The Ostrich Diarreahs

The Purple Porcelain God

2008-01-06T22:20:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-11-15T10:31:00.000-08:00

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'

2006-08-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

"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?

2006-08-02T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-20T07:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-19T06:52:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-31T09:04:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-05-24T10:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-05-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Crazy Wedding Shit

2006-05-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

I am a wedding singer. Okay, wedding singer/keyboardist. It's not as pathetic as it sounds -- I do have a full-time job as well (for now). Anyways, last Friday was our band's first gig in a long time. Being that it was a Friday, we knew there would be problems.

3:15pm - Ostrich lands at 150 S. Robles -- The Ritz-Carlton Pasadena -- a whopping 45 minutes early, ready to rock!

3:16pm - Ostrich quickly figures out that Ritz Carlton is not spelled "The Hilton Hotel." Despite what that "Lazy Sunday" skit on SNL claims, Google Maps apparently is not the shit. Ostrich calls Drummer Boy, who lives in Pasadena, for appropriate directions.

3:50pm - After driving around like a moron, Ostrich lands at the Ritz.

4:00pm - Ostrich unloads and is ready to rock. Cuties abound, arranging flowers for the affair. Damn Asian girls. Can't tell if they're 16 or 36. Doesn't matter. With his luck, one of them is bound to be related to Ostrich, or something similarly cool like that.

Ostrich, remembering that he's there to work, texts the homies even-newer directions and requests an ETA. Drummer Boy is still at Guitar Center buying last-minute gear. Dansalsa, the guitarist, had work drama and is in traffic -- arrival time unknown. DooDabooDooDabooDwee, the male vocalist, had massive drama at work. He'll be late. Doog, bassist, is just plain running way behind. Ostrich already knew D-Mama, the female vocalist, would be late, but given the circumstances, he knew she'd probably be cutting it real close to the 6:45 start time.

5:15pm - Drummer Boy and Dansalsa have arrived and are setting up. Ostrich is standing there like a useless sack of shit (are any sacks of shit useful?), so he asks Dansalsa if he could help set up the mics.

5:16pm - After bringing everything including the kitchen sink, Dansalsa stares off into space, puzzled over how he could have forgotten the microphones. Ostrich and Drummer Boy work on Plans B and C -- get mics from Drummer Boy's church and call the late-running Doog to stop by Guitar Center to buy mics, respectively. Thank God Plan B is set into action quickly.

6:15pm - Doog just arrived. Monique, the hotel captain, nags, "Dinner is ready and it's getting cold!" D-Mama has checked in. She just left Santa Monica and is in Friday traffic. Ostrich and DooDabooDooDabooDwee begin concocting an all-male contingency set. On a brighter note, Drummer Boy has returned with mics and he, Doog and Dansalsa are setting up. The wedding party is running late, so doors will open at 7:00pm.

6:30pm - Dinner. Fancy schmancy chicken with potatoes and asparagus. Yum. The band is in good spirits, as they have been since the onset -- they know that they always find a way to pull things off. Cocky motherfuckers.

6:40pm - Dansalsa heads to the restroom, with Ostrich following about 15 steps behind. Ostrich watches the bathroom door shut behind Dansalsa. Ostrich grabs the handle and swings open the door -- a strange metallic clinking sound is heard on the other side. Ostrich walks through, thinks about the sound and discovers the source -- a metal door handle lies broken on the floor. The door shuts. There's no way out.

6:41pm - Dansalsa and Ostrich laugh heartily. Ostrich proceeds to bang on the door incessantly. Moments later, a female worker opens the door, a puzzled look on her face. Ostrich hands her the broken handle, gives her a "Thanks, kiddo!" fisted-nudge to the chin and Dansalsa and he depart from their temporary prison. Ostrich never did drain the weasel.

6:45pm - Soundcheck begins. No monitors -- they can't hear themselves. No biggie. If they can't hear their mistakes, maybe the wedding attendees can't hear them either.

7:00pm - The doors open. The band rocks the house.

7:45 - D-Mama arrives and they play all the songs that they skipped in her absence. No one is the wiser. Mwhahahahaha!

12:00am - The party ends. Highlights: ICE CREAM! The DJ played many of the band's songs and the schedule jumped around, forcing the band to re-order the set on the fly! Ostrich gets confused and loops everything, while also starting songs in the wrong key! Doog joins the patrons on the dance floor while playing! The band gets paid on the spot -- in cash! The groom feels up Ostrich's boob, slipping him a $120 tip for the band! Ostrich decides not to entertain the groom's advances, although he's inebriated and is ripe for being taken advantage of. After all, that's bride's job, and the groom is not a woman. Besides, Ostrich's aunt was in attendance, and she explained that the groom is her ex-husband's nephew, or something like that. Therefore, Ostrich was, in a way, felt up by his "cousin." Awesome.

