Chasing Tail

The following is an accurate misrepresentation of events in the life of Ostrich Birdies on Feb. 23, 2006. Viewer discretion is unnecessary.

It's 8pm. I'm 30 minutes late for an industry party featuring a fast-rising R&B artist whose name is not unlike a character from The Matrix. Rumor has it that the big dog himself, the rapper-turned-label mogul whose name is, in essence, two letters, is in the house. That doesn't matter to me though -- I know what I want tonight, and I'm gonna get some. I'm craving it. I hunger....

I pull up to the posh hotel's free valet. Check the mirror. Feathers groomed? Check. Smellin' good under the wings? Check. Beak fresh? Not yet. Breath mint time. While my foot's been aching all day, it gives me a pimp walk. There's no trying to look cool for Ostrich tonight -- it's just natural. Time to chase some tail.

I strut into the dimly lit lobby. A cute blonde honey with a petite body and "boom pow!" presides over the guest list. "Ostrich Birdies. 'Osty' for short," I squawk. The honey replies, "Oh. I know you from somewhere! I recognize your name! I'm 'Aardvark.' Blah blah, blah blah blah...." Truth is, I wasn't paying attention -- everything she was saying was going in one ear and out the other. While she's a hottie, I'm out to taste a completely different flavor of hotness tonight. I hunger....

I step through the doors and...I'm outdoors again? Awesome. I'm in the courtyard. It's a good night for an outdoor party. The ocean air is fresh, sky is clear. A cell phone company is sponsoring the shindig so their displays are everywhere, lighting the area with a soothing blue light. The pools are covered with plastic so you can walk on it -- they also emanate a blue light. At the back there's a stage for tonight's performance. The place is littered with industry heads. No one in suit and tie, no one in evening gowns, but everyone's rocking their best outfits. Me? I know that simply wearing my lucky jacket will be more than enough to entice my prey to come home with me for the night.

I scope out the place, and while it's filled with beautiful women in humble, yet enticing attire, I still haven't spotted my "type." Maybe I should leave. I make a round and begin to contemplate my departure. Then I spot Meow. She too is dressed to impressed and looking fly. "Wassup, Meow," I say as she's talking to some dude. "Hey! Oh my God!" she purrs. The three of us talk for a minute, then the new friend departs.

"Lookin' hot, Meow!" I say. "You too!" she replies. "Wow! You trimmed your beak! You're so clean cut!" After some small talk, I reveal my true intentions. "Really?!" she exclaims. "I'm here for the same thing. But I'm chasing after the same tail as you."

Normally, I'd be insulted that someone as cool as Meow isn't jocking me, and also on guard knowing that I've got competition. But we're close friends. And tonight, we're each other's wingman. Hell, we'll share if we have to. The game is on, and we both hunger....

Then we spot one. She's a slippery fish with a cream-white top, a delicious red skirt, and a big, light brown ass. "You want some?" She asks. "Sure," I answer nonchalantly. Meow decides she's waiting for something tastier, so I begin to partake of I-Don't-Know-Her-Name. She's a creamy one, with a bit of Latin spice, but her ass is just too damn crusty and hard. As I bite into her ass, the rest of her oozes into my mouth, with some of her cream spilling onto my shirt. Damnit. Though the stains aren't visible in the moonlight, I feel self-conscious, like everyone who looks closely can tell that I had my fill of her. Solution: Have my fill of her three more times that night, and have my fill of her sister a few times too -- she's dressed almost identical to her, but not fishy smelling; she's Filet Mignon.

"Hey, look at that!" purrs Meow, pointing at the bar. We see Cabernet and Chardonnay among the boys -- Miller Lite, Corona, Bud, and the whole gang -- looking full-bodied and begging for us to come hither. "Tail like that ain't cheap," says a skeptical Meow. "We probably gotta pay for shit like that." I answer, "It don't hurt to try. Just act cool."

We glide to the bar, and not only are they free for the night, Cabernet and Chardonnay practically throw themselves at us. Meow and I decide that we want to hit both of them, switching off. Chardonnay goes down smooth and quick -- so quick she's almost got my head spinning. Meanwhile, Meow's just teasing Cabernet -- she says Cabernet's "just aight." It doesn't matter. I want some Cabernet anyway.

