Breathing and Other New Difficulties

I’m gonna dive right in here: You’ve more than likely been filled in on my whole situation. I mean, how could you avoid it, right? I won’t shut up about it. “My poor lungs,” I bellyache. “My heart is weak,” I bitch and moan. “I can’t even shower without running out of breath,” I complain. I’m mildly sorry if you constantly hear these things, but as of now I think it’s quite alright for me to worry out loud. Bear with me for a while until either A) I’m a bit more “stable” or “normal” in the coming months or B) one of these pesky clots rushes to my brain while I wait in the checkout line at Walmart. Whichever comes first.

If I die young, bury me in SAVINGS!

“If I die young, bury me in SAVINGS!”

Now, for those of you left in the dark, here’s the deal: On Monday December 21st, I decided to help a friend out during a cleaning spree by taking her trash to the dumpster. I had woken up at around 10:30AM and immediately threw some shoes on, grabbed the full bag by the door, and meandered outside, not a care in the world. Once I was about halfway to the dumpster — which is only about a hundred feet from her building’s exit — I began to feel a bit winded. “You’re just fat,” my brain said. “You need to wake up and get your energy back. No biggie.” So I kept going like nothing was wrong. The problem? There indeed WAS something very wrong. I made it to the dumpster and you’d swear at that point I was taking a break from a marathon. I was out of breath, struggling from one gasp to the next. I dropped the trash bag and tried walking back to the apartment, but my equilibrium was thrown off. My ears were ringing, my vision was blurry, my chest was tight and burning, my whole body went weak. Luckily (if I can say that), I made it to the outside apartment door, where I collapsed just as I put my hand on the knob. I waited on my knees for a few seconds as I gathered myself, then picked my body up and stumbled back into the apartment. I made it to the couch and collapsed, trying my hardest not to freak out. Each breath I took hurt like no other. I wanted to burst out in tears and call the ambulance, but my dumb ass decided it was something that would pass on its own. As I rested, my friend came out and told me to migrate to another spot so she could clean around the couch. “No worries,” I said. “I’m about to leave. Gotta go to the doctor. I’m… I’m not feeling too well.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know? Do you need medicine? What’s wrong?”

“I… Don’t… Know… I’m going to drive myself to the ER.”

Yes, I drove myself in that condition. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea, but you know me, man. I’m not one to hinder on other people’s lives with my silly problems. You’d be happy to know, however, that I did make it to my destination.

Which, at first, was not the ER.

I'm an idiot.

I’m an idiot.

Being a stubborn bastard really bites me in the ass. See, before I went to the ER I decided to stop off at my friend Chris’s house, where I had been crashing for the weeks prior to this whole ordeal. Making it there wasn’t so bad, but making it to his door was a chore and even after feeling the pain all over again, I still didn’t go to the ER. No, I went inside, lied down on the bed, and thought about what was happening. Heart attack? Maybe. Pneumonia? ‘Tis the season. A debilitating STD? Yeah…OK. Unsure of what to make of all of it, I called my mom. I wanted to let her know what was going on in the event that I passed out and no one was around to find me. Yeah, another golden idea: CALL MOM AND WORRY HER! Once I said all of what I had to say, she told me to quote “get [my] fucking ass to the fucking ER before [she comes] down there and drags [my] ass.” OK, that was just the shove I needed, so I hopped in my car and drove down to the ER at St. Joseph’s on Broadway, less than a mile from Chris’s place.

Fast forward to my ER visit. I told them what was going on, they ran some tests and scans and whatnot, and immediately informed me that I was to be admitted. After hours of waiting, bouncing around, getting a finger shoved in my ass, and wondering what the hell was wrong with me, I finally got to see a doctor. He came in, sat down, and ripped it off like a band-aid when he said, “Charles, you have pulmonary embolism, which means that there is clotting in your lungs’ arteries and their “branches.” Not only do you have a few clots, you have SEVERAL clots. The damage is quite extensive, actually. Because of this, you also have right ventricular failure, meaning the right side of your heart is dangerously weak and is having an awful lot of trouble pumping blood into your lungs. We’re going to keep you here for the foreseeable future until all of this is sorted out.”

