April 15, 2007

I know it’s been a while since I posted, but this is my blog and I DO WHAT I WANNA. Now that that’s out of the way, a few things I’ve been thinking about:

>Those of you that follow professional basketball probably know of this team, the Golden State Warriors. Now I’ve been thinking, and this is the only team that I can think of that’s not from a real place. I know California is the “Golden State”, but seriously, what the fuck? Are nicknames now fair game for sports franchises? Is the day approaching were I can watch the Big Apple Knicks take on the Sin City Venereal Diseases? And why stop at pre-established nicknames – under Golden State’s renegade example, we could have the Magical Fairyland Jazz, and nobody would know where the hell to go. I’m just saying. Enough is enough.

>Dear Michael Ian Black,

We get it. You’re clever and snarky. You don’t need to have that smug little grin of yours everytime VH1 tosses you a warm cup of coffee to come up with your witty little one liners. I can just see you alone at home, making snide little asides about your breakfast cereal to your cat and then looking around for a camera. Please don’t take this the wrong way – you’re not yet in Zach Braff’s (read: crotch-kicking) category. But enough, as always, is enough.



> I vote yes on orange juice. I find it to be TANGY AND REFRESHING.

> I managed to score an early headline from the end of the 2007 baseball season: Alex Rodriguez finishes disappointing first in MVP balloting.

>Dear girl in front of me in line for brunch,

I am overjoyed that you took Spanish in high school. I fully believe that you got a 4 on the AP-kudos! But the entire line could do without your trying to stammer out your omelette order in broken Spanish just to appear culturally sensitive. When the very competent chef asks if you would like cheese, feel more than free to politely nod and even say yes. Or no, if you do not wish to have cheese on your omelette. There’s no need for you to take a minute and a half to get out “No quezo, no, is that queso? Pour fabor.” And God help you if you should try to engage in small talk in Spanish; your accent is comparable to a drunk dolphin with a mouthful of crunchy peanut butter. And the dolphin much prefers creamy, but the store was out, and she really wanted a peanut butter sandwich, so she got crunchy, and then realized that there is no substitute, and she should have just gotten a taco instead. THAT’S what your accent reminds me of. Nice Uggs though.


Scowling black male behind you.

P.S. When I said “nice Uggs”, I meant “not-nice Uggs.” I’m tricksy.

>Why is it that every stoner is immediately a chemist when it comes to smoking? I know a bunch of people who barely passed high school chemistry, but as soon as smoke is involved, they know fifteen different reactions that happen in the body and how to manipulate all of them to get the best high. And their newfound savantesse, (yes, you’ve just witnessed the birth of a word. Congrats!) isn’t limited to chemistry. All of a sudden, they’re chefs, carpenters (honestly, I’ve seen stoners who couldn’t even find a woodshop class build bongs out of acorns and twine) and philosophers. Perhaps rather than teaching against marijuana, teachers should teach through marijuana. Board of Ed, you can thank me later.


My Medical History

April 10, 2007

Throughout my life, I’ve been a pretty healthy person. However, as is the case with all vigorous young lads, I have had occasion to injure myself, ranging from the mildly inocuous to the nearly deadly. Here is, because I’m sure you care, a mild sampling.

The first surgery that I remember having happened when I was about seven years old. I had consented to race another young lad, but seeing as he was possessed of several more years than I, we deemed it fair that I should be allowed the use of one (1) bicycle, whereas he would only be allowed the use of his two strapping legs. Also, apparently, we had arranged the race to take place using language that lurches unpredictably between the 17th and 21 centuries. Kids do the damndest things.

Anyway, this joker decided cut a corner a little close, and when I tried to follow suit, my front tire hit a tree stump and I was sent sprawling. I landed on my chin, and received a nasty gash just above my chin stap. Thanks Helmet! The cut required a few stiches, the scar from which is hid under my manly, bushy, beard, the accumulation of nearly 20 years of facial hair.

The next scar is relatively minor, but is notable for the reaction of those around me. I had been playing kickball and was running to cover a base, when the guy who was attempting to reach that base safely decided to slide. Seeing as we played on concrete, this was somewhat unexpected, and I wound up being tripped and landing on my hip, resulting in the aforementioned scar on my manly hip. This also resulted in the wild giggling of a gaggle of nearby third grade girls, who apparently were able to experience schadenfreude at a seventh grade level. That’s why these days, I continually torture third grade girls by proving that their favorite male stars are almost certainly homosexuals. Thanks Photoshop!