I Almost Shit My Pants

2006-05-02T07:27:00.000-07:00

I Almost Shit My Pants

I just got to work. I should start my day running, after all, it's deadline day. But my ass is still freaking out.

I was driving along the 10 westbound between Robertson and National in the No. 4 lane. Traffic was moving pretty nicely at about 70 miles an hour. Though it was kind of misty outside, you can tell the sun was coming up. Still, everyone had their headlights on.

Out of nowhere I see this flash in my rearview mirror. A speeding black sports car had just cut from the No. 5 lane (I think there's five lanes on that part of the freeway) and/or the onramp into my lane right behind me. From what I can tell, it looked like a black Porsche and the driver must have been gunning it after just getting on the freeway or something, going about 85-90 mph. It looked like it was going to rear-end me -- hard. Before I could react, the car swerved into the No. 3 lane.

A second after it had narrowly avoided my bumper, it tried to straighten out. That's when it started fishtailing. He was still going pretty damn fast and the left rear end of his car began slipping as he pulled beside me and a little in front. Tires began screeching. I started slowing down and checked the rearview mirror. There was another car right behind me, so I couldn't slam on the brakes. By now, the speeding Porsche was starting to cut into my lane at a 30-degree angle, losing control. The car behind me was about 2-3 car lengths back, allowing me to decelerate just a little bit (in retrospect, the Porsche must've cut that dude off big time). Before I knew it, the Porsche was about 5 feet in front of me, skidding along almost perpendicular to my car. Mind you, I had probably only managed to slow down to about 60 mph at this point.

Right when I thought I was a goner for sure, his tires must have caught a little traction. He bolted out of my lane, screamed across the No. 5 and hit the wall of the bridge real hard with a surreal plastic crunching sound. It looked like one of those crazy scenes you see in the trailers for Fast and the Furious 3: Tokyo Nights. Sparks flew everywhere. Pieces flew from the car like shrapnel and littered the freeway. The entire front end on the driver side hit with such force that you could see the hood and I think the roof crumple upwards. Tire parts were bouncing everywhere. Somehow none managed to hit my car, and the Porsche miraculously didn't float into my lane after colliding with the retainer wall.

I passed him up going about 40mph at about this time. As I checked my rearview mirror to see the aftermath, I could see a couple cars pulling over to aid anyone who may be in need. As for me, I was still in shock, but managed to get out my cell phone and call 911. The operators must get a lot of these calls -- they sounded so bored.

While I have witnessed my fair share of accidents in my lifetime that were pretty freaky, I have never seen anything like this happen so up close and personal, or develop and fade away so quickly. From the time he almost rear-ended me to the time he hit the wall, I'd say at most only 5 seconds had passed.

I drive too much. I need a job closer to home.

Drive safe!

My Kid Was Born With Two Asses

2006-04-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

"Push babe, push!" I encourage her as she shoots me that oh-so-loving look of "die motherfucker, die." The room is buzzing with medical staff, maybe a few more people than usual for what, on the outside, looks like a regular childbirth. But the staff knows something is amiss. I'm oblivious.

"I can see it's...head?!!" screams the doctor as those in the know gasp. Me and the wifey don't know what the drama is about until a few seconds later. Instead of a healthy cry comes a muted "pooot!" -- an unmistakable fart. Oh no, a breach baby! Why are the doctors allowing this to happen? "Keep pushing! I can see its shoulders!" yells the doctor. Shoulders? Ass then shoulders? Wha.....?

Long story short -- PLOOP! Out comes baby, born with an ass where its head should've been. How could this have happened?

It didn't happen, but it's not a dream. It's a story of a future that may have come to pass had ignorance prevailed. But let's start from the beginning.

Lapudance (a name bestowed upon him by his brother, AlwayzRight) invited me to his friend's b-day party last week, which I was considering attending given that there would be women present and the restaurant was local to me. The clincher -- all-you-can-eat Sushi and all-you-can-drink beer and sake.

The restaurant was packed. While there were women aplenty, all were absorbed in conversation with their friends. Lapudance, AlwayzRight, his friend, and I sat down at the second long table, apart from everyone else. No matter. I was more than happy to just get my eat on and get drunk.

A couple of girls walked in soon after and sat down next to us. The waiters were busy fulfilling orders, and we had food up the yin yang. Someone on our side offered the pair some food while they were waiting. Game on. As the night progressed and the sake flowed, spirits heightened. The girls were cool. Not quite my type, but toasting to random crap with strangers is always fun.

Soon I found myself engrossed in banter with Espana. That's not her real name, but it describes her look perfectly. However, we discovered that each of us is of the same nationality, and we had many other things in common. She lives nearby, has cool parents (who were picking her up afterwards so she wouldn't have to drive home drunk), used to swing dance, is in the music business, went to UCLA, and even was the roommate of my good friend Bruingirl.