Wha– I jus– I’m only 24? HOW in the ever-loving hell am I dealing with a pulmonary embolism and fucking HEART FAILURE? They checked my legs for any evidence of deep vein thrombosis. Nothing. Nada. They hooked me up to machines, did some Doppler ultrasounds, checked on my heart some more and were baffled when they couldn’t give me a proper answer. These professionals have no idea how or why I have a sh’load of clots in my lungs. The answer they did give me was that I drew the short straw in the genetic lottery and am just an unlucky son of a bitch.

“Thanks for letting me know.”

After eight days of constant blood work, tests, scans, x-rays, etc, that’s as far as we’ve gotten. Seriously. The good-ish news is that I have to follow up with all of this every week for the rest of eternity, so odds are they’ll find out exactly what’s wrong with me eventually. I have to set up an appointment with a hematologist soon because apparently I might have a shitty blood disorder that’s causing my blood to clot up for no real reason other than being diseased. For the time being, I’m on a blood thinner that needs to be closely monitored for the rest of my life and a blood pressure medication that’s helping me not stroke out.

YEAH! MEDICINE!

YEAH! MEDICINE!

The point of this blog, other than to share my story for those who are unaware, is to let you all know that it’s gonna be a while before I’m back to being the old me. My whole life has been put on hold and everything I’ve worked at for the past few months of my life is now on the back burner. I can’t drive long distances. I can’t work until I know my body’s limitations. I can’t drink alcohol. I can’t smoke. I can’t eat leafy greens or other Vitamin K rich foods (this one’s not so bad). I can’t stand up for too long without getting winded. I can’t sit for too long without running the risk of getting another clot or pushing an existing one through my body. I can’t… Well, there’s a lot I can’t do. It’s really doing a number on my mental health right now. I don’t get to hang out with my friends as much anymore. I don’t have a way to spend time with the girl I was hanging out with at the time of the incident. For all intents and purposes, I’m a bruised, sad sack of sickness, loneliness, and helplessness right now as I try to acclimate to this new development. For once in my life, I’m feeling sorry for myself because, for once in my life, I have no idea what I’m doing. Zero percent. There’s not even a shred of life confidence right now.

Life is different.

And I’m scared.

This all being said, I’m trying to at least keep my humor about me. Every time I bring up this predicament or my overall health in a joking manner, please don’t see it as me being pessimistic. While my optimism is not what it used to be, my humor — no matter how dark — is what’s keeping me sane and happy. When a doctor gives you a list of different ways an illness could potentially kill you, you have to find a way to make each day a little easier, to take your mind off of all the negative. Do I think I’ll croak any time soon? I hope not. With a huge change in my lifestyle, I suppose I could someday find some semblance of normalcy in this fucked up situation. The fact of the matter is, however, that these clots aren’t all going to go away. Some will be broken down by my body naturally, but with the sheer amount that are in my lungs, there’s no guarantee they’ll all go away. Does that spell out certain death? ABSOLUTELY NOT.

I’m just saying we should name them all and start betting on which one will bust out of the gate first and race to the finish line in my head.

I’m just kidding! You really think I’m gonna let you get rid of me that easily? Forget about it!

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Before I go, I wanna ship out a big THANK YOU to everyone who has helped me through all of this, whether it be monetarily, morally, spiritually, whatever. I have quite an awesome support system that continues to make me feel better each and every day. Much love to you all!

And thanks for reading, you rascals. I’m gonna go count my bruises.

1171

IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO DONATE TO MY GOFUNDME TO HELP WITH THE COSTS OF ALL OF THIS, PLEASE GO HERE:

>>> CHARLIE’S POST-HOSPITAL COSTS <<<

It’s Not Your Fault

I don’t want to call myself a comedian; that wouldn’t be accurate. I crack jokes on Twitter and in the company of others to hopefully make at least one person smile, but I wouldn’t say that makes me a comedian, no matter how often I wish that were the case. I’ve only been on a stage twice in my life. I’ve never been paid to make anyone laugh. I’m just a dude who, though a self-proclaimed misanthropic curmudgeon, honestly likes to see people happy, no matter the method. That all being said, I’ve also battled with clinical depression for a good portion of my life, as well as thoughts of suicide. The laughter comes at a price.