We walk over to the back and now I'm with Cabernet. I gently place my lips on her. Bleh. Meow was trying to be nice -- Cabernet wasn't "aight" at all. She was horrible. I threw Cabernet on the table, but she kept calling me, and something about her was simply intoxicating. So, while conversing with Meow and another friend, W, I was trying to appease Cabernet. Guess I wasn't paying enough attention -- Cabernet started getting all rough and choking me. *Cough cough!* Stupid bitch. "I'm through with this shit," I tell Meow and W, as I slam Cabernet's ass on the table. "All good," says W. "She wasn't that good anyways." Guess everyone else has had a taste of Cabernet too.

Meow and I start walking to the other side of the courtyard. Then I see her. She's wearing practically nothing at all and her tan body is sizzling with excitement. I can tell she's hot to trot -- steam is rising from her glistening body and her perfume is irresistible. Chicken Satay stands there on sticks, and everyone's crowding around her. I begin to approach, but there's too many people, and some lucky dude is able to steal her attention away, dragging her to a dark corner. I'm crushed.

Meanwhile, Meow doesn't even notice Chicken Satay. She's too busy ogling Arugula, a tasty dish with almond eyes and what looks like a leaf covering her tasty secrets. Meow takes Arugula in her mouth twice and is satisfied. I take on Aruglua once. I don't know what Meow sees in her.

Crab Cakes comes out of nowhere and announces herself. "Crab Cakes!" she practically yells, and everyone flocks. She's so easy. Everyone's getting their fill of that tasty treat at the same time. Even though Crab Cakes is unbelievable, my mind still wanders to Chicken Satay, so I try to find her. But Crab Cakes keeps following me around. Even when we meet up with Oh-My-Guy at the other end of the courtyard, Crab Cakes is stalking me.

We head back to the bar so we can get our fill of Chardonnay and Cabernet again. Macaroni And Cheese Ball are at the bar too, same with Arugula. Naturally, I have them both. Meow is almost spent, and she can't decide who she wants more, M&C or Arugula. I think I spot Chicken Satay across the pool, but it's actually Shrimp Satay, her hot cousin. I can't reach her in time either.

Damnit! Crab Cakes again! What a cockblocker. But, like my friends say, I'm easy. I have her three more times. "Give it up for my friend Meow, too." I tell Crabby. She obliges.

The performance starts, and I'm still thinking aobut Chicken Satay. It's a good set, but people are ignoring it. It's the industry, after all. They're just schmoozing and stalking the Whore Derves. Crab Cakes is everywhere, and every time she comes around, I have a go at her. I must have had her a dozen times before the night is through.

The show is over and we prepare to leave. Meow is still lamenting over losing M&C because she spent too much time with Arugula. I can't get over Chicken Satay. I'm bummed.

Crab Cakes comes out of nowhere as I'm leaving and begs for my attention. Everyone wants her anyways, and, lucky me, I have the opportunity to take her home. So I put my lucky jacket around her and pop her another five times in the car.

Moral of the story: When you go to a fancy party, bring your lucky jacket for the Whore Derves.

Zombie Butts From Uranus!

That's the title of one of the books by Andy Griffiths, my newest hero. Who, pray tell, is Andy Griffiths, you ask? Well, Mr. Griffiths is the author of a series of children's books -- about booties! Though I have yet to read any of the actual stories, I'm sure they're great! (hint: what do you get an Ostrich for his birthday?) They have to be top-notch quality, after all, Scholastic, one of the leading educational publishing companies in the country, is the company that puts out the book. Special thanks goes to my friend, She Who Grows Backwards, for introducing me to this wonderful series.

"The Day My Butt Went Psycho"
This is the book that started it all. According to the link, Zack loses his ass and travels through various locales like the Brown Forest and the Sea of Butts to find his badunkadunk. And it's 240 pages of butt-roaring fun. For ages 9 and up.

"Zombie Butts From Uranus"
Zack returns as the protagonist of the series -- this time, deceased asses from outer space are attacking Earth, and Z-man raises an army of "butt-fighters," according to the synopsis. Hmmmm. I wonder if he calls upon the powers of the ass-masters in Brokeback Mountain.... No page count given, but this book is for ages 9 - 12.