Tangent: Bruingirl sent me a signed picture of some porn star named Memphis Monroe from Hustler TV. I've never heard of her, but more amazingly, Penguin doesn't have a clue who she is. She must suck. Well, figuratively. Okay, literally too. Thanks for the pic though, Bruingirl! I'll give it to my godson! j/k.

Back to the story. Espana and I continued to converse. At one point, Lapudance and the others "conveniently" left us alone. They thought we really clicked. I just thought we had stuff in common and we got along. Either way, by the end of the night I got her number.

A few days later I e-mailed Espana. The day passed and I received no response. Oh well. Guess I was right -- there was no spark. Then I got her e-mail.

"I looked at your card on Saturday and realized that we may be distantly related in some way. My great-grandmother's maiden name was Ostrich and according to my mom, all Ostriches are related. I don't know how accurate that is, but a funny coincidence nonetheless."

It's not a coincidence. In my homeland, the last name Ostrich did not exist until my great-grandfather created it. I don't know the whole story, so here's the ghetto version. Great-grandpimp was actually a Panda who came to live at the Bird Islands. He joined the army and became a general. To fit in, Great-grandpimp changed his last name to Ostrich from Panda. General Ostrich was also a polygamist -- many wives, many concubines, over 100 children. There's even a statue in his home city in his honor -- the same city where Espana and I traced our roots.

So, in effect, I picked up on my cousin. This is the second time this has happened to me. Lapudance still thinks me and Espana should hit it. Sick bastard.

Ostrich -- If Espana were a fifth-generation Ostrich and we hooked up, that would technically make her the subject of Terrence and Phillip's (from South Park) greatest hit, "Uncle Fucker."

I Am Winnie The Poo -- er...Pooh

2006-04-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

"You're just like Winnie The Pooh," joked a co-worker as I unashamedly scratched my back against a wall corner at the office. Earlier in the morning, another co-worker joked that I'm just like a bear. Yet another co-worker quipped that her cat also scratches his back against corners (as you can tell, I don't give a fuck what others at the office think or say about me). Since cats are evil, and I'm more akin to a Teddy Bear, we'll just say I'm like Winnie The Pooh -- plus my cute co-worker bestowed upon me the nickname, which doesn't hurt.

Why do people enjoy having their dorsal area scratched? If I remember correctly, the human back has the least number of nerve endings per square inch than any other part of the body. Meanwhile, there are other parts of the body that are teeming with nerve endings such as the crotch, and you don't see everyone going around scratching their crotch -- well, then again....

I simply love that microsecond of pain you experience when an itch is scratched, followed by the immediate sensation of warmth that lingers for a bit. Yeah, I know. Sounds masochistic.

When someone scratches your back it's the kind of thing where they're catering to you and only you. They are unselfishly giving you something without expecting anything in return -- well, unless they subscribe to the saying, "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours," which is perfectly fine. If not, they are willing to risk the early onset of arthritis just for you. Awwwww!

However, as is the case with other pleasure-inducing activities, if you don't have a partner, sometimes you have to use your hand and some tools. Back scratchers are dope. My first one was a piece of shit, though. My old boss gave it to me; it was pink and made of plastic and it sucked. So did he, apparently -- he lost the company millions of dollars or something. I moved up to a wooden one that I got on clearance for $1.00. It worked well for a whole day. Splinters sure are hard to remove from your back. Now I have one that is wooden, sans the splinters. Unfortunately, I think my niece broke the rolling massager part. No worries though, I don't use that part anyway. Don't get me wrong. I'd gladly accept massages too -- but back scratches just rock.

Want to make me happy? Scratch my back. Then watch in delight as a grown man curls up on the floor like a little doggie and begins kicking his leg in spastic excitement. Or do dogs to that when you rub their tummies? I can't remember -- my bad. Well, you can rub my tummy too. It may even bring you good luck, unless you're a dude. Then it'll only bring you a swift kick to the nuts.

hASSelhoffian!

2006-04-06T08:32:00.000-07:00

I swear that this masterpiece has officially launched a new age of art, the "Internet Age," which will be prominently noted in history books for thousands of years to come. School children will marvel at its beauty. College students will write term papers comparing and contrasting this yet-to-be-revealed artist's magnum opus to Michaelangelo's "David." Sure, people have created art on the Internet before, but never before has one pixelated animation elicited such raw emotion from the masses. Don't believe me? Well, don't take my word for it -- here's what my friends have to say!

I'mNotSayid: disturbing

Bruingrl: oh god...burned my eyeballs out

CaptainCutey: ok, that's gonna give me nightmares

I find when your co-workers are having a bad day, there's nothing like a warm glass of "shut-the-hell-up" to cheer them up. Lately that hasn't been working, so I delivered this masterpiece to my co-worker via IM. "Hasselhoffian" immediately had her singing its praises like no other and she forgot all about her tribulations. Here's another instance where it has helped alleviate stress.