Never in a million years did I think I’d be one to have such thoughts. Yeah, life early on had its ups and downs with my parents’ divorce when I was around six or seven, the financial troubles I was a part of, the yearly moves and school transfers, etc — I just thought I was sad all the time or, better yet, simply disappointed in myself and my situation. As time passed and my brain began to develop and mature, I started thinking that maybe something was wrong, that maybe my wiring was a bit off. My teen years were filled with emotion, change, and pain. Headaches became frequent, fits of rage became sporadic, and tears fell from my eyes for seemingly no reason at least three times a week. At school I kept my shit together, put on a smile, walked the halls with the rest of the world, waved to everyone, and played it cool, but when I went home I wanted to be alone in my room and in my head. That’s when I beat myself up the most.

Would drinking mouthwash in excess do the trick? Nah, that’d probably just give me a stomach ache. Maybe I can go for a ride with friends and jerk the wheel on a back road? No no no, I wouldn’t want to hurt them in the process. Does anyone I know have a gun? Come on, Charlie, don’t make them see you like that…

That’s the kind of stuff I would think about. On the outside I was this chubby, lovable, happy-go-lucky, and overall kind person, but I had demons of my own to take care of, to fight off and lock up before I started my day. I had no one to talk to; I didn’t want to burden others with my troubles because that would just be an inconvenience to them. I sincerely didn’t think anyone would take me seriously if I attempted to lay out my issues, so I kept them hidden from everyone, even family. All through high school this dragged on. Then came college.

In 2010 I moved to Ann Arbor to begin my stint at UMich. The transition from small town to college town was huge. All of that change and culture shock hit me at once. Sure I made friends, ones that I talk to and love to this day, but the depression ate at me more than ever while I was there. I’d lock myself in my room, turn off all of the lights, and sleep. People would pound on the door and yell because they knew I was in there. I would never respond to them. I’d even go as far as hiding in a corner with a blanket over me so that there was no way ANYONE would be able to see me, even if they found a way to peek under my door. I suppose the reason I didn’t want anyone to come in is because I put on a front and pretended to be happy. This opened another door to them to talk to me about their own issues, forcing me to listen and concern myself with more problems that weren’t even my own. I would console them and comfort them, make them feel good about their situations until they were able to sleep soundly at night. Not to say their problems were added weight to my shoulders, but tack those on to an already full mind and I was beating myself up even more over what I knew was petty bullshit. I know it sounds strange, but my brain felt just like I did: it wanted to be left alone.

Later on I would try my hand in comedy. During the good days I would write a whole helluva lot of material, so why not share that? Who knows, maybe it would make me feel better. The first time I was onstage was beautiful and I loved every minute of it. The jokes were solid, the crowd was beautiful, and I seemed to have a knack for it. The second time was not as well-done, but I knew that every amateur comic had their moments, so I didn’t sweat it too much. These two instances lead to briefly happier times and more intimate writing sessions where I could release my troubles through jokes. Again, these moments were brief.

More bad thoughts came as the clock ticked forward. What would happen if I dove from the fourth floor window? There’s a chance it would just hurt a lot, but not necessarily do the trick. Well, what about the buses? They’re constantly running routes, right? Dive in front of one of those. No way! That’s going to fuck with the many people that have to witness that. Have some decency, man.

That was the last straw for me. I ducked out of college in 2012, partly due to financial issues, but mainly because I didn’t belong there. Everyone was out and about having a good time, spending money, spending time with friends, spending their youth enjoying life, while I was cowering in a corner pathetically trying to hide from anyone that wanted to see me. That was no way for a twenty-year old to live.

The next couple years were spent working and trying to better myself. I’d put in 50-70 hours at work, during which time I wouldn’t worry too much about my personal life. This was OK, but the depression war raged on at home, only this time I was truly alone. I finally went to a doctor to get help in early 2013. The antidepressants he gave me were enough to keep the crying fits at bay, but they weren’t helping me as much as I’d like them to. I do suppose this may have been because I lied to him and said I never had thoughts of suicide (I didn’t want to trouble the poor guy). He upped the dosage after I explained this to him, which seemed to help a little bit, but I definitely still felt shitty most of the time. This cycle of lying and medicating went on and on and on to, well, present day.

