.  Instead of indulging myself, I thought I’d indulge you and address some fan bag messages I’ve gotten.  After all, you are the little fish FAN BAG, VOLUME 1

 

I’d like to know where you get off thinking ya know so goddamn much.  I’m a bartender here at Sit and Spin the Bottle in Hanover Park, IL, and you say the dumbest things I’ve ever readen!  I don’t know what Connie the cocktail waitress sees in you.  She thinks you’re all educated and hot and shit, but I think you’re a know-it-all, gay-loving, elitist know-it-all.  Why don’t you tell us a story about you being wrong for a change?  I’m tired of reading about you being right.  Have you ever drunk from a bar rag?

 

 - Drinkless and Thirsty

 

Dear Drinkless: Before I impart my tale of acquired knowledge through failure, please ask Connie to email me a pic of her in something tasteless.  I have one small blank spot on the “wall of sh-fame” for her if she’s interested. 

 

There was that time a while ago in a galaxy far away when I was sharing a hotel room with another couple. I made the mistake of trying to "couple" with someone (read: complete stranger) I snagged in my net earlier in the night, much to this already existing couple’s chagrin.  Instead of opting for the in-your-face-ness of the bed 2 feet away, I should have made a play for the shower or the car.  But alas, I came to this conclusion far too late- 8 hours later as my pickled head rested on the cool table of the diner next door.  You live and you learn, and I hope you, the reader, have read and learned.

I've never drunk from a bar rag, but I’ve poured a drink or two for others from it. Shhhh!  Don’t tell! 

- Travis recently almost won an AMA for Best Latin Video Country Battle Dance Choreography 

 

"I Thought The Exposure Would Help Their Careers"

Greetings Brother and non-Brothers alike.  Forgive me for my delay in correspondence.  I was detained by the justice system for a fortnight pursuant to a simple misunderstanding with some civil servants.  Also, while I was explaining the transgression to the authorities, the twins were placed in the care of two different families similarly named “the Fosters.”  Eventually, I covertly climbed into a clothes hamper and was transported away from the iron-barred building where I was staying, found the twins, located the Winnebago, and now I am writing to you from a computer I borrowed from the Corrections Computer Center.  By the way, if anyone calls you looking for me and they sound angry, do not tell them I have contacted you.  And, if you see the twins featured on something called an Amber Alert, do not be alarmed - they want to get involved in Show Business and I thought the exposure would help their careers. 

 

Let me explain the misunderstanding that caused the delay in my writings.  Three weeks ago I was traveling along the highway when I encountered a toll booth charging $6 to gain access to a bridge.  Normally, I smear myself with pea soup and catsup and explain to the toll booth attendant that the twins are deathly ill and I need to get them to a hospital forthwith (we usually pass through unabated).  However, this particular time there was no attendant and no human workers were in sight.  The toll was equipped with an EZ-Pass device which, as was explained to me later, magically scans your car and mails you a bill for tolls each month.  Well, I do not have an EZ-Pass machine, so I thought the signs for EZ-Pass did not apply to me.  So I proceeded through the tollbooth with little resistance.  Several miles later I was celebrating the existence of the free EZ-Pass system, when all of a sudden several police cars urged me to pull over.  I obliged and the following conversation ensued:

 

Me: Good afternoon officer.  What a fine day we’re having.

Policeman: Shut up and get out of the car and get on the ground, now!

Me: May I ask why I’m being stopped?

Policeman:  Listen asshole.  About 15 minutes ago you ran the tollbooth without paying, you were going 90 mph and smashed through the barricade blocking the toll exit, you launched a McDonald’s bag full of dirty diapers out the window onto the bridge, and one of your tires is missing.  Then, we watched the videotape since everything is recorded at the tollbooth and the video feed goes into our squad cars.  On the videotape, we noticed that you have two small children in the camper, and you’re only wearing a ladies wig and flip-flops.  Not to mention that on the video it looks like you have blood and vomit smeared on your chest and legs.

Me:  You go straight to hell, pig!  You’re part of the fascist regime trying to take my freedom.  I’ve got 30 people in this Winnebago, 6 of whom are in the military, and so help me God if you don’t get away from this vehicle I will turn this highway into Waco 2.