"Butt Wars! The Final Conflict"
Says the website, "An army of Great White Butts is trying to abutterate our world, and all that is protecting us from buttageddon is Zack." Genius! I wonder if Griffiths characterizes the Great White Butts as analogous to the Nazis! And Zack even goes back in time in his buttmobile to do battle with Tyrannosore-arses. How does Griffiths come up with this stuff?

But wait. There's more. Griffiths is a prolific author whose other novels include:

"Just Annoying" -- 144 fun-filled pages about a really annoying Ostrich...er...boy.

"Just Disgusting" -- 176 pages of crap, hopefully not in the literal sense.

"Just Stupid" -- Which hopefully isn't just stupid.

COLLECT THEM ALL!

Girl, Shake That Laffy Taffy!

I am a pianist. That is pronounced (pee - nis - very silent "t). And today, I thought I experienced my proudest moment as a musician. I was wrong. Dead wrong. "What happened?" you ask?

I taught a little kid to play "Laffy Taffy" on the piano.

Yes, many of us grew up to Laffy Taffy, the tasty candy that stretches to unbelievable sizes and is fun to play with (wow! just like pianists!). Unfortunately, some people have lost their teeth because of the potent power of Laffy Taffy (wow, the same has happened because of the potent power of pianists!).

To little kids, "Laffy Taffy" is known as this catchy little ditty sung by D4L. Four notes. One casio keyboard. "Girl shake that laffy taffy. That laffy taffy. That laffy taffy. That laffy taffy." The same thing, over and over again. To those with taste, the song is annoying. Really annoying. Me, being a sadist and one with taste, I used to find D4L's "Laffy Taffy" to be sinfully annoying.

Sidenote: For those that aren't ghetto fabulous, laffy taffy means "ass." However, there are those who contend that "laffy taffy" is, in fact, another term for a female's labia minora, which, through various sexual acts, can be stretched to the point that it resembles Laffy Taffy, the candy. I won't put a picture up of that one :)

But I digress. The following story is an account of actual events that took place on the night of Feb. 18, the night of my niece's 2nd birthday party party -- though some details may be a tiny bit overblown.

Sunset - My friend, who we shall call "Burn Baby, Burn," and I are sitting at my sister's house with 20 others. I'm playing the piano. I'm bored. I need just a little bit of chaos. The only chaos at the moment is 5 little kids running around, screaming at the top of their lungs, occassionally banging on the piano while I play. How can I use my piano skills to create a tiny amount of havoc? Then I remember. Burn hates the song "Laffy Taffy."

"Come here, kid. I'll teach you a song," I say. Before anyone has a chance to react, I teach the 6-year-old pawn "Laffy Taffy." I'm proud of myself for irritating Burn, but then, things spiral out of control. "I love this song!" says the kid, who then turns to his younger cousin and says, "Sing along!"

"SHAKE THAT LAFFY TAFFY! SHAKE THAT LAFFY TAFFY!" scream the kids as their 6-year-old leader mercilessly bangs the notes out on the piano. Everyone turns and winces. The looks on their faces tell it all -- "My ears are burning," they think to themselves. "It's like I smoked some really bad pot."

Whew. It's over. Even I'm relieved. Or is it. No. Wait. The kids love it. I should have cherished the last 10 seconds of my life as I once knew it. The leader kid begins to play "Laffy Taffy" again. And again. And again.

A minute passes. I slump down in my chair. I see other adults starting to sit, others just stumbling around. No one is shaking their ass. Two minutes. I swear I saw someone throw up. Three minutes. It's chaos. It's like the song has taken on the persona of Carrie (you know, that old horror movie "Carrie"), shutting all the windows, closing all the doors. No one can leave. The kids voices become amplified. Four minutes. Everyone's dying. Those that try to escape are being killed Carrie-style by falling objects, electrocution, random fire.

30 minutes. Am I about to die, or has the song spared me? Perhaps it knew that I would go to the computer, tell the tale of horror, warn all readers of the evil power of "Laffy Taffy." Am I the only one left? Yes I am.