I still feel this way most days. I laugh as much as possible and encourage others to do the same, but behind this curtain of happiness is still a very sad, lonely, angry person. And last night everything was kind of put into perspective when I read the breaking news headlines:

ROBIN WILLIAMS IS DEAD.

Not just dead, but apparently dead from suicide. Robin Williams…suicide… It didn’t add up. One of my heroes, my inspirations, the man who could lift me up more than a majority of people in my real life ever could, the man who did the same for nearly every single person on the planet with a television set, the man who seemed to be the kindest, gentlest, and arguably funniest person in the history of entertainment…killed himself?

Why? Why? Why? That’s all I could ask myself. How could someone like that take his own life? Robin Williams dealt with a lot of shit that was made public, but those were speed bumps, right? How could he feel so…depressed? Did depression cause this? All this time he was lifting the spirits of millions of people, was he really this sad? Alone? Afraid?

The whole situation got my mind racing at a hundred miles a minute. Then I began to simmer down and think: If I have felt this way for so long, who’s to say this man wasn’t going through similar bullshit?  People go through it all the time and Mr. Williams is no different. We all saw him as this funny character, but none of us truly knew what went on while the cameras weren’t on him. This is not unlike the rest of us who deal with issues every single day; no one knows what we are going through unless we talk about it. If we are not honest with those we love, then how can they possibly know that the person they see isn’t real? I guess that’s the reason why I’m writing this.

Listen to your loved ones. Don’t just talk to them and try to relate to what they’re going through, fucking listen. Don’t assume that because someone is happy or funny or generous on the outside, they are feeling the same way on the inside. For years I have felt that I have had no one to talk to about any of this because every conversation I try to have turns into the other person trying to one-up my problems. I know everyone has shit to deal with, but it’s important to just be there for others. Let them talk. Let them vent. Let them cry, for Christ’s sake. Hug them, hold them, rock them, rub their back, stroke their hair, kiss their cheek, dry their eyes. Do what you can to be there for them. You never know what’s going to happen in the future, so do your best to be there for those who need it most. Trust me when I say that they will return the favor tenfold, especially if they are in better spirits when that time comes.

I, for one, am glad to report that I am slowly trying to transition into a better lifestyle through a mixture of comedy, medication, education, and self-realization, but this will most definitely take some time. The power of laughter is real, my friends, and Robin Williams was proof of that. If you’re like me or Robin or millions of others who suffer from depression, then you must also realize that there needs to be balance in your life. Laughter can heal; however, you have to not only make others laugh but find time to better yourself as well, through writing, performing, reading, drawing, etc. You need to smile, too, dammit.

And if you are dealing with thoughts of suicide, DO NOT HESITATE TO TALK TO SOMEONE. There is always someone to talk to at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). I know calling the “suicide hotline” might feel strange or whatever, but when there’s no one else around they will help you fight your battle. “You will have bad times, but they will always wake you up to the stuff you weren’t paying attention to.*”  You are not alone. You are loved.

*Rest in Peace, Mr. Robin Williams

xjbQU6A

Ah, L’amour

Hi-ya everybody! I’m taking a break from my flourishing online dating profile to talk to you about, well, online dating. See, I never thought I’d utilize the tool, but lately I’ve become a lonely fatty — this is a couple steps under regular fatty and one notch above depressed fatty — and being lonely sucks the largest of dicks. What the hell, there are free sites where folks like me can strike up a conversation with anyone, right? WRONG. I’ve found that being a fat, broke metalhead, albeit a self-proclaimed fun one, isn’t necessarily what people are looking for in a friend, let alone a goddamn significant other. I’ve gone from looking for love (*cough* seemingly a waste of time *cough*) to simply stating that I’d like to just find friends to shoot the shit with. Nope, users will be having none of that.