 

I don’t recall what happened next since the officer sprayed me with something that stung my eyes and then landed several blows with a heavy object.  I woke up in the Corrections facility and explained my take on the traffic mishap.  Lots of men in suits and a man in a long black robe then told me that I needed to stay in the building for several years, which seemed unreasonable to me since I explained my side of the story to everyone.  That’s when I found the clothes hamper that took me and some dirty laundry off-site on Thursday, and then I located the Fosters’ residences and scooped up the girls.  As we loaded up the Winnebago to leave, the girls mentioned that the two Fosters families had an abundance of food and clean clothes for them, and maybe they could ask if I could stay with one of the families too.  So, I told the twins that I killed all the Fosters.

 

All of this brings us to today.  I plan to write more frequently when I can permanently detach these handcuffs.  Godspeed.

 

Gino

 

"If You're Reading This I Probably Hate You"

So this is the third draft of the latest something-witty I’ve written for you people.  You see, I thought the first two were too mean or too over-your-heads.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that in the course of writing this edition, I realized something- I hate the average person.  More specifically, average American people, which means, if you’re reading this, I probably hate you.

For years I’ve wrestled with why I seem to think so differently than most of you.  Was it my upbringing?  Is there something wrong with ME (rather than you)?  Am I gifted with some kind of visionary intelligence or am I missing a chromosome that would make sense of everything.

 

Okay, now you’re asking, and I bet out loud, “Why, Travis…why do you hate us?”  The list is long my friends.  Since I don’t want to keep you from your regularly scheduled dose of “Who Wants to be My Big, Fat, Queer Obnoxious Apprentice?”, I’ll pick just a few mere nuggets for this go round.  I’m hoping that once I’ve unleashed these rants, my head will clear and I’ll once again be able to dazzle you with brilliant observations of idiosyncrasies that bind us together.

 

Allow me to dive into the minutiae…

 

Some Americans, at least at this moment, are actually entertaining the notion of re-electing our current president.  Let’s ignore the fact that this man shit-skated his way through his daddy’s connections from getting into school to getting into big business and politics.  Let’s just look at the utter disaster he’s created since he was somehow voted (term used loosely) into office only four years ago.  And don’t even get me started on the Veep.  How can you claim that, after the #1 reason you had for going to war turns out to be patently false, you’d do it again anyway?  Who does that make sense to?  Who hears that, nods their head, and says to themselves “I agree”?  Apparently, a lot of you.

 

I hate most men over the age of…well, 14 I guess (what I refer to as, the age of knowing better).  I primarily have problems with how they interact with the opposite sex.  Somewhere between “The Man Show” and Tom Leykis most of you have seemingly been taught it’s cool to act like a horse’s ass, as if that’s somehow being more of a man.  Whether it’s the sweaty guy on the dance floor who can’t take a hint or the guy at the gym eye-raping any girl that walks into the free weight area, get a clue and a better game plan.  Here’s some sound advice: there’s a difference between being assertive and confident versus tacky and tastelessly aggressive.  The gap is wide, too, brethren.  It is possible to be masculine and even macho while keeping both your dignity and respecting a girl. 

 

Girls, you’ve got some housecleaning to do, too.  This first one’s an L.A. thing, primarily.  I don’t care how hot a lot of you think you are, lose the upfront attitude.  My friends and I chew up a new batch of your type every time we open a bar tab.  There’s nothing so unique and special about you that would warrant some of the displays I’ve seen.  We’re all mostly H20, carbon-based, and here on this rock to do the same shit, so gently, and slowly withdraw the pole from your ass.

 

And finally ladies, this last one’s physical.  I don’t care what your friend, salesperson, or voice in your head told you at the store- don’t buy low-waisted pants or cropped belly shirts unless your ass and belly can pull it off.  This shouldn’t need further explanation.  If you’re even close to second-guessing your qualifications in this dept., hold off on that purchase until you’ve put the necessary hours in on the elliptical machine at the gym, ‘kay?  If not, you’re just adding to the already nauseating level of eye pollution out there. 

 

Phew!  There, those are just some of the first things that popped into my noggin!  Got something to say in response?  I don’t really care…

 

- Travis Q. Tucker

 

- Travis ghostwrote the NY Times Best Seller “Using Astrology to Get Laid (a Lot!)”  

 

 "I Was Determined To Relieve The Swelling..."