Oh no. "Laffy Taffy" knows I'm done with this post. I'm dying...dying...goodbye cruel world....

Moral of the story: SHAKE THAT LAFFY TAFFY!

My Ass Is Crass

Went out with some friends yesterday. They said I'm a pervert. I told them I'm not that bad, and I'm not any different from before. After some thought, they said, "You're right. You're just more vocal about it these days."

Upon further review, I believe I'm no bigger a pervert than the average person -- I am just a person who likes to say wrong-ass things for my own entertainment. A true pervert keeps their sick thoughts to themselves then acts upon them in creepy ways. Examples: child molesters, S&M freaks, Pee Wee Herman. Me? I just like saying wrong things and pushing the envelope of wrongness. You know, one-up-manship. That's always fun. If it needs to be perverted, then sure, I'll go there. Usually though, what comes out of my mouth is more crass than perverted.

While I like to win the game of one-up-manship, I enjoy playing that game more than winning -- losing to someone who says something outrageously humorous and completely wrong is always a victory in happiness for me. Hmmm. Let's think of examples. Being that my ass, how it feels, and what comes out of it is the theme of my blog, let's go that route.

The following conversations are watered-down versions of actual conversations that have taken place since I broke my ass.

GAME 1

Ostrich: "My ass is so sore right now."
MeiMei: "Come here, I'm going to punch it." -- (1 point, MeiMei -- non-compassion)
Ostrich: "Girl, you know you just want to feel my ass. You don't gotta play games to kick it." -- (1 point, Ostrich -- smart-ass rebuttal)
MeiMei: *kicks Ostrich in the ass* -- (1 point, MeiMei -- violence: 1 point, Ostrich -- inciting violent reaction: 1 point, Ostrich -- MeiMei shuts up, no comeback)

Score - Ostrich, 3 points; MeiMei, 2 points
Winner -- Ostrich -- "No pain, no gain."
Game notes: MeiMei isn't actually Ostrich's real life mei mei. That would make us both true perverts.


GAME 2

Ostrich: "My ass is so sore right now."
Gayboy: "My bad. I shouldn't have raped you this morning." -- (1 point, Gayboy -- verbal sucker punch)
Gayboy's Girl: "Oh my gawd. That's sick. *she chuckles a little a play hits him in an effort to hide her true semi-disgust*" -- (1 point, Gayboy -- eliciting a response from the audience)
Ostrich: "...." (1 point, Gayboy -- getting Ostrich to shut up)

Score - Ostrich, 0 points; Gayboy, 3 points
Winner -- Gayboy -- "Damn, that Ostrich sure was a good piece of ass."

Yeah, I know what you're all thinking -- making Ostrich shut up should be worth at least 3 points.

COME PLAY THE CRASS GAME WITH ME!

Love Is In The Air -- That's Right, I Farted

Happy VD Day! I'm here to spread VD to my friends via my blog. What more can I say of this wondrously contrived holiday? Here's how my day started.

8am. So I get on the elevator at the lobby. As usual, about 10 other people enter with me, and they all were getting off on floors below mine. Oh well. I didn't want to get up to the office real quick anyways. Hey, wait a minute. Why are three people wearing red, and why do these two delivery dudes have flowers? Oh wait, no. Hell no. It's Valentine's Day.

"This fuckin' sucks," I utter under my breath. A woman in the elevator turns to me and says, "Well, it is Tuesday, which sucks, but at least it's Valentine's Day." She smiles a goofy smile and chortles to herself in glee. So I gave her a Valentine's Day she'll never forget -- I stomped on her little toe. Now, the color of her toe matches her blood-red sweater. Everyone in the elevator was shocked. I had to think of something quick.

I let loose a big, wet, juicy fart. Now, no one remembers the little "toe" incident -- they're fighting for their own lives. The air is so thick with my flatulence that you could practically taste it -- that's right, Stagg Chili: Dynamite Hot for breakfast. Roses quickly wilt. One guy vomits on his shoes. Awww. It's pink vomit, for Valentine's Day.

