The Purple Porcelain God

But first, a public service announcement.

It's been a while since I blogged, and maybe I'll get back into it, maybe not. From now on, the material contained within may not be ridiculous. Then again, it may be more ridiculous. And from now on, each heading may not deal with feces in remote ways, such as references to poop, ass, or poop- or ass-related items. I'm doing this to exercise my skills as a writer. Okay, I don't have any more skills. The only thing certain here is that I am certainly writing this at the moment.

And now, on with the show.

"Purple rain, purple rain..." Ah, Prince. What a great song, what a great musician! That was the thought running through my head as I stood in the bathroom of a country club, slightly hunched over, holding the handicap hand rails. I was spewing vomit of a dark purple hue, and not regretting a minute of it.

My friend, Little Drummer Boy, just got married last night, and he and his wife decided to have an open bar for a little bit during the reception. AWESOME! After imbibing nine or ten glasses of wine, it was time to pay the price. So worth it. I haven't had that much fun drinking since...well, I guess since the last time I drank that much.

The wedding was like a reunion of our old record label. Good shit. Lots of dancing, lots of drunken bastards, good music, more drinking. It's always nice to catch up with friends you haven't seen in a while. And even though The One Whom I Dream Of was not able to attend, seemed like word had gotten around that she exists. So I still got the third degree from the peeps. I think. I don't know. I was drunk off my ass :)

Highlights of the night? No idea! Though one of my friends bit my other friend's boobie, so I hear. And I only threw up four times! It would've been more had they not discontinued the open bar. I fell asleep at some point, and my friends packed up my girlfriend Anya and her accouterments for me. (Yes, Anya is actually my Motif XS8 keyboard. And no, I haven't dumped my other girlfriend, Keyboarda, my Roland XP-80. Sometimes I play with them at the same time. Yummy.) Anyways, big ups to my friends for taking care of my boo. I hope some of you had the chance to stroke her keys a little and make her scream like I do.

Okay. I tired. Until next time, whenever that is.

Ostrich - What's your favorite song to hum to yourself while throwing up? Let me know! Post a comment :)

She's The Shit!

Yesterday I got to kick it with the cutest little thing ever! She stands about 4'10", wears the funkiest clothes and when she laughs, her body rocks backwards and her eyes squint in the most adorable way.

She also speaks four languages fluently -- Tagalog, Visayan, English and Spanish -- and yesterday she chose to speak to me in Spanish. It was quite entertaining. Who woulda thunk that I would be able to converse in Spanish, especially since the last time I employed those skills was in high school. The more amazing part? Spanish class is where I got my best sleep, so I suppose I am a walking billboard for learning through osmosis.

So this cutie-patootie that I speak of is my lola, or grandmother for those of you not familiar with Filipino culture. She is not Lola of Lola's fame, the bar just south of Santa Monica Blvd. in West Hollywood that plays really bad music and has only one pool table. She is also not the Lola of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana" fame. That Lola is your lola -- "She was your lola, she was a showgirl…" Excellent karaoke tune. I recommend it to anyone who wants to irritate the hell out of everyone in the room during public karaoke.

Anyways, I only had time to kick it with her for about 30 minutes, but it was a fascinating conversation. She's getting up there in years (95 years old) and she isn't quite coherent at times (give her a break, she's old), but that led to extremely entertaining topical nonsense. Call me a weirdo, but I actually enjoy as she rattles off all the names of her grandchildren and great grandchildren until she remembers the name of the one about whom she is speaking. She actually was one of the primary caretakers of almost all her grandchildren, including myself. While I miss seeing her in her full glory -- you know, yelling at me because I was a bad kid, etc. -- I have never seen her smile and talk as much as I did yesterday. Good shit.

'Poop On A Plane'

"Oh no you didn't!" I think to myself as I click on the link called "Poop On A Plane" in the Entertainment section of CNN.com. While everyone I know is hating on the upcoming film/Internet phenomenon "Snakes On A Plane," I was almost hurt to see such a reputable news outlet outright blast the film which, to my knowledge, has yet to be screened. Sure, chances are "S.O.A.P." will suck harder than your momma ever could, but that's the beauty of it -- you know you're about to waste six hours of your life (90-120 minutes of actual film time, 240 minutes of beating your head against the wall, whining, trying unsuccessfully to kick Ostrich's ass).

I can think of bigger wastes of time. Here's one that all can agree on -- work. See? Would you rather "S.O.A.P." yourself or work? Okay, yeah, work pays you, blah blah blah. Damn you and your logic.