I managed to spend several years memorable injury-free, until 11th grade, at which point I got a black eye. Normally a pretty forgettable experience, save for two things – the circumstances under which I got it were utterly idiotic, and the day after I got it I supposed to be an extra in a music video (which if I get around to it, probably deserves its own story. Unintentional hilarity like you wouldn’t believe.) I had been playing ping pong, and for whatever reason, my paddle had been across the table, and I bent down to pick up a ball. Now, my opponent, who shall remain nameless, decided at this point to throw my paddle across the table, resulting in it bouncing off of my side and into my eye, just as I came up with the ball. Priceless.*

*If anybody asks, I was defending some old ladies from some thugs. Black thugs, with doo-rags and everything.

Obviously, next is the whole drowning story, which did in fact warrant its own post, which you can find under true stories. A bit of aftermath that I didn’t post then: It turns out that having a bunch of tubing being pushed down and taken out of your throat isn’t very good for it (insert porn star joke here). What wound up happening is that I had these legions of scar tissue, called granulomae (which kind of sounds like a kind of granola, but it apparently not), on my larynx. My voice had been getting progressively raspier and raspier, so after recording a blues album, I decided to see a doctor.

My parents, having done some research, were pretty sure what it was. Nonetheless, the doctor had to check, which makes a lot of medical sense, I suppose. Which means that I got to have a lovely telescope pushed through my nose and into my throat. The doctor told me to say AAAHHH. I got through the first A and part of the second before I had a sensation like I was being punched in the throat by a boxing kangaroo (which doesn’t make much sense, but the thought amused me). With this bit of uncomfortability over, the doctor took the telescope out, confident in his diagnosis.

Or so I thought. For some reason, after taking it out, he decided to have a second look. “Yup, granulomae” he confirmed once more, and I thought I was done. Until he began calling colleagues in to also look at it, without regard for the fact that there was a tube going up my nose and down my throat. He called another doctor. He called a nurse. I think at one point he might have called for other patients to see what was going on in my throat. They all had the same diagnosis, and spent an inordinate amount of time gravely nodding to each other and admiring their spiffy white coats. I was not amused.

Eventually the surgery was scheduled, and went pretty seamlessly. Eating was a bit painful for a while, but more painful was the fact that I wasn’t supposed to talk for several days, during which time I still went out with friends. For reasons that escape me now, my inability to talk apparently meant that I had to give them the finger in incredibly creative ways, of which there were more than you might think possible. I WAS allowed to speak a couple of words every few hours, just to make sure my voice was ok, and to my delight, it was nearly an octave deeper and strangely booming. I used this to my full advantage to startle my hapless friends, whose amusement at this particular trick waned well before my own.

My latest injury happened on the gridiron. That’s right. I was playing football. This wasn’t any pussy tackle football though, with all the pads, and the referees, and the goalposts. This was flag football, the sport of kings (who are far too light or out of shape to play regular football). When going up for an interception, I managed to smash into a player going back for a reception, leading my top lip to be caught between my teeth and his head. Needless to say, my lip frenched out and gave way to my teeth, leaving tooth-sized holes in my upper lip. I honestly wanted to finish the game, but apparently the gushing blood was distracting to the other players. So I got on my horse and high-tailed it to Student Health, where I got to sit and fill out forms. During this time, people were served on a first-come, first-served basis, so I had to wait for girls to get their birth control, guys to ask if it really was true that they could get Herpes just by walking on Scripps, and a couple of people who I think were just there to see if they could score lollipops. All the while gushing blood from a hole in my lip.

Eventually I saw the doctor, who informed me that I needed immediate stitching, which he JUST SO HAPPENED to be able to provide FOR A LOW LOW FEE. I’d like to say that I sauntered out of his office and fixed it myself with thumbtacks and duct tape, but I pussied out and got the minor surgery. Delightfully, the painful shots of anaesthetic wore off because of the heavy blood flow, so I got the downright orgasmic sensation of sharp needle pentrating fresh wound. MMMM.

Eventually, the stitches went in and came out, and the swelling went down. If you look closely, there’s still a small scar, which I have just affectionately nicknamed “The Lady Tickler”. Oh yeah. That feels right.

I feel assured that I will find another way to hurt myself soon. If you’re keeping score at home, I’ve been injured: By a tree stump, while being laughed at by third grade girls, by a ping pong paddle, in the shallow end of a pool, and playing FLAG football. In short, I’m pretty awesome.