"Ding!" 34th floor. Since I dealt it, I'm immune to the fart. Everyone is on the floor gasping for air but me, trying to get out. I kick them aside and start exiting the death trap. I feel a weak tug at my leg as I'm about to exit: "Tell my girlfriend I love her..." a man gasps. I smile and say, "Okay. I'll tell her that I love her." I fart again. He collapses. I get out. The door closes.

True, I have to go to the 41st floor, but at least I don't have to be with those people anymore. Happily, I push the "up" button for the elevator. "Ding." Another elevator door opens. A glance inside reveals another group of people: half wearing the color red, one carrying flowers, a singing telegram girl.

"It's okay though," I think to myself as I feel that oh-so-awesome pressure buildup in my ass begin to take hold. "I had Stagg Chili for breakfast...."

Okay, that was just me exaggerating a wee bit, but it brought a smile to my face. Hopefully, it brought one to your face too.

Spread VD!

Sore-Ass Loser

I am a sore-ass loser. Literally. Yesterday was our first official game of flag football as the Golden Buddhas. As detailed in previous posts, I hurt my ass real bad about a week ago while snowboarding. And no cutie has come and massaged it for me. But that's besides the point. Anyways, playing football reminded me over and over again of how sore my ass was. And the loser part, well, we lost. While they say it takes a whole team to lose, I was guilty of dropping the ball on a potentially game-winning play.

So lame. Third overtime. All we needed was one yard. I got semi-open off the line, ball is thrown to me, hits me in the side of the stomach, bounces off. Next possession. The other team goes six yards, and we fail to complete the ensuing pass play for ten yards to win the game. Why did I drop the ball? Nerves? Nah. I usually thrive on pressure. Was I already worrying about running before catching the ball? Perhaps.

I dropped the ball. Ironic how that is a metaphor for my life of late: since last summer, more so since 2006 began, and decidedly so last week. Thank God I thrive on pressure, because that's all my life's been about. Yeah, I'm a lucky dude. Roof over my head, I ain't impoverished like 80% (a rough estimate) of the world's inhabitants, I have an education, blah blah blah. But I'm one who feels that when you have these sort of "leg-ups" on other people in life, you have to take advantage of it, and try as I might, I haven't been able to yet. Job search is going poorly -- what do you do when you're overqualified for the positions you apply for, and potential employers ask you why you're leaving an industry that, often times, they themselves dream of being a part of? Trying to move out of the 'rents house -- not that it sucks there at all -- but need to be more independent, and, in a sense, start watching over mainly myself more. Health, my ass is still sore, so I haven't been able to push as hard as I like, or so I tell myself. And women. We won't go there.

Oh yeah, back to dropping the ball. Two Sundays ago, I wrote a song with a friend. Solid song, didn't take long, the type that would make a girl lose her thong. Just kidding about the last part, I wanted to rhyme. But yeah, the song, which was written for our friends' wedding, has a sweetness to it. More importantly, I once again was reminded of my passion in life; music, in particular, songwriting. Though I'm a humble dude, I have to say I write fucking catchy-ass melodies. I was pumped. The feeling was like the one I had when I made my first catch in football yesterday, multiplied by 100. I wanted more.

So I decided while making my "goals" list for the week to work on music a lot last week, after all, it makes me happy, right? Listened to my scratch recordings and took notes on how we could improve them on Monday; continued writing two songs on Tuesday with a new friend, a talented female singer-songwriter who's a little too shy about her talent for her own good -- hmmmm, sounds familiar; hung out with a friend on Wednesday and showed her the musical goods, then went home and reworked them some more; started recording a pop-R&B remake of Country crooner Brad Paisley's "Little Moments" for my friends' wedding CD on Thursday; worked with Emu on our two-year-old chick bait song, "Just Wait for Me," on Friday then tore up my vocal chords at karaoke with him, Penguin, Penguinette and Mei Mei; and went to some church's Valentine's Day celebration on Saturday, where I played impromptu backup keys for performers.