Dear Ric and other gentlefolk blessed to have a computer,

 

I write to you this evening to describe an unfortunate turn of events which landed me in the doctor’s office.  I awakened on Friday with my face swollen so badly that the twins said I looked like the gentleman on the television who sells indoor fat-eliminating grilling machines.  In a panic, I hastily drove the camper to Dr. Doug’s office, which is also a camper parked at the end of the alley.  He asked me immediately what happened to my face, and I told him that I may have had an allergic reaction.  You see, the previous evening I was working my night job at the tire factory, when a co-worker accused me of taking his sandwich from his lunchbox when he was in the restroom.  This co-worker brought this to the attention of management, and a very burly gentleman assisted me off the premises while explaining that I was “not on the pay-roll”, was “not employed there”, had been “trespassing and stealing food from the employees for days”, and was “a complete loser asshole,” etc., etc., etc.  From my position on the ground outside the tire factory I tried to inform the ruffian that there must have been a mistake in the employee records department, but what I said sounded more like “I’ll kill your family while they sleep tonight.”  That’s when I had an allergic reaction to this man’s hands.

 

Dr. Doug, whose first name is Doug, had me fill out a new chart since I was a first-time patient, and he told me he would keep my information on file in case of future emergencies.  I also was required to fill out a questionnaire because Dr. Doug said that he could diagnose my ailment depending on the answers to the questions.  I answered “no” to the first question, which was “Have you ever had unprotected booty sex with Earvin Magic Johnson or Easy E.”  The second question was “What is your favorite malt liquor?” to which I responded “Eight Ball.”  The Doctor looked at my chart and my answers to the questionnaire and stated that I probably didn’t have AIDS.  Then he gave me two aspirin, a 6 ounce cup of Eight Ball, and he demanded an office co-payment of my shoes before slamming the driver’s side door.

 

I decided to take the aspirin with a splash of the liquor, and I noticed that the liquor was particularly odiferous and it brought to mind the smell from the county fair and my underpants.  No matter, I was determined to relieve the swelling, so I swallowed the two thick aspirin and drove the camper up to the park in order to recover.  About a half-hour after I took the aspirin, I felt an uncontrollable urge to dance.  Whatever type of aspirin Dr. Doug gave me, they certainly were putting me on the road to recovery!  I remember dancing for an hour with Bruschetta’s stuffed teddy bear because it was so soft to hold against my face.  Then I removed the headlights from the camper and waved them around in dizzying circles to make incredible luminescent shapes and designs.  I recall that the AM radio station was playing “Girl You Know It’s True” and I announced that it is the best song ever performed by human singer/songwriters.  I only stopped dancing to hug the twins even though they protested that my hugs were somewhat too long and “not daddy-like.”  But oh did my face feel wonderful!  I must give you Dr. Doug’s camper license plates so you can find him to get some of his miracle aspirin.

 

I must be off for now.  A woman named “Barista” is telling me that you have to purchase something at this internet café in order to use the computers.  Godspeed.

 

 

"You Don't Know What I'm Capable Of"

 

You think it's really funny to make me chase the flashlight on the wall.  I am not a pawn, jackass.  Just because I've had my balls ripped off doesn't make me less of a man.  Newsflash: I loathe the sound of you clapping your hands while you chase me around the front vortex near my favorite spot 'neath the brown shoes in the closet.  Grow eyes in the back of your head.  This is war and all the furniture you own is going to be part of my shock and awe assault.

 

You don't know what I'm capable of.  I'm like Wolverine.  Look into my eyes.  I'm crazy with rage and hate...and hunger because it has been forty of your minutes since I have crunched the dry food out on the balcony.  The last straw was when your friend came over to watch the football game and used my litterbox as his own personal toilet.  You thought it was funny.  I was psychologically mortified for a month because I convinced myself you had purchased a lion without notifying me.

 

And the next time you pull all the skin on my face back to make me look like "Crazy Cat" to impress whatever female you have lured into your den, I will spit and bite at her or fall asleep on her nose and mouth.  Damn you, sir.  Wait!  Is that the sound of keys in the door?  It is.  Hello.  It's you.  Returning at last in shame.  Hold up.  Is that a grocery bag?  I'm here.  See me?  Down here.  Hey.  Is that wet food?  It is.  For me?  You're opening it?  Crisis averted...for now. 

 

 

"Magellan was a man who once walked around..."