Here's a bigger waste of time -- watching a film called "Poop On A Plane." Actually, maybe it wouldn't be that big a waste of time. How's this for a plot?

A worldwide criminal organization is out to kill a high-ranking foreign emissary/rival drug lord who is traveling to the U.S. Thinking outside the box, they use their inside men at the airport to fill the plane's air vents with cow manure. While it's now difficult to get beverages and hair gel through security, incendiary devices are still a piece of cake to slip through -- all a person has to do is stick it up his ass. The saboteurs reason that the combination of fire and cow manure is all you need to blow the plane to smithereens.

The triggerman is a shit-out-of-luck spy codenamed Shitty Spy. He's caught by the bad guys and offered an ultimatum -- stick a flamethrower up his ass and fart into the plane's air vents, thereby igniting the cow manure and blowing up the plane, or watch as they kill his goldfish Myrtle. Meanwhile, bad-ass former FBI Agent-turned-mercenary Samuel L. Jackson is tapped by the U.S. government to rescue Shitty Spy for no good reason.

Skipping to the action, things go wrong on the plane and shit starts to leak everywhere. To make things worse, the toilet overflows because Jessica Simpson (who stars in the film as herself) didn't follow the "wipe, wipe, flush" rule, mixing the corn poop, diarrhea and cow manure into a mess all throughout the plane. The smell causes people to begin vomiting, and as they run from aisle to aisle in search of barf bags, they slip and tumble every which way because of the poop (this sequence takes place in double speed with the "Benny Hill" theme playing in the background). Because he is the shit himself, Samuel L. Jackson is immune to the smell and to the loss of traction that the others experience. But can Jackson reach Shitty Spy in time and stick his hand up his ass before Shitty Spy finishes eating a can of beans? Who knows?!!! But isn't it worth $15 at the Arclight to find out?

Ostrich -- Snakes On A Mother-Fuckin' Plane, Bitch!

(Oh yeah. So the CNN.com link just talked about how snake poop was everywhere during the filming of "S.O.A.P." Cool huh. Check it out.)

A Game Of Butts Up?

As most of you know, I have been looking for a new job. Recently, I interviewed for a job at our rival company whom we shall heretofore refer to as BigBalls.

Long story short, if I didn't get the job, I would have still left my current job -- I need to move up in the world. In fact, I've been contemplating leaving the industry altogether, even without having another job lined up. A little vacation, freelance work and maybe even starting my own business again could be awesome in the long run!

The game has changed since the interview. BigBalls' daddy has bought our company. A transition team is ushering along the merger -- very poorly I must add. What does this mean for Ostrich?

It means Ostrich and his comrades will be the unwilling participants in a game of career Butts Up! Whenever anyone at work asks me what I think will happen when the suits come in next week, here's what I tell them:

"The suits will tell us to line up against the wall. They'll instruct us to turn around, place our hands on the wall, and arch our backs so our asses become supple targets. From there, they will unveil red rubber balls from their bag of goodies -- an instrument used to determine who shall stay and who shall go. When they hurtle the balls at our asses, we shall have the opportunity to dodge and shift, yet most likely the ball will come so hard and fast that our efforts will be futile. In the end, only a few will be left standing along the wall, and the rest will get a nice thank-you-for-playing note that reads, 'You're fired, bitch!'"

So the question is: How much should Ostrich stick his ass out? Should he move it from side to side to make it a more luscious target? Should he try to dodge the balls so he can work alongside BigBalls? There are so many scenarios, but only one thing is certain. I have to wait and see what my fate will be, lest I miss out on finding out what lies behind door No. 3: A severance package, unemployment checks, a dark void...who knows what it could be.

While I've realized that almost every scenario means Ostrich ends up in a better situation, the prolonged wait has been taking its toll on my mind, my sleep schedule, my focus at work (you know, where else would I blog?). It's been pretty nerve-wrecking for the past few weeks.

Oh well. Despite the uncertainty, I'm glad that it takes just a little bit of sunshine to brighten one's day :)

At Least I Didn't Shit In It

It's funny how going to bed early will fuck with your mind.

I awoke this morning on my old couch in the family room -- the white one with cracks in the leather. I slept on the long couch and my dad slept on the little couch. The sun had just begun to shine through the downstairs patio window at our house in Cerritos. Man, I had to take a major leak.

So I got up, walked a few steps to my left, dropped my shorts and opened the drawer of the Ikea dresser that my dad and I shared, which, for some reason, happened to be right next to the kitchen. I then proceeded to take a long, strong piss. I aimed to the left, away from the white T-shirts and closer to the clothes that already sported a slight yellowish hue. I swear I was pissing a heavy stream for close to a minute.