Ostrich: just a little something to get you through the day
Dimple: thanks. really.
(Ostrich pastes the link:)
Dimple: haha! i'm in class!!!
Ostrich: hahahahahahahaha
Ostrich: well, hope it brought a frown, then a smile to your face :-)
Dimple: haha. a smile THEN a frown

Okay, maybe that wasn't the best example. Nonetheless, its name alone is enough to pique the curiosity of even the most resistant of people.

Toby: dude...i won't even open it because it says..."hasselhoffian" in the URL
Toby: what do you think? i'm crazy?
(A few seconds later)
Toby: lol. that's sick man
Ostrich: hahahahaha. open it. you know you want to
Toby: yea...i did
Toby: gag

Sometimes, art induces emotions and reactions far beyond the norm, inspiring people to utter things they wouldn't normally mean -- I hope...

Ostrichette: um... don't do that again
Ostrichette: EVER
Ostrich: why not?
Ostrich: does this mean you're breaking up with me?
Ostrichette: that's so gross
Ostrich: hahahahahah!
Ostrich: i mean, sorry :-(

Kamote: ARGH!!!!
Kamote: ABORT! ABORT!!!
Kamote: i thought you were my friend!
Kamote: :-P

Despite the seemingly negative response "Hasselhoffian" is causing around the world, just remember -- beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Ostrich: sup
Lapu: jes woke up
Ostrich: oh? well here. let me help you get your morning started.
(Ostrich pastes the link in:)
Lapu: that is one of the greatest things i have ever seen

Googleyed: aww, this is such a tease! every time it zooms in i get my hopes up.

And now, it's time for you to experience the hype for yourself.

HASSELHOFFIAN!

Thai Culture Has Taken My Butt Prisoner

2006-04-04T16:45:00.000-07:00

Last night a few of us went to the Igloo to watch our alma mater go down in defeat to a bunch of swamp-dwelling ass-masters. But that's beside the point.

Anyways, Penguin and Penguinette have been raving about their favorite restaurant/whore house, Thai Villa, for many moons. Last night during the game seemed like the perfect time to order take out and for the rest of us to try it for ourselves. The Penguins swear by the food at this little villa, just like they also swear that the place doubles as a brothel.

Not feeling like ordering my usual Pad Thai, I decided to be adventurous. I perused the menu I came across another appetizing dish -- egg noodles with mint leaves, tomato, chili peppers, blah blah blah. After reading the ingredients and seeing the little chili pepper picture beside the item to denote its hotness, I chose the Mee Tao Kro. No, this was not the dish's real name, but I can't remember what it was really called.

Thirty minutes later a car door slammed outside and I sat up, anxious to feast my eyes on a tasty treat. Crap. It's just some dude in a UCLA sweatshirt bringing us our order from Thai Villa. Where's the scantily clad whore? I thought to myself. Man, this Mee Sew Ho Ni better be good.

Dayam! Screw the whore (figuratively, of course) -- the Mee Yum Yum tasted great! But I had to eat it quickly since my lips were ablaze. No point in prolonging the pain. Upon finishing my food I suckled ice cubes to alleviate the burning sensation. Funny, I thought to myself. I could be experiencing a similar burning sensation in my pelvic region at this very moment had a whore from Thai Villa delivered the food instead. Whew. I sure got lucky. Or so I thought….

As Emu the Prognosticator quipped when I chose the Mee Lik Hot, "What goes in hot, comes out hot," or something like that.

6:30am -- Took a shit. It hurt. Smelled like the Mee Tak Shit from last night. Made my mouth water a little. Haha.

8:00am -- Took a shit. It hurt. This time there was no pleasant aroma, just the lingering burn. Double-flusher due to use of excess toilet paper.

11:15am -- Took a shit. It hurt. I closed my eyes and this little cartoon popped into my head…A little chili pepper with stick-figure-like arms and legs and a devious smile is kicking it in my asshole, holding my sphincter hostage and whipping it mercilessly.

Yes, I would eat at Thai Villa again. But next time we're going there in person to see the whores and I'm just going to order Pad Thai.

Ostrich -- South Park was right. Mee Krob is a bad word.

Booty Music!

2006-03-29T11:50:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, I lead a wedding band that specializes in not practicing until the night before a gig. Just kidding -- sort of. Anyways, it is my personal feeling that there is nothing that spells wedding more than BOOTY MUSIC!

Unfortunately, the nature of booty music usually doesn't allow for it to be reproduced in a live setting with real instruments. For example, much of it is synth- and siren-based, and I'm the only keyboard player. There are also several other limitations that prevent the general acceptance of booty music as a wedding staple. For example, the forefathers of the genre, 2 Live Crew, only offer such titles as "Me So Horny," "Pop That Pussy," "Hoochie Mama" (though somehow I got away with getting the song played at my sister's wedding, and almost played at my friend's wedding), and so forth. This makes booty music semi-inappropriate as the song for the father/daughter dance, but perfect for the couple's first (lap) dance! Another limitation is most of these songs contain rapping -- a skill which none of our current mercenaries...er, musicians, possess.