So I made a list, kids, a totally rad list that will work for guys and gals alike that are wanting to join the online dating scene. These may not come as a shock to you, but judging by the amount of people that I’ve seen visit my profile and just not even say hi back, I was a bit thrown off. Like, couldn’t you give me the common courtesy of a “fuck off, you goofy bastard” or “sorry, no fatties?” Hell, I’d settle for a “I have enough friends already, thanks.” Sorry, sorry, I digress. Here’s a list of things that you’ll need to consider before stepping into the world of creating e-friendships and/or e-friendships with benefits:

1. Be mostly attractive. This one is completely subjective depending on who’s looking at that precious mug of yours, but for the most part you have to look like you take care of yourself more than the next match. Strong personality? Engaging conversation? Laugh out loud sense of humor? GET THAT WEAK SHIT OUT OF HERE! In order to impress the pants off someone (figuratively or literally) you’re going to have to be exactly what they’re looking for. Don’t let these dating sites become one-stop shopping for weirdos and butterfaces. Come on, people, it’s called fucking decorum. Get some.

Try being this guy...

Try being this guy…

...not this assface.

…not this assface.

2. Like all kinds of music. This one seems to be pretty big in the dating world. When you start listing specific bands that you enjoy rocking out to — bands with names like Butthole Surfers or Killer Be Killed — people get weirded out. You better just say you don’t have a favorite just like everyone else so that there’s no death stares coming your way. (Disclaimer: A lot of people think “all kinds” doesn’t actually mean all kinds, it’s simply a blanket term for Imagine Dragons, Luke Bryan, Florida-Georgia Line, Jason Derulo, and the Black Keys. Try not adding variety with other bands for you will get nowhere. No one knows nor cares about that silly band called Pelican.)

3. Don’t have your own standards or types, despite seeing everyone else listing their own. You remember back in high school when you and your four friends would go out and see a group of, what do ya know, five cute people? That’s one for each of you! But hey, you’re the big one in the bunch, so it’s only right that you go for the big one in that group. No one wants to be with your gelatinous ass! Take one for the team this time and every time! Apply this same principle to your online dating standards. If you post double-chinned selfies, then don’t expect to be able to even lift a leg onto the high horse that others are riding. Stick to ones “like you,” just like your friends taught you long ago.

4. Don’t expect to become anyone’s friend. Dating sites are for dating ONLY! If you explicitly say that you’d like to be friends with someone, guy or girl, then no one will believe you because there’s always a motive. Sincerely wanting to just talk and possibly hang out is too much and no one cares about being your friend. Skip the bullshit and find friends the old-fashioned way: Lord of the Rings chat rooms.

Shout out to my homeboy, Craig!

Shout out to my homeboy, Craig!

5. Try not being so different. The Lord Almighty created cookie cutters for a reason, honey. No need to bake a gingerbread Goro when there are perfectly good man-shapes already made for you.

This is you. Keep it that way!

This is you now. Keep it that way.

6. Lie, lie, lie! Do you have depression? Not anymore you don’t! How much do you weigh? 180 last time you checked! You don’t like The Notebook? Fuck, now ya do! It’s all about telling your matches what they want to hear. They’ll find out who you really are once you’ve been together for six months, so don’t bore them with details of your life now. Throw down that you make $80,000 a year or that you’ve been told you’re “fucking legit” at oral sex. What they don’t know won’t hurt them!

___________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________

Did you take notes, children? Are you well on your way to becoming the most dateable motherfucker in town? I sure hope so. If you need any more life advice, don’t hesitate to call or text your Uncle Charlie. I might be a while ’cause I’m going to have Lionel Richie blasting on repeat while I dive into this Ben & Jerry’s.

By myself.

Fusterclucked

I’m a part-time insomniac. I don’t mean to make light of those who suffer from grown-up insomnia, but I only find it impossible to sleep maybe four days out of the week, five tops. If you’re keeping track of the time at home (it’s pert’near 4:00 AM here) then you are well aware that tonight is one of those restless nights. I’ve tried watching boring movies, reading a book, taking medication, mastur– WHOA! No. This isn’t a tell-all, naughty time blog post. My apologies to the five of you who really wanted that mental image.