That's when my dad got pissed.

"Hey, it's okay to piss in the dresser, but not too much!" he growled. "You're going to turn all the clothes too yellow!"

Then I woke up for reals, went to the bathroom and took a decent piss.

Toilet Humor

Maybe I'll have time to write a lengthy diatribe later in the week. But for now, a picture is worth a thousand words. Thanks Bruingrl for always being on the lookout for crappy material that I can use.


Yes, the women on the wall are funny, but is that Zoolander taking a piss?






Here's my concerns: 1) What if some dude can't fit in there? 2) Where do you wash your hands? 3) Where are the female bathrooms? 4) What if a dude needs to take a shit?




Imagine seeing this sign when you really have to take a leak -- and it's pouring outside.






I'm not really into albinos, nor do I think their faces are particularly pretty. Why are the ones at the urinals on their tippy toes, and what's up with their hands? As for the toilet, how is sitting on a woman's lap sexy? Maybe they should have made it a Santa Claus theme.


While this is a contraption after my own heart, it must be a bitch to sit on. And how do you clean this thing? What about the rust factor? And what if you had diarrhea? Will poop start leaking from the spit valves?

I Don't Have Shit To Write About

Or, at least, I don't have anything that I can write about in these pages that deal with funny ass/shit-related stuff. I could write about crap that's in the works, but that may put future prospective developments in jeopardy. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?

Anyways, for both of you regular readers out there, I will hopefully be telling tales of my recent adventures soon. But here's some stuff for you to ponder:

USB drives. They're the shit. A friend sent me a link to this particular one. I find it cute and cuddly. And this particular USB drive loves me! He tells me so through his attire.



Random note: A friend of mine told me all about the Alaskan Pipeline this weekend, and it's not a very friendly thing to do to someone. If you don't know what it is, maybe you should Google it. But not at work.

Scratching My Ass - Vol. 1

8:56am - Here I sit, bored out of my mind. The morning news rush has come to a screeching halt. I've already eaten breakfast, taken my morning dump, checked my e-mail, had a significant IM conversation. But now I am stagnant. Well, actually, bowels are feelin' a bit funny right now. Might I have a second morning shit?

8:58am - Just re-read what I wrote. I miss writing. I am a writer who has been neutered. Now, I know not what to write of.

8:59am - I just realized that if I don't literally scratch my ass right now, I am a hypocrite.

9:00am - Ahhhhh. I'm glad I didn't cut my fingernails last night :)

9:04am - I suppose I should do something productive at work. I suppose you think I should wash my hands. You suppose wrong.

Fart To The Beat - The iCarta!

I know what you're thinking -- I hate when Ostrich farts in a club, but I love that his flatulence creates ample space for me to shake it like a saltshaker. But that's a subject for another time (probably after someone suffocates to death on the dance floor). Today, I shall practice my copywriting skills by introducing....

The iCarta!
Do you love your iPod so much that you must listen to it everywhere? Have you ever thought to yourself, "This jam is the shit!" then realized you had to take a shit? Do you want to be cool like the people on The OC? If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, then it's time to Enhance Your Experience! With the iCarta, you can take two of history's most treasured pastimes -- music and shitting -- and roll them into one!

The iCarta features two full-range speakers that double as a toilet paper dispenser, as well as two subwoofers that create sound waves powerful enough to aid bowel movement. The iCarta's practical design allows iPods of all sizes to rest their tired feet in an adjustable spacer while simultaneously recharging. Best of all, after you've spent time ripping your old dispenser from the wall and mounting the iCarta in place, you can remove it from the wall again, fold it up, and take it with you. Now, whenever you fart in a public restroom and someone yells, "What is that hideous sound?!" you can honestly answer "Celine Dion fo' life, biatch!"

"But Ostrich, I can just bring a radio to the bathroom..." Shut up! If you want to limit your selection of music, be my guest. Don't come running to me when Michael Bolton causes you to shit and vomit at the same time.

"But Ostrich, I can just bring a CD player to the bathroom..." Shut up! The sound vibrations caused by your excessive farting will cause your CD to skip.

Plus, if you take your iPod to the bathroom, no one will ever want to borrow it from you again. Sure, the once-pristine cover will soon sport a brownish hue and smell like ass, but you could always wipe that away with toilet paper. Hmmmm...where could you get toilet paper? The iCarta!

Check it out for yourself!