Nate Gaudy-who?

April 6, 2007

Now, I’m sure most of you don’t know who Nick Gaudio is, and that the rest of you are Nick Gaudio. But rest assured that this ignorance is temporary, for one day this winsome lad will scorch an indelible mark on the literary landscape. For you see, he is an HONORS student at THE West Virginia University. He writes like a poor man’s Hemingway, without the vocabulary, and his wit knows no bounds. (Truly, he is the master of the burn: The randomly violent outbursts; The nonsense verbiage; the gay joke – He’s got it all). But I know some of you don’t have the patience to find his writing on your own; that is why, I am proud to present to you, a vintage Nine-second Nick article.

I make Poetry Badass by Nick Gaudio

Most of you know about my badass prose, and my massive penis. And while it’s true that my prose does often feature sexual situations, and my penis is incredibly massive, I feel like I get sold a little short. Because I also write, like, really badass poetry. Here’s an example of a totally awesome poem I just wrote:

She left her coke can on the night stand

a little red smear of lipstick

fondling the rim

amongst the semen

and anal leakage

Do you see what I did there? I took a totally normal poem and added some vulgar details. And that, my friends, is how to make poetry badass. Because a poem isn’t good unless it somehow refers to manjuice or hookers, preferably both. Sometimes, my poetry is so badass I read it – but not for feedback or artistic expression – i’m so cool I read poetry for beer money. And let me tell you, nothing get’s a chick lubed up faster than a Gaudio original, except maybe the thought of playing hide the pickle with the massive Gaudio dong. Whenever I finish a poem, I look for the hottest chick in the room, and sure enough, she’s melted into a puddle.

A vagina puddle. On my penis.

Here’s a cartoon I made of me doing poetry. It doesn’t have much relevance, but it is fucking hilarious.


In this cartoon I’m smoking a cigarette, because I think having lungs that resemble used tires is motherfucking pimp. But don’t ask me for one of my cigarettes, even if I have a bunch of extras. Get your own!!!!!!!1 Each cigarette is worth like 45 cents, and I’ll be damned if i let a fucking stranger or family member get their grubby paws on any of the profits from my badass poetry.

On an unrelated note, if any rich strangers want to send me money and support the arts, hit me up, and we’ll work something out. I might even reply with a thousand-word entry on my pants-pepperoni.

Every so often, some stupid cunt will say that my poetry lacks variety, or personal depth. I punch her in her stupid cunt ovaries and laugh at another argument won, the Gaudio way. Then, I reach into my pants and scratch my balls and rub it in her mouth until she gags on the Nickbutter, at which point I finish her off with a crotch kick. PWNED!

Gaudio, away!


How to B.S.

April 4, 2007

A lot of adjectives are used to describe Paris Hilton: shallow, vapid, stupid, herpes ridden – the list is almost invariably negative. But in an interesting way – a profound way – she captures perfectly the spirit of an entire generation, in both the desire for fame and the creativity to see it realized, in the constant pursuit of the public eye combined with actions devoid of shame, in the way her name strangely resonates in homes both of means and without. She is who some of us are, who some of us admire. Who some of us hate. She is deep in her own way.

That was all B.S. Of course Paris Hilton is shallow and vapid (and I’m not her doctor, so I can’t tell you for sure if she has herpes, but I hear she has been developing suspiciously quickly as a rock-climber). Everybody has to be B.S. in their time; whether it’s that high school English paper on Beowulf that you mainly cobbled together from Sparknotes and a little bit of a movie you saw, a college humor writer turning in a three year old poem as a comedy article, or even Stephen King rearranging the names and places in an old book and republishing it under a different title, we all have to fudge a little bit. Hopefully, by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll have an idea of how to B.S. as well as yours truly.

The more skeptical amongst you might doubt my expertise in the area. The cynical minds amongst you might even suspect B.S. in our midst at this very moment. Rest assured that I am more than qualified to write about this subject: freshman year I did not one, but two long (and well-received) papers about flirtation, for which my research consisted mainly of trying out awful pickup lines (My favorite: You’re ugly, but you intrigue me). I’ve managed to convince a girl that I was a Zen Buddhist. And once I took a philosophy class. If anything, I’m overqualified. So without further interruption, we can get to the ado – take notes kids.