Despite these annoying shortcomings, there are those few precious sonic gems that can be performed live -- or at least, I can envision it being performed live in my head. Here's what I have so far:

- "My Boo" - Ghost Town DJs

Okay, that's only one song. But I'm also considering songs that are easy to rap, ones that almost anyone would sound good performing it as long as they have the proper enthusiasm:

- "Baby Got Back" - Sir Mix-A-Lot

Then there are those songs that we can possibly put some booty bass to:

- "Nice And Slow" - Usher
- "Unpredictable" - Jamie Foxx

So I need some help. I would like to be one of the few, if not the only, wedding bands in existence to specialize in presenting music to wedding-goers that allows them to dry hump their partner to their heart's delight, turn them around, bend them over and spank them mercilessly. Here are the guidelines for your suggestions:

- Must be an upbeat song that would induce rapid spanking on the dance floor.
- Preferably no rap, but if it's a "classic" track like "Daisy Dukes," we'll consider it.
- Songs that have a sung hook would be nice.
- Any song or slow jam that you think we can booty remix will be taken into consideration.

By the way, songs with nasty lyrics are acceptable -- we'll just mumble them :)

The Ass Massage

2006-03-22T11:37:00.000-08:00

Man. Is my ass permanently broken? I hurt it a couple months ago while snowboarding (see January entries), and while I'm able to walk, run, jump, sit, twist and shake (no, I can't make my booty clap yet), I felt like I was experiencing residual pain while watching March Madness on Sunday night, lying on my bed. Okay, maybe not pain, but strange ass (haha, I made a pun-ny) sensations -- slight cramping, warmth (not because of farting), etc. -- it just felt like my buttocks was not as lusciously rotund as it usual.

Things didn't seem right at the massage parlor. Why I decided to visit a massage parlor instead of a doctor or chiropractor, I don't know. But what really bothered me was how the place was set up.

The office resembled a bar. A long, 3' 6"-high dark brown bar table about 20 feet in length separated the reception area from the actual office space, and on top of this bar was a 3-inch thick black faux-leather pad with scratches. Behind the bar were receptionists and doctors, and behind them, about 10 feet back on the wall, a plethora of cool knick-knacks and awards, some of which I swear were bottles of alcohol. There was even a TV to my left in the upper corner of the room above the bar, airing the March Madness games. To the right, about three-fourths of the way along the bar, the back wall disappeared, revealing a larger area full of office furniture and yuppie-looking slack-offs that I instantly detested.

At the reception area -- where I was at -- there were picnic benches, brown and weatherworn. The floor was cement and the walls were the complete opposite of the stylish wall behind the bar -- it was undecorated and off-white with plaster cracks.

All the people in the building were a bit strange. The three receptionists had on white lab coats and were standing directly behind the bar, working tirelessly but smiling, taking pride in their work. The one helping me was a cute white girl, about 5'9", red-hair, thick rimmed glasses. Behind the receptionists were the yuppies. There were about six of them just kicking it, sitting on furniture, talking, flirting, carrying on. They weren't dressed in typical work clothes -- just business casual, if that, but no doubt they were getting paid, and paid well.

Meanwhile, the patients in the waiting area were like zombies. There was an old Mexican lady in her late 40s sitting on the bench, devoid of spirit, wearing swap meet clothes. She was separating two children that were with her, both of whom just sat there, swinging their legs in boredom. Other patients dotted the room, all bored, stagnant, and wearing cheap clothing.

I was conversing with the cute receptionist -- asking general questions about my purpose at the office, her job, life overall -- when above the din came a booming voice. "Are you ready for an ass massage?!!!" yelled a man, sort of like that "Are you ready for some football?!!!" yell on NFL broadcasts. The therapist stood 6 feet tall and had brown hair, glasses, a lab coat, and a maniacal smile. He was wide-eyed and power-walking towards me from the yuppie area.

In what I swear was a split-second later, the therapist was standing beside me at the bar. I could only see his torso and the bar's pleather top because someone was holding my head against the padding, forcing me to bend over. What the fuck? I thought. The therapist's hands were already groping my bare ass cheeks, squeezing them so hard that it felt like they were in a vice. Wait, when the hell did I lose my pants?!

"Who wants to see a re-enactment of the movie Heat?!!!" the therapist yelled excitedly. I glanced back at the waiting room as a brown man in his 50s casually walked up about 10 feet behind us and to my right to view the re-enactment. His arms were crossed and he stood there expressionless. Then, only mere seconds after coming to see the action, he turned and casually walked out of the building through the revolving door.

Heat? At what part during Heat does a dude get his ass violated?!!! The therapist spread my ass cheeks apart, forcing me to fart. The smell that came forth was not ripe, but old and decayed. No one seemed to mind or care that this disturbing debacle was unfolding in their presence. In fact, though there were at least 20 people around us, no one even acknowledged our presence. A picture of Robert DeNiro's laughing face flashed through my mind, and I wanted to ask him, "Is there a part of Heat that I missed?"