Psst... Call me ;).

Psst… Call me ;).

With the annoyance of this shitty sleeplessness comes random bursts of creativity, something I don’t get nearly as often since my good-for-nothing doctor put me on Zoloft. Yeah, sure, sometimes I feel like that bouncy little fuckhead from those old commercials, but it also drains my brain and makes me, dare I say it, somewhat normal. Perhaps the insomnia is a side effect of this, a sort of fuck the system rebellion my body is pulling so that I can someday share my clusterfucked bullshit with the world.

Though I don't think anyone's super ready for that yet.

Though I don’t think anyone’s super ready for that yet.

Looking at the bright side, I have had a lot of time to do things that I hope to someday release — screenplays, comedy bits, short movies, etc. For instance, I have a couple of stories outlined that I’m converting into screenplays within the next few months. One is a sort of fantasy/sci-fi number about a man who is actually addicted to dreaming. Just like how heroin, sex, and Nutella are habit-forming for a lot of people, this dude gets high on his dreams, no matter what they may be; the more intense, the better, he believes. He begins dishing out tons of money for sleep aids and experiments that thrust him into lucid dreams so that he can get his fix, since that is the only way he seems to be able to function in day-to-day reality. S’a good one.

The next project I have been preparing is more of a drama that pulls from my own life experiences. I won’t go into details on this (it can get a little sappy), but let’s just say there’s going to be lots of laughter, crying, drugs, and maybe even some softcore lesbian sex. Trust me, it’s not there because I’m some kind of perv, it’s there for a reason that I’ll explain later. For the time being, just think about how the fuck lesbian sex is pulled from my own life experiences.

Speaking of... HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN SEASON TWO OF 'ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK?' So. Fucking. Good.

Speaking of… HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN SEASON TWO OF ‘ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK?’ So. Fucking. Good.

As for the comedy, I’ve got a lot of new material that is, well, more me. If the Zoloft is doing anything right for me, it’s definitely made me realize that I have less fucks to give. Crowds don’t faze me anymore, nor do spotlights, controversy, or self-deprecation. I’m ready to showcase a newer version of me, while still remaining faithful to my storytelling and slightly fabricated tales of truth. I don’t promise much, but I can sure as fuck guarantee a fun time and maybe even a change of underwear.

On top of all of this, I still have plenty of time to indulge in games on my computer, educate myself with some nonfiction reading, and maintain a very sad yet hopeful online dating profile. It’s a lot of multitasking, but goddammit I have to show everyone that fat kids like me are totally capable of running the marathon. Am I right or am I right?

OH! ONE MORE THING! I also do these shitty things in my spare time. Got quite the collection going and they’re only getting better (?).

showcase

That gentleman at the bottom riding the velociraptor is Turner Watson, a damn cool dude with a blog of his own. Check out http://www.turnerwatson.com and prepare to be amused.

I’m out, folks. Peace up, A-town down… One love… Bye-bye biatch… Whatever the kids are saying these days.

Rip ‘is bloody froat out!

Doctor? I DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ DOCTOR! Well, actually, having a doctor check out my throat would be a grand idea, but I’ve been against the idea lately because I’m uninsured until I go back to school in the fall. Uninsured. Ain’t that some shit? My idea was to have a heart-to-heart with my immune system and enforce a strict “don’t get fucking sick or I’ll jam pack my body full of Flinstones vitamins and Children’s Robitussin” rule. Turns out vital bodily functions can’t understand you when you talk to them. Figures.

So here I am, jamming to new age instrumental music alone on my sister’s couch, reviewing English grammar (there’s an app for that!) ’cause I don’t think we learned enough about it in school, and bitching about feeling like Jake Busey in Identity.

Hey, some people haven't seen it. This visual is important!

Hey, some people haven’t seen the movie. This visual is important!

The truth is, I like to think I have a pretty high pain threshold, guys. I’m a fucking MAN! The dude I play in everyday life, the sensitive daffodil of a boy with nothing but love to give, he’s just a candy shell over the Snake Plissken-esque rugged motherfucker that I truly am.