How to B.S. (A Few Easy to Follow Guidelines for Everybody)

1.) The Semicolon: This one is dedicated to my friend Wormface, who actually had part of his colon removed sometime in high school, prompting this nickname. The semicolon is the necktie of the sentence world; if used moderately correctly, it can give a boring sentence a little touch of class. If used; incorrectly; you look kind of stupid; and a little homeless.

2.) The Term “thoroughly modern”: This phrase is particularly great, because with it, it’s not you doing the B.S.ing, it’s society. It’s especially nice when you use when you have to connect a description between two things either completely unrelated or even directly contradictory. Examples: Christopher Reeve is a thoroughly modern kind of athlete; The Cincinnati Bengals are a thoroughly modern group of ice skaters; Nick Gaudio is a thoroughly modern kind of writer.

3.) Poetry: I like poetry. And there is a lot of good poetry out there. But it also happens to be one of the easiest mediums in which to B.S. The whole art of B.S.ing in poetry has nothing at all to do with what you write down, but rather how your frame it and discuss it. If most readers feel like you know what you’re doing, they’ll do the hard work of supplying the depth themselves. So you can write a few random words, add in a couple of line breaks, and be heralded as a minimalist poet.

the frog man

and his delicious devil juice

they are so sweet

and forgotten

That took me all of four seconds to write. But you can bet your sweet keister that it would take me “far too long” to explain it “properly”.

4.) “Muddying the waters”: This one can be a little tricky to pull off. They key here is to take something that you don’t know but has a definite correct response, and transform it into an argument where there isn’t possibly a correct response. Example: The issue isn’t the exact date of Roe v. Wade – the issue is whether we can, as a society, encourage dissent on basic moral issues, of which abortion is one.

5.) Attacking the Argument: All this basically means is that rather than going after the case of the person your arguing with, you attack the way they present it. A basic knowledge of common logical fallacies (found in your local philosophy department), can help immeasurably here. I can’t imagine a better example than this: For a very long time, people who were smoking a lot of cigarettes were getting a lot of lung cancer. Some very sharp and observant people wrote some letters, to the effect of “Dear cigarette companies – we would like it if you would somehow acknowledge the cancer-causing business.” Now, rather than trying to disprove that cigarettes caused cancer, the lovely company decided to pull an ‘ol numero cinco, arguing that the people who were all cancered up were committing the logical fallacy of “post hoc ergo propter hoc” (after this therefore because of this), and that the argument that the cigarettes were causing the cancer was unfounded. B.S. at it’s finest.

There are many, many, many more tools you can to B.S. Some of them even have foreign names. But for now, I’m going to be greedy and keep them to myself.



Bad Pregnancy Poetry

March 28, 2007

Inside a Mother(hood store)

It looked like she was smuggling a globe-
Like she had an entire world under her shirt,
and I was fascinated.

I wasn’t supposed to be here;
I wasn’t supposed to be trying on the robes of maternity
I wasn’t supposed to want to be here.

The thin fabric clung to her newfound curves,
As tightly and softly as a lover’s embrace
I wanted to be a part of that fabric.

I wasn’t supposed to want this
I wasn’t supposed to want the smooth touch of motherhood
I wasn’t supposed to want her

And yet, in the dressing room,
I could not help but touch
The dewy wetness collecting under the earnest bulge.

I shouldn’t be here
I shouldn’t be in this womb of maternity
I shouldn’t be comfortable here.

And yet I was comfortable
Comfortable running my hands over the rising swell of her breasts
Thick with milk and sexuality.

This couldn’t be good,
This couldn’t be sending spasms of pleasures darting around me
This couldn’t be that good.

It was that good,
When my expert hands meshed seamlessly with her aching body
Satisfying and tantalizing at once.

The woman in the slick reflective glass
She wasn’t me
She was me.


Yes, You Will Be Tested on This

March 25, 2007

I am nothing if not committed to the continuing education of my readers. In that vain, I have a new term: (Yes, I know I should have used “vein” there, but the word vain makes me think about myself, and honestly, what’s more awesome than that?)

Squirrel. A squirrel, in my new parlance, is a person with one redeeming features that somehow makes the others palatable. For actual squirrels. of course, this feature is the bushy tail that separates them from rats. For humanfolk. however, it could be any one of a number of things. Lazy, dirty, annoying hippy on your couch that happens to be an amazing guitarist? Squirrel. Annoying unattractive girl who wastes the class’s time with inane questions and meaningless personal anecdotes but is generous with her perfect notes? Squirrel. Creepy computer science major that spends all his time in his room downloading questionable porn and eating easy mac, but can quote entire episodes of Family Guy with appropriate voices? HUGE NERD. And squirrel. Let’s all embrace this term, because who doesn’t like stupid and kind of bitchy slang?