Instantly, things changed. No longer was the therapist massaging my ass -- I was now sitting on top of the bar, pants still off, but boxers on. The cute receptionist girl was massaging my dangling legs and feet with warm lotion. Dude, it feels soooo good, I thought. My messed-up feet felt like they could run 10 miles. Then she began massaging upwards towards my knees.

Out of nowhere I was once again bent over the bar and my boxers were wrapped around my ankles. The crazy therapist dude had taken over and he was already at my hamstrings. Oh no, I knew what was coming next. He started squirting lotion on his hands to prepare for the "internal ass massage." I began to panic and tried to push myself off the bar. Wait! Where are my hands? I can't feel my hands?!!! I couldn't figure out what was happening -- I'm totally freaking now and trying with all my might to move. While I couldn't feel my hands, I could still feel my forearms smashed against my chest as I lay bent over the bar. My cell phone started ringing. "I need to answer my phone," I pleaded. Three rings. I continued to struggle to free myself from the bar, but now my handcuffed hands are behind my back -- not that I could feel them anyways. Five rings. I could feel my cell phone vibrating in my jeans pocket, but I couldn't reach it. I could feel my cell phone in my jeans pocket, the jeans that I was WEARING?

I woke up as my phone stopped in mid-seventh ring. I was still in bed. I couldn't answer my phone if I wanted to -- my hands were still numb from falling asleep on them. I had no idea what March Madness game was on TV, but the clock read 20-30 minutes later than the last time I looked at it. Time to write down as many key details from this before I forget.

While I never really do this, a dream analysis should be fun:

1) The office behind the bar represents the wonder and joy I want to know more about from life.
2) The reception area represents how my life feels -- plain, empty, and without hope.
3) The bar table represents the barrier I must cross to attain happiness.
4) The three receptionists represent my ideal self and/or those whom I admire -- hard-working, happy, purpose-driven people.
5) The cute receptionist represents the woman of my dreams -- similar goals and ideals as myself. Ironically, she is, as my sister says, who I'm pre-destined to marry -- a nerdy white girl.
6) The yuppies represent those who have a better life than I but have not earned it.
7) The old Mexican lady and her kids represent my co-workers and friends who have simply accepted their life as is though they are clearly unhappy.
8) The therapist represents fate and circumstance.
9) The brown man represents those people who have the power to intervene and change my fate, but instead just watch apathetically.
10) My fart represents my soul. Fate forces me to reveal my soul to the world, which is not young and vibrant, but tired and spent.
11) The receptionist massaging my legs then the therapist preparing to violate me in an even worse fashion represents fate teasing me -- fate gives me just enough of a taste of my dreams to keep my hopes up while it prepares to fuck me harder.
12) The fact that I couldn't feel my hands, which were later handcuffed behind my back, represents my feeling of helplessness and lack of control.
13) The fact that I went there for help and instead end up practically being raped represents the feeling that whenever I seek to better my life, I instead get fucked in the ass.

I FUCKING HATE NIGHTMARES.

Shit With A Capital "S"

2006-03-10T09:47:00.000-08:00

As many of you undoubtedly know, I am in the job market. My search consumes me. I've been searching for a while. However, for the past two weeks, it has weighed heavy on my mind, and dominated my time. As such, the subject of my search for a better life usually comes up in instant messenger conversation with many of you. Unfortunately, many times, I'm at work when we talk about it (yes, it's mainly my fault since I introduce the subject).

I suppose it would be prudent to keep this on the down low. So far, one co-worker has caught me chatting about my job search. Luckily, she wants to leave more than me. Heretofore, I would like to enact the following system of talking about job searches, either online or on the phone -- "Shit with a capital 'S'."

When talking on the phone, we shall refer to my job search as "my shit." Simple enough? Good. Here's the hard part. When talking about the subject on IM, we capitalize the words that replace real, key words. For instance, if you want to ask about how my search is going, you IM, "How's your Shit going?"

From there, we shall proceed in talking about the search as if we're talking about my dating life, always capitalizing the keywords that mean something else. Here's a sample conversation we can have, with translations.

TheEgg: sup ostrich. How's your Shit (job search)?
Ostrich: it kind of sucks. all i'm finding on Match.com (Monster.com, et al.) are Ugly Bitches (wack jobs).
TheEgg: sorry. have you had a friend try to Hook You Up (friends referring you to openings at their work).
Ostrich: yeah, some are on the lookout, but most of the time their Women (workplace) don't have Girlfriends That Are Attractive (isn't the right kind of job) to me.

Easy, no? Let's practice some more, shall we?