Sounds like a good week, doesn't it? Truth is, it was the second worst week I've had this year, mainly because I dropped the ball. In trying to rediscover music, I almost completely neglected job hunting, neglected friends, missed appointments, overscheduled, didn't watch my health as much, etc. Sure, I can make excuses like "my ass hurt so I it's only right that I take it easy," or "I rediscovered the passion I've been missing, so it's okay that I fucked up here and there," or "financial stability isn't as important as true happiness." All those things may be true, but fundamentals should've come first. Keep your eye on the ball. Take care of the dirty work before thinking about scoring. You can celebrate with the happier things in life after busting a few mouths on your way to the endzone.

So what's the solution? Balance. Way easier said than done, especially for me, since once I truly get into something, I go all out plus 50 percent. And these days, I'm trying to go all out on improving my life, and adding music back into the mix on a regular basis, while a necessity, will be a challenge. Balance will most likely come at the expense of sleep, which leads to a very unbalanced lifestyle. I'll figure it out. I have too. I feel there's too much at stake these days in my life to let everything I've been working at fall apart, and time's running out -- gotta find the happy balance. While luck has never really been on my side, there is one thing that has always gotten me through the tough shit. I am a pressure performer. Yeah, I'll probably drop the ball again, many times, and that bugs the shit outta me. But soon enough, I'll be doing my little combination Running Man/Cabbage Patch in the endzone. Word.

On a quick side note, the work week started out great -- with an uber-morning shit.

The Shit Hits The Fan

So the big news in my industry today is payola. FCC Commissioner Jonathan Adelstein announced that his agency is conducting an investigation on hundreds of radio stations nationwide to see if they're engaging in payola.

A lot of this current stink has been brought on by New York Attorney General Eliot Spitzer, who seems to be your typical untrustworthy politician -- he's only doing this so he can run for the Governor's office in NY or something.

Yeah, payola is illegal, and is supposed to not exist anymore. But these days, there are people called "independent promoters" that are paid by record labels to promote songs to radio stations. Supposedly, sometimes, these promoters "convince" station personnel to play new songs with cool new gadgets that they can borrow for indefinite amounts of time, like an XBox 360. Being the almost-high-school-educated know-it-alls that they are, some label peeps believed that by cutting out the middleman and the extraneous shopping trip, they would be more efficient. Therefore, some of these geniuses have reportedly skipped all the pleasantries and have sent traceable e-mail correspondence to stations that read something along the lines of, "Here's $5,000. Please play Madonna's sorry-ass song, 'Sorry,' 56 times this week on Deez Nuts FM."

What a bunch of dumbasses. Maybe they should learn to "promote" their records the real way and have fun while doing it. Give the DJs and radio peeps gifts that 1) don't have receipts attached and 2) leaves no physical evidence of any gift being exchanged, provided the recipient uses it all up. You know -- hookers and drugs. Okay, maybe there is physical evidence later, like a beautiful crack baby that spews from his prostitute mother's womb nine months after the fact.

Here's the best part about this story. No one cares! Hell. I barely care since I detest all the shady people in the biz, which I feel constitutes roughly 90% of it. Anyways, how badly does no one care? Last night, ABC News' Primetime was supposed to air an expose on this whole thing. However, ABC had a choice. 1) Re-run an episode of Grey's Anatomy that ran after the Super Bowl, but because of the timing of it all, many TiVo owners were not able to tape it? 2) Pre-empt Dancing With the Stars so the public will become well informed on this scandal? 3) Cut Primetime down to half an hour, and let the public watch the shows they want to see. C.R.E.A.M., ABC gotta get that money, dolla dolla bill ya'll. I mean, c'mon. As if people don't already think that radio is getting paid off to air certain songs. And hearing the same crappy songs over and over is why people have turned to listening to their iPods.

So why am I writing about this? Because I have nothing else to write about. In fact, the few of you who read this blog have probably heard me talk about it. But yeah. Interviewers ask me why I'm leaving the music industry? It's because I've already lost my chance at getting my plasma TV for free. Duh.

I Follow My Ass

Some people go around life saying, "I follow my heart to make decisions." Others say, "I reason things out logically with my brain." This ostrich, however, has had to follow his ass in making all decisions of late.

The Morning Shit -- As you probably already know, this has always set the tone for my day. If I have a good one, I'm set. If I have a bad one, I'm screwed. My solution of late: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Take two or more. Which brings me to...