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Being such a bad mama jama, I rank this sore throat at a solid 4. That’s nothin’! That’s… That’s like a wasp sting, except, you know, in the throat. A stubbed toe? I’d give that a 5. Passing kidney stones: 7. The surgery I had on my testicles (the thought alone): 8. The Holy Grail of pain — the rare 10 — has to be the double thigh cramp. Have you ever felt such a godawful pain in your fucking life? There you are, chillin’ in bed, finishing up a Kitchen Nightmares marathon on Netflix, when suddenly your holiday hams decide to seize at the same goddamn time. You’re wrapped up in blankets, the cat’s on your chest pinning you down, and the dog is acting as a pair of furry shackles around your ankles. “FUCK EVERYTHING!” you shout as you flail about like you’re an epileptic fish out of water getting tased by the fish police. Your dog whimpers as you kick him off the bed. Your cat hisses as she claws the moles of your man melons. Your blanket cocoon flies to the other side of the room. All this commotion for fucking thigh cramps. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have my inflamed tonsils ripped out by Captain Hook right now than endure that shit anytime soon.

The point I am trying to make is that everything is going to be OK. I’ll just keep sucking on these cough drops until my shit’s better, then I’ll be back to 100%. Until then, I’m off to re-learn prepositions! Remember: Prepositions aren’t words that you should end a sentence with.

Stay in school!

Stay in school!

An Interview with an Ass

I didn’t watch the VMA’s. The people of the United States kept tweeting, blogging, and freaking out on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, trying to convince me to turn on my television and sink my teeth into MTV’s show bait, but the joke’s on you, everyone; I don’t even HAVE cable! I do, however, have a high speed Internet connection and knew that news of the event would be floating around at least one website shortly after it aired.

Although the post-ceremony stories were posted all over the place, there was one thing that caught my eye the proceeding day on the Internet that I do believe most VMA viewers missed. I was browsing the underground media site Reddit (I’m sure not many of you have heard of this gem, but I insist that you check it out when you find time between your important desk job and the raising of your young) when I stumbled on a picture of — how do I say this without coming off as crude? — an ugly ass. Literally. It was a human ass hanging out of what I could only assume was a pair of skin-toned, two-sizes-too-small Spanx®. Who did this ass belong to? Who went out in public, nay, who went on national television wearing these godawful pants that showed off their horrific posterior? I just had to know.

bizarre-vma-finding-supersecret.jpg

bizarre-vma-finding-supersecret.jpg

I contacted my friends in the bureau to see if they had the technology to zoom out and enhance a photo similar to the way every nerdy detective could in any given crime movie or TV show. “Of course we do,” they said. “That’s something that exists.” I attached the photo to an email and sent it to their work mailboxes. Within twenty-four hours I received a reply from each of them, all with the subject line “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.”

What they sent me back is something that I wasn’t prepared for. I opened the attachment on each email and they all matched.

It was Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter, a.k.a. Hannah Montana.

Photo Attachment: (Subject: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY)

Photo Attachment: (Subject: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY)

I was shocked. But I was also curious. I wanted to spread the word about what I just uncovered. The world caught a glimpse of the ass, but how could they know who it belonged to with the camera zoomed in so far? Most of them probably thought it was a technical goof. Perhaps one of the men behind the production desk accidentally synced his phone up to the MTV computers and what the audience saw was one of his personal stills. I, of course, knew the truth and I wanted to alert the world of my findings; however, before I did so I wanted to talk to the ugly ass in question, get some details out of it, and find out what it was thinking stepping out of the house dressed in the strangest of materials and hanging out for the world to see. Utilizing my friends in the bureau (thanks Tom, Bill, and Carlos!) I tracked down Hannah Montana’s ugly ass. I needed to hear her side of the story and find out if there was more substance to it, so I flew her out to meet me at my Ohio office to discuss everything that was on my mind. The following is an uncut, uncensored, and very revealing brief interview. I didn’t want to release it, but something within me has told me to do so. This is exclusive. Some if it may shock you. Proceed with caution.