Maybe Some Nudity Is Involved!

March 22, 2007

Hopefully my deceptively sexful and coy title tricked you into getting sucked into another of my pointless, meandering rants. Without further ado, here is a list of people who have been bugging me recently:

People Who Comment On Youtube Videos:

Now, it’s not the institution of commenting that bugs me-far from it. I think it’s good that you get to see what the world really and truly thinks of the video of you and your sorority sister’s lip-synching the newest Jeezy track. It’s just the people who do it are fucking idiotic. It’s just that the people who do it are fucking idiotic. Yes, I’m aware that I typed that last sentence twice; I did it in case that just such a person happened to stumble upon this piece somewhere. I wouldn’t want their moth-like attention span preventing them from recognizing and absorbing the factH that they have all the writing acumen of a drunk, masturbating, slightly retarded proscobis monkey. And I’m not even sure that’s a real type of monkey. One would think that they would realize this while going to work every day with their pants around their ankles and third degree burns all over their respective chests from trying to iron a shirt while still wearing it, but no. Nobody pulls them aside and says  “listen, penisballslol22, you might want to consider castration.” I have actually read people planning to fight (addresses and all) over differing opinions about the quality of a Jack Johnson cover from somebody who they’d never met.

So now you know penisballslol22 (and numbers 1-21, if you’re listening) – I value what you think. However, you have yet to express anything approaching a cogent thought, and as such, I have no choice but to issue a petty and bitter rant.

People Who Support Immediate Troop Withdrawal but Can’t Explain Why

Inspired by this recent conversation:

R: I just think all the troops should come home right away.

X: I’m not entirely sure that’s feasible. There’s still a lot of work left to to be done, I’m sure, and modern war is never simple.

R: Still the government lies, and the troops should come hope right away.

X: I’m not a military strategist, so I can’t speak for the situation, but I imagine it’s a good deal more complex than people give it credit for. I think if it were as easy as that, the government would do it if for no other reason than for popular support.

R: But I just think they should come home.

The preceding conversation is as close to accurate as I can remember. It’s somewhat indicative of the mindset of a generation of college-aged people who consider themselves political and military analysts because they watch the Daily Show a couple times a week. Listen, I’m willing to admit that I’m not an expert military tactician. And maybe withdrawal is the right thing to do. But when your entire rationale is that “it’s just right” or “the government lied to us” and your supporting argument consists solely of an article from weareadmittedlybiased.com, you sort of lose my respect.

People Who Hate Emo Kids Just to Hate Emo Kids:

You know how it was funny and hip to point out the irony of a fad that stresses “individuality”? Well, now, that observation is trite and the idea is old. Look, I’m no fan of emo kids. And trust me, there’s a wealth of comedy material in everything they do. But making fun of the fact that they wear tight pants is simply no longer acceptable as amusing. When your only recourse is to call somebody a “fag” and then cackle uproariously, you might want to consider the fact that making fun of people is just not for you. And honestly, they do a much, much better job of making a fool of themselves than you and your frat bros could ever hope. So just chill out, have a Natty Light and pop in that Dane Cook dvd. Speaking of which,

Dane Cook, People Who Like Dane Cook, and People Who Don’t Like Dane Cook

And yes, I include myself. When Dane Cook is involved, everybody is annoying.

Animal Lovers:

Now, I like animals, and I’ve had pets all my life. I’m not talking about people who merely enjoy the company of animals. I’m talking about people who will never shut the fuck up about them. What’s that? A YouTube video of a panda sneezing? You mean animals have normal bodily functions? How exciting.

I don’t want to see a picture of your cat. I don’t care if you put a little shirt on him and made him ride around on a tricycle, I AM NOT AMUSED. It is simply not funny when you contort otherwise lovable pets into having human emotions and doing human things because you and the rest of the Ya-Ya sisterhood thinks it simply precious. Mrs. Kittypants isn’t thinking “weeeee, I’m in the circus!” She’s thinking “Get me off of this fucking tricycle so I can take my second late midmorning nap.

And enough with the animal movies. Penguins wouldn’t pay $10 to watch me go to great lengths to have frigid sex, and I don’t see why I should pay to watch them.  Especially the animated ones. If I have to hear one more bad animal related pun, I am going to hurt somebody. Fur sure.