My Ass Still Hurts!!! -- Gawd. I think I broke it while snowboarding (see the earlier post about snowboarding). I swear my shits aren't coming out in the same shape as they used to. I mean, it's a lot better now, but it stiffens up overnight (note to self: don't let gay men know my ass stiffens up overnight, lest I get a stiffy up it). It's tough to workout as well. It's like I have a hernia. But how could that be when I didn't hurt it by lifting something heavy? Yeah. If my ass doesn't heal by Saturday, I'll call the doctor, who I'm sure will see me at his earliest convenience -- March.

The Medicine -- So I'm taking this medicine for my skin. Like all medicine, it has the ominous warning. "May cause diarrhea." 'Nuff said.
In summation, though I love my ass (as does everyone who's ever had the honor of ogling or spanking it), I wish that it would stop putting me through such torture. Then again, concentrating on my ass helps take my mind off the pain in my heart and frustration in my brain. Yes, that is where you're supposed to say, "Awwwww! Poor Ostrich!" The solution? Find some fine girl to massage my ass, thereby fulfilling my heart, stimulating my brain, and arousing my ... long ostrich neck :)

Words Of Wisdom Spew From My Ass

Just some random things to think about to brighten your day and encourage your own personal growth:

- Except for in times of doubt, never doubt yourself.
- The first one to own up to their mistakes is also the first one to get their ass beat down.
- The early bird gets the worm -- which usually tastes like shit. I mean c'mon. It's a worm. The late bird sneaks into the room unbeknownst to his colleagues and kicks it at the back near the door, allowing the bird to be the first to exit, thus avoiding the traffic jam.

More later.

My Ass Will Never Be The Same

Today was a pretty long day. This is what I had planned. 1) Practice for flag football. 2) Baby shower. 3) Snowboarding. 4) Clubbing.

Normally, most sane people would only pick one of those four activities to do, I mean, who's stupid enough to do 1, 2 and 4 in the same day? Oh yeah. I am. Hey. I'm trying to live life. Hardcore!

A little bit more background -- last week, for the first time in years, I was able to run full speed. Bad ankles. So in other words, I'm in better shape than I have been in probably 15 years. Gotta relish in it while it lasts. Today was the test to see if I could hold up.

1) Flag Football -- got there a little late for practice. Hey, when nature calls, you answer. And while my morning shit was a 3 on a scale of 1 - 10, it was still satisfying. Anyways, feet still hurt a little, but my stamina was okay. Not great. And I only slightly pulled my right quadricep, of all things. Not enough to stop me from going snowboarding.

2) Baby Shower -- theme of the day, get there late. Then again, my friend who I was supposed to meet there got there even later. Good party. Haven't seen my friend in awhile, and now her stomach is as big as mine. But I guess she's got a better excuse. Good food. All fried. And her husband gave me tips on snowboarding.

3) Snowboarding -- here's the biggie. This was my third time going. First time I went, couldn't turn left, almost fell off the mountain multiple times. Also ran into the wall of a building, but not that hard. Ended up being driven down the mountain on a snowmobile. Second time I went, had three goals: Turn left, make it down the mountain, and don't get hurt. I accomplished the first goal, cheated on the second (bunny slope), and almost got away with accomplishing the third. Unfortunately, after eating it below the chair lift, some lovely people pelted me with snowballs, one of which hit my nutsack.

So on to today; my third time. My goal, strap on the board by myself -- and I did it! Then I set another goal. Stay on the board for more than 10 seconds. Again, I'm the man! Then another goal -- go for more than 100 feet. Dude, I rocked! Nevermind that I couldn't stop without falling, or steer. But I figured I had been falling okay to that point, without getting hurt. So the next goal was the biggie. Go down the bunny slope and stay on the board 'til the bottom. Not a big deal for most, but a big deal for me.

So I begin my quest on my 3rd run. I gain speed. Whoa! Almost slip, catch myself, and I'm facing up the mountain. I can't turn around. I'm gaining speed. Lots of speed. Can't dig my board to stop -- it's icy...WHAM!