Ostrich: man, i went out on a Date (interview) with this Chick (job) i met on MySpace (craigslist.org).
TheEgg: oh? what's up? was she Hot (a good company)? did she Want You To Be Her Man (offer you the job)?
Ostrich: she was Aight (an aight company). no, she didn't ask, but she did ask me out on another Date. she's looking for a Boyfriend (a bitch she can force to do anything she wants him to. ironic, eh?), and i know she's been Dating Around (other people were interviewing as well). i think if we Go Out Again (another interview), i can Nail Her (get the job).
TheEgg: maybe you should Nail Her on the second Date even if you don't want to. you just need out of your Current Relationship (current job).
Ostrich: true, but my Current Girlfriend (current job) takes care of me, and people are always Checking Her Out And Saying She's Sexy As Hell (other people think my job rocks, and in a sense, they're right). she Puts Out (i get paid), Takes Care Of Me When I'm Sick (i have health benefits), Brushes My Teeth (dental), etc. though she used to let me Go Out Whenever I Want (vacation policy rocks) before, now she's Not Letting Me Go Out As Much (stingy on the vacation time) and shit. Cuddling and Flirting (general terms for "you're doing a good job" type of things) is cool, and i enjoy the Attention (they appreciate you), but now she's getting all Clingy (micromanging) and Overbearing (overbearing). but like i said, she Puts Out. but she doesn't give me many Kinky Treats (perks of the job) these days, and she's never given me a Blow Job (pay bonus). oh, and her Life's Plan (401k) sucks and it Doesn't Really Include Me (non-matching 401k).
TheEgg: yeah. maybe you should consider Taking A Break From Relationships (take some time off between jobs) for awhile. just don't become a Man-Whore (job jumper).

Sometimes, things can get a little confusing.

TheEgg: what's your Type (field of interest)?
Ostrich: right now, the Qualities (what i'm looking for in a job) i'm looking for are Intelligent (white collar job, not blue collar), Sugar Momma (big company), Local (uh, local), and someone who can hold it down Financially (pays at least decently). however, i wouldn't mind The Girl Next Door (a really close by job) as long as she's Cute (respectable company with decent pay). but yeah, if she's Hot (well-known company) and Cute (decent pay), that's a plus. especially if she lives Down The Street (local).
TheEgg: that's not what i asked, dumbass. what's your TYPE?
Ostrich: i told you already. what else do you want to know? i'm Divorcing My Wife (leaving my current career) and don't know if i want another Wife (career) like her. i ain't looking for a Fling (temp job) either. a Hot Girlfriend (semi-permanent stint with a well-known company) who's got a Cuteness to her is ideal until i figure out what i want in a Wife. with any luck, my new Girlfriend will be The One (career for life).
TheEgg: but what's your TYPE? do you like Big Asses (?) Boobs (?) Short (?) Tall (?) Brains (?) Nice Face (?) Dark (?) Light Skinned (?) No Teeth (??) Missing Limbs (???)
Ostrich: ummmmmm, huh?
TheEgg: damnit!!!! what's your TYPE?!!! your TYYYYYPPPPPPPEEEEEE?!!!!
Ostrich: oh. um. yeah. let's just say that, overall, what she does for a living is important to me. i would prefer if she works in, oh, Marketing, Advertising, Project Management, maybe even the Music Business again.
TheEgg: SCREW YOU (screw you) and your SHITTY SYSTEM (double entendre)!!!
Ostrich: Shitty System. hahahahahaha!
Ostrich: anyways, what else is up?
Ostrich: hello?
Ostrich: hello?
Ostrich: ...... :(

As you can see, sometimes you gotta state what you mean outright, but what comes before it should still refer to things in context of the coded conversation, and the key points should still be in caps.

NO MORE OF THE SAME OL' SHIT! - Ostrich

Epilogue: After re-reading this, I have come to an epiphany. A job really is just like a girlfriend/wife. You spend all this time pursuing one, getting all prettied up, being polite, being a fuckin' man in order to convince them to let you be a part of their lives. Then you become her bitch.

Get Your Butt In Gear!

2006-03-06T07:17:00.000-08:00

It's Monday. Let's kick things off right!

- No more procrastinating.
- No more deliberating whether or not you should or shouldn't.
- Now is the perfect time to mix things up a bit.
- No more excuses.
- No more keeping opinions to yourself.
- Follow through.
- Make your presence felt.
- Put your money where your mouth is.
- Actions speak louder than words.
- Kick some ass and take names.

You know what needs to be done. GO FOR IT!

She Stands On The Toilet

2006-03-03T08:07:00.000-08:00

Last night I came upon feature material for the Ostrich Diary(ahs) that wrecked havoc on my mind and job search. The topic was presented to me through a most unlikely source -- Dimple. Why unlikely? Because Dimple doesn't like matters of the ass, nor what is expelled from them (maybe it has to do with the fact that most cute hotties of her caliber have class). So Dimple, I commend you on your courageousness in sharing this important, earth-shattering story with the world, despite your squeamishness with ass issues.