Disclaimer -- Ostrich is not an iPod owner so he is not qualified to write on the subject. But if someone would like to shoplift him the still-non-existent Widescreen iPod, he would gladly give you a live demonstration of the iCarta right in your own bathroom!

Sleepfarting To Puffy Eyelid In 2.6 Seconds

Brrrrrtttt-t-t-t-t-t! I awaken from my slumber to experience one of the great joys in life -- sleepfarting. Those of you in the know probably cherish it as much as I. The gentle vibrating of the blanket as gas erupts from your anus. The sound that echoes off the walls. The smell that only the one who dealt it can truly appreciate. But as I lay half asleep, relishing in my personal victory, I realize that something wasn't right.

Damn it. My right eye hurts like a bitch. I usually sleep on my side -- either side suits me just fine -- and this time I'm on my right side. My face is half-buried in the pillow. My right eyelid, which sports an open wound, is sticking to my pillow. I suppose my wound bled overnight as I thrashed in my sleep. Now, the coagulated blood on my eyelid has married me to the pillowcase. At least Pima Sateen sheets are soft. I highly recommend them to anyone who sleeps.

Stupid me. I yank my face from the pillow, only to experience more pain. I have re-opened my wound. While blood isn't gushing out of my eyelid, squirting everything in sight, it does cause my eyelid to swell up.

As my eyelid becomes engorged, I go to the bathroom to check on it like Beyonce. Whew. From what I can tell through my semi-double vision, the bleeding is far from profuse, but the puffiness is greater than it has been since Saturday, when I first received my wound. Now, a new urgency usurps this nuisance -- I gotta piss. As I take a leak and brush my teeth simultaneously, I ponder my morning routine -- shower, get dressed, and put Neosporin on my eyelid to prevent scarring, promote healing and make the puncture look more grotesque than it actually is.

So how did I injure my eye?

I actually didn't hurt my eye, the doctor did. While at the doctor's office for my yearly physical, he insisted on performing the routine checks -- he held my balls while I looked to the side and coughed, probed my ass for hemorrhoids -- but it's when he joked around and "credit checked" my ass with a tongue depressor that I lost it. In one swift motion I went from being bent over the examining table to grabbing the metal tray full of instruments beside me to slicing his throat open with the edge of my makeshift device of death. With his dying breath, the doctor threw a syringe, which he caught in mid-air as it flew off the tray, towards my eye at the speed of sound (I swear the sonic boom of the hurtling syringe made the room shudder, honest!). Luckily, my cat-like reflexes allowed me to move just enough that it punctured my eyelid and not my eye, and by tensing my eyelid as I had been taught by Shaolin Monks in Wyoming, I had turned my eyelid near impervious -- the needle stuck to my eyelid instead of penetrating my skin and turning my brain into dog food.

Just kidding. I was bored and needed to be creative. Here's what really happened.

I actually didn't hurt my eye, the doctor did. While at the doctor's office for my yearly physical, he insisted on doing the routine checks — he held my balls while I looked to the side and coughed, probed my ass for hemorrhoids.

Upon completion of my EKG, I asked the doc about a skin tag that had grown on my right eyelid. It was similar to the one I had before in the same spot -- this time less irritating, but bigger. He had removed the previous one years ago, numbing it with dry ice then snipping it with scissors, leaving only a small bud. The procedure hurt enough that I developed a headache, but not much else -- no bleeding, no pressure on the eyeball, no feeling like I had a black eye.

This time around we decided he would remove it and have it sent to the lab for analysis, just in case. And this time he wanted to be more thorough.

"Lay perfectly still," the doctor said. "I'm going to give you a local anesthetic," he said while prepping a syringe. Wait a minute, I thought. He's taking a needle to my eye! Before I had time to say anything, he held my head in place as he injected Novocain into my eyelid. Prickly pain was replaced by puffy numbness in mere seconds.

As I pondered this strange experience, the doctor quickly grabbed his scissors. Snip! Careful not to let the tag fall into my eye, he yanked the tag, which was still attached to me by the tiniest of skin fragments, with pincers. He proceeded to snip at the remainder of the stalk, creating a divot as opposed to leaving a bud.

"I'm going to cauterize the wound with iron," said the doctor as he fiddled with various instruments. "It'll leave a black mark on your eyelid, which should go away when the scab falls off in about a week."

"Will this hurt when the Novocain wears off," I asked?

"Nah. Just put Neosporin on it every day to prevent scarring," he smiled.

Liar. Now, every time I blink hard the coagulated blood separates from my skin, re-opening the gash.


Ostrich -- Today I shall wink at the ladies just to hear their screams of horror.