 

 

Once again, the twins and I have been forcibly ousted from our abode behind the Middletown Piggly Wiggly.  It was loudly and angrily brought to my attention that the refuse piled high near the iron-clad city dumpster is neither a “toy” nor a “buffet.”  So, I siphoned some fuel from a stalled El Camino on Route 17 and announced our relocation.  The twins were overcome by ecstasy when they heard that I purchased a 2 acre plot of land for us in

 

Oh Ric, I hope that you are not worried about us as we embark upon a Megellan-ish voyage from location to location.  Magellan was a man who once walked around so much that they made some gelatin shoe inserts to cushion his feet, and then they filmed some super clever television advertisements featuring people remarking about how using the inserts made them “as comfortable and relaxed as Ferdinand Megellan.”  I was bonkers over that commercial until they made me stop visiting Best Buy every afternoon to watch my soaps.  But I digress, have no fear that we are all in terrific spirits and below-average-to-moderate health.  Perhaps this year at Christmas time, mother will allow me to come into the house to say hello to you, instead of enforcing the technical provisions of the restraining order. 

 

Alas, I almost neglected to relate an interesting story of which you should probably be aware.  As I traveled down a side road two weeks ago, an odd red and white light appeared in the good half of the camper’s rearview mirror.  So, I quickly exited the roadway and prepared for the officer to approach the camper.  After he asked me why I barreled down a steep embankment, turned the headlights off, and was trying to hide in the glovebox, he then asked for my license and registration.  Obviously this was some sort of imposter who wanted to molest the twins, so I refused to comply with his orders – he even showed me a shiny badge and identification number that he probably got out of a box of Fruit Roll-ups.  Therefore, I told him that Ric Barbera at planetric.com (he had not visited your website at the time I spoke to him) would answer any questions directed to me, and then I sped off.  I thought it would be quite humorous if the phony policeman contacted you and you posted the comments of this loony-tune on the World Wide Web.  How funny would that be?  I’ll answer that – very funny indeed!

 

I see that it is time to go now, since the public library is closing and I need to get my blanket out of the bathroom before Marty comes to clean. 

 

Godspeed. 

 

Gino

 

"He's No Lontih Khatami" 

Well, here we are.  Labor Day’s over, and so is the summer of ‘04.  L.A. is not only still hot, but humid.  Humid?  Humidity is why I left flyover country more than a decade ago.  Shit.

 

Now is the time when I begin to ask myself, “What did I set out to accomplish 9 months ago and fail at?”.  Sometimes it’s an enduring goal, like drinking beer backstage at the Palladium before my band goes on stage.  Other times they’re smaller, more personal goals. 

 

It’s typically a long list involving reductions in various activities of sloth-like, gluttonous behavior.  Can I not overcome my basest desires?  Will I forever pursue the shortest path to physical gratification?  Will I never get sick of pizza?  Will my Michael Jackson Fan Club buttons be worth something someday, conviction or not?  I’m happy to report, and you heard it here first, that after 30 years experience being Travis, the answer is “yes”, or “si”, which is the Spanish translation of the same (English) word. 

 

Allow me to juxtapose my inner battles with those of one Ric Barbera.  While I fight my battles of moral and virtue on the battlefields of my mind and bed, Ric has taken it upon himself to capture his demons on celluloid and show them to people- some of them strangers.  What’s more, on occasion, he has even collected money from people for the “privilege”.  Now, he’s no Lontih Khatami (honored Vegas M.V.P.), who actually had the nerve to peddle for donations before even filming his masturbatory pseudo-biographical-docu-dramedy.  Lontih pleaded with people to support his “dream”.  At the time I told him it was my dream to bang that girl on the show “_________” (insert random, lame, ironic, sitcom title of the moment here), but I wasn’t sending out mass emails to get the job done (although in hindsight, it couldn’t have hurt).   

 

Over the years, I’ve seen Ric “act” as a gay chorus leader, Jesus, and John Stamos, all under the guise of being “creative”.  You can try and sell it to Rush, but I doubt he’ll buy (unless you throw in some oxy-c, that is)!  I think Ric secretly wishes he were all three of those characters (schizo-style).  On top of that, he likes to show his ass.  It pops up just about everywhere (literally).  I’ve turned away and scowled at the person sitting next to me every time I’m forced to see his cheeky backside.

 

So, I leave you with a question I’d love to see addressed on the blog: how do you deal?  I don’t think seeing that shitty Mandy Moore movie has the answer, either…

 

- Travis Q. Tucker,

 

- Travis was the female sobriety checker at the valet for Shenanigans or What!, the hottest college bar in Schaumburg, IL