Dimple: hey. got a good one for ya.
Ostrich: go for it.
Dimple: that ONLY you would enjoy
Ostrich: um, now i'm scared...
Dimple: so there's a woman i know, that i just found out ... she goes to #2 standing ON the toilet. like perched on the seat.
Ostrich: does she stand on the seat? does she lift the lid? do women's restrooms have lids that are liftable? if so, why? no guys go in there to take a piss....

Hmmm. While the other questions are of vital importance to me, I believe "does she stand on the seat?" is the biggest issue. I mean, c'mon. The only time I've seen anyone stand while taking a dump was when my niece did that about a year back, and even now she assumes a little squatting position. While standing at the toilet before my morning shit, I couldn't even fathom taking a dump while standing in the fully upright position. You'd have to really squeeze since your butt cheeks are so close together. And even then, it'd probably come out like toothpaste.

Ostrich: wait. so she stands straight up while taking a dump?
Dimple: no she squats on the toilet seat
Ostrich: she does that for #1 too?
Dimple: no she squats, but feet on floor for that.

We won't even go there. Besides, I've heard other girls do that too, so no biggie.

Ostrich: how did she get around to telling YOU of all people that?
Dimple: we found out cause there are footprints on the seat.

Footprints on the seat? Like with toes? So does she take off her shoes? If so, that means she's willing to touch the seat with her feet, but not her ass. That's weird. Maybe she grips the seat with her toes. Though if she lifts the seat, then she could probably wrap her toes around the edges of the bowl better. However, if it's a cushioned seat, maybe that's easier to grip. Then again, if she does leave on her shoes, what if they are heels? Or what if her shoes don't have traction?

Dimple: when she goes #1 she misses 50%
Ostrich: noooo!
Dimple: haha. yes.
Ostrich: if she misses while #1-ing, how often does she miss when she #2's? that's a farther distance. dude. how does she aim? what happens if she misses?

Can you imagine that? Walking into a stall and seeing poop on the toilet seat? You can clean up piss and not leave too much of a stain and people would be none the wiser. But poop? That's gotta leave a mark. And aiming! She has to have her feet right at the front edge of the seat and squat just enough so that she can get the shit out, yet still make it so it just drops into the back of the toilet. And how ripped and buff are this woman's quadriceps?

Ostrich: how does she reach the toilet paper?
Dimple: (no answer)

Seriously. This troubles me. If she waits until she's done, gets off the seat, gets the toilet paper, then wipes, there is soooo much potential for poop to go everywhere. If she holds the toilet paper, that leaves one less hand free to brace herself. Either way, after wiping, she probably has to aim to make sure the toilet paper falls into the bowl as well.

Dimple: she's like 56. what if she falls? shatters something?

Good God. 56 years old. Bless her soul, she's still alive. As a conservative estimate, let's say that she poops every other day. That's still approximately 130 poops per year. And lets say that she's been doing this since she was 16 years old. So 40 years. That's still roughly 5,200 times she could have eaten it in the bathroom.

And the age factor. There's will be a point in time when she'll be too old to take a shit this way, but not incapacitated enough to require someone wiping her ass. What then? Is that 10 years from now? 20? 25? I'm betting the most likely scenario, unfortunately, is that she will have a bad fall and be mandated by caretakers to actually sit on the seat.

Ostrich: does she hold on to the walls of the stall to get up? if there's no walls, how does she balance? does she take off her pants completely? panties? does she always wear skirts? does she just wear skirts with no panties?

So many more questions, yet so little time in a day -- in a lifetime -- to ponder all of them. Let's at least try to tackle these.

I'm betting she has to use the walls to balance. Maybe she even has to face backwards and use the front wall and the rest of the toilet assembly to hold on. I know I would. It'd try out the different scenarios myself (the getting up on the toilet part -- I'm not dumb enough to go through with the shitting), but I'm sure I'd end up in the hospital, and that's a tough one to explain. Every bathroom is different, so I'm sure she has a method.

If she's wearing a skirt, she still risks pooping into the skirt if she hikes it up. Pants? No way. She has to take them off. So she strips in the bathroom? Hmmm. Maybe she wears loose skirts, and no panties. Normally that sounds hot. But in context, that's gross. And she's 56.

Dimple: thought you'd be the ONLY one that'd appreciate it
Ostrich: oh, you know me so well :-)

Alas, one burning question does remain -- WHO THE HELL POTTY TRAINED THIS WOMAN?!!!!

Chasing Tail

2006-02-26T23:19:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-02-22T10:54:00.000-08:00

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 But ts 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!

2006-02-18T23:16:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-15T11:59:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-13T10:12:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-10T08:51:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-08T08:12:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-07T08:53:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-05T01:39:00.000-08:00

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

2006-02-03T07:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Welcome Me To Blogging, Damnit!

2006-01-27T15:54:00.000-08:00

So here's my blog. This is where I write things that will profoundly affect you for the rest of your damn life, bitch! Okay. I have nothing more to say today. Carry on.

- Ostrich