My ass hits the ice first...hard. A split second later, the back of my head hits the ice. Could've been worse. Though it hurt, I tucked my chin into my chest, lessening the impact. (However, right now, it hurts to turn my head). There I am, laying on my back, head pointed down the mountain. I'm in pain, but I think I'm alive. And a worker there runs over and confirms my fears. "Dude, you need the ski patrol?" he asks in a "man that looked like it hurt" manner. I answer back, macho-like, "I'm okay. I'm just going to lay....(oh no, something's happening)...lay here." He looks at me funny and says, "Okay...just lay here for five minutes."

He knew I was okay. But perhaps the sight of me arching my back slightly and my pelvis shaking uncontrollably freaked him a bit, so he had to leave. My ass was hurting so bad that I was quivering. All I could do to slow the shaking was arch my back and point my pelvis to the sky, squeezing my ass cheeks as hard as I can. There I am, clenching my ass cheeks, humping the air with rapid mini-thrusts. It felt so good when the shaking finally stopped after 15 seconds, until I realized that I was just every gay man's fantasy at that point. So uncool. "Get up, fucker," I screamed to myself in my head.

So, defying common sense, I turn around, get on my stomach (since I can't get up from my back), and push myself up. Head isn't woozy, thankfully, but ass hurts. Can't concentrate on that now, I'm headed down the mountain. Fast. That's what happens when you can't steer. You go straight down. And as I neared the end of the hill, I had to stop. This was it. Try to turn the board, point my toes up...SMACK! I land on my ass again, this time falling and twisting awkwardly. Yup. I'm done.

4) Clubbing -- oh hell no! I didn't get back home 'til 11:30. And my ass is in pain. What if I met some fine girl that likes to spank on the dance floor? My ass wouldn't have been able to take it.

So now, here I sit, typing this. That's right. I'm so sore from snowboarding that I can't sleep. But at least it wasn't from football. Guess I'll workout in the morning to stretch out all the kinks.

Ain't That Some (Morning) Shit

As some of you may know, this is a subject that not only do I ponder a lot, but one that I am extremely passionate about. The Morning Shit. It sets the tone for your entire day. If you have a good one -- you know, your ass hits the toilet seat and a nice, big solid piece of crap comes out of your ass without breaking and with no splash -- consider it a sign that you're going to have a good day. But, if you have a bad one -- constipation, toilet paper breaks, (insert your own poo-peeve here) -- your day is ruined. You end up walking around uncomfortably, you can't do anything strenuous or else it may "activate" any left over shit needs at an inopportune moment, and so on. Thankfully, I have come up with a solution in case you have a bad morning shit...TAKE TWO MORNING SHITS!

Okay, maybe it's not a solution for you, but it's a solution for me. By taking two (or maybe three or four shits) in the morning, I get to be away from my work desk over and over again for legitimate reasons.

I would have to say my best shit of 2005 took place at my old house. I was driving to work, and I suddenly experienced a huge pain in my stomach. I thought I was going to black out -- had to think of something quick. Seeing that I was right at the freeway exit to my sister's house (who lives in the house I grew up in), I took my cell phone out of my pocket, careful not to move too abruptly lest I soil myself, and woke her up. "I have to take a dump. I'll let myself in," I gasped. "Okay," she said, not caring that my life was in danger.

I arrived at the house and gingerly exited the car. Squeezing my ass cheeks together with all my might, I shimmied my way to the front door, much like how those old-fashioned Japanese women walk to be all proper-like. Except, instead of a demure little cutesy smile, I wore a scowl and was sweating bullets. Luckily, I didn't fumble the keys and opened the door in mere seconds.

Moments later, I was in the bathroom. Pants drop. Bare ass hits the toilet seat. BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOM! It's like I gave birth to triplets! I swear it was a three-flusher. And the best part? No splash! Like Greg Lougaines (is that how you spell his name? Who cares, it rhymes with "anus") scoring three perfect 10's in a row in diving at the 1984 Olympics. Okay, I don't know if he really accomplished that feat. I do know that he hit his head on the diving board during one attempt. That had to hurt. Divers have died after hitting their head on the platform.

So what's the point? There is no point. I just want to say that, for those people I know who don't take a shit everyday, you're missing out. For those of you who are like me and are taking more than one a day, more power to you.