Interview, Ugly Ass: August 30, 2013: Undisclosed Location, Ohio, United States

2:34 PM: Beginning of Interview

Charlie: Good afternoon, uh, Ass? Miss Ass? I’m sorry, what do you prefer to be called?

Ass: My closest friends call me Rhonda.

Charlie: Rhonda. Got it. May I proceed to call you Rhonda? Also, do you mind if this session is recorded?

Rhonda: You may. And no, not at all. I’m used to the attention.

[Laughter]

Charlie: Good, good, good. OK, Rhonda, I’ll begin by asking the question that is on everyone’s mind, which is why?

Rhonda: Well, Charles, if I may be honest for a second, I certainly don’t know what I was thinking that night. Miley, my controller, she has —

Charlie: I apologize for interrupting, but her real name is Miley, not Hannah?

Rhonda: Correct.

Charlie: Thank you. I will make note of that.

[Slight pause for note-taking]

Rhonda: Anyhow, Miley has always had a tendency to put things inside of me, illegal things that I won’t get into right now. Most nights I don’t mind because the contents are wrapped up tightly in a balloon or sandwich baggy. This night, the night of the Video Music Awards, she was in a hurry and stuffed a handful of prescription pills inside of me. I wanted to spit them out as soon as she did it, but I did not want to disappoint her. Have you ever pissed off — can I say that?

[Pause for silent approval nod]

Rhonda: Have you ever pissed off a Disney star? It’s not pretty. Miley, Britney, Selena… They all have a history of violence, a long record of hurting those who cross them or disagree with their way of life. Hell, the other day Vanessa Hudgens threw her date out of a speeding Camaro after he allegedly told her that he didn’t want to go to anymore clubs. He said he wanted to just go back home and cuddle (allegedly) and she (allegedly) tossed him out. He is still in the hospital with several broken bones and a severe concussion. Miley is sadly cut from the same cloth.

Charlie: Wow, I had no idea that these former “princesses” could be so wild. So is this why you were wearing those hideous shorts, if you can even call them that? Did she make that fashion decision out of spite?

Rhonda: I mentioned to her that I did not think that she needed that many pills for such an occasion. A couple could have been taken out and she wouldn’t have lost out on any fun, I said. She then proceeded to angrily slap me and attempt to suffocate me in the shorts that you see in the photo. I wanted out so badly, but I did not fight for I did not want to upset her further. She screamed, “Do you like that? I hope so, ’cause that’s what you’re wearing to the show!” I knew I looked atrocious, but the feeling of ridicule and inability to breathe was my main concern. That whole night I saw people flashing their cameras at me. It hurt me, it really did. I knew the media would be plastering my pictures everywhere. I knew I would be mocked for the rest of my life. I will never forgive her for that.

[Sobbing]

Rhonda: I will never forgive her for being so cruel. She’s a monster, but one that I have to live with for the rest of my life. I’m sure I will be receiving much worse after the exposure I’ve received these past few days.

Charlie: Being attached to Han — sorry — Miley, do you think you’ll be on the receiving end of punishment for a long time to come?

Rhonda: I fear it may never end, honestly. Miley is young and reckless. It’s a dark time to be an ass attached to someone so determined to live the “YOLO” lifestyle. She’s hellbent on destroying me. At least that’s how it seems.

Charlie: Rhonda, you have given me your side of the story. I would have never thought, not in a million years, that there was this much to you. It’s been a privilege. Before we pack up and I send you on your way, do you have any final words to say to the world? Anything you’d like to share?

Rhonda: Certainly. If you are an ass or if you know of any asses that have taken this kind of unnecessary, cruel punishment, there are options. If you need another ass to talk to, you are welcome to contact me via Twitter or by phone at 1-888-FREE-ASS. (Be sure to dial 888 and not 800.) Being an ass is a tough job, but if we work together we can pull through anything. You are not alone. We may just be asses to them, but dammit we are people too.

Charlie: Rhonda, you are truly an inspiration. An ASSpiration, if you will.

[Laughter]

Rhonda: Thank you for allowing me to come here and talk about this. And thank you for making me smile in such trying times. Your generosity will never go unappreciated.

Charlie: You are so welcome. Take care, Rhonda.

[End of Interview]