World War Pee

Posted on by under BLOGS ARE DUMB, humor, Uncategorized

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I sometimes pee when I’m sleepwalking, but I’m not the only inappropriate pisser in my house. I’m not talking about my dog either. My wife uses urine as a weapon, not just on me, on strangers. One time we were drinking at The Woods. The bar takes its name seriously. The seats are stumps, there’s a mural of a forest behind the bar, and all of the paneling is – yeah, you fucking guessed it:

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The only redeeming quality is their happy hour. Hardly anyone goes to it, so you pretty much have the place to yourself. You just have to leave before the hipsters descend. The hipsters are assholes, and not ironically. They shove and sneer in their skinny jeans and skinny suspenders.

This particular night, we failed to vacate early. Some friends had come to meet us, and we were sitting on this long, communal booth against the wall. The hipsters kept squeezing in, and my wife kept getting nudged further and further away from our table. Twice Jess asked the girls to please stop pushing. She got dirty looks and eye rolls.

I suggested we leave, but our friends had just ordered new drinks, so I went to the bar and stood next to people who smelled like cigarettes and candy.

After about ten minutes, My wife ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and pulled me in. She whispered, “We have to go now.”

“Why?”

“I just… We need to.”

“What happened?”

“I…peed.”

“You what?!”

Her eyes were wild and giddy. “I peed on their purses.”

I looked down. Her skirt seemed dry. “I…don’t… You…?”

“Yes, and we have to go. Now.”

We walked out, turned the corner. I asked her to tell me what happened.

“They kept pushing. Kept pushing. Then they started tossing their purses in a big pile. Right next to me. Kept pushing. I said, ‘Please don’t. Please stop.’ And one of them looked me right in the eye and she pushed again. So I waited a couple of minutes…lifted my skirt, angled and…I PEED! ALL OVER THEIR STUPID FUCKING PURSES!”

History told me she was telling the truth.

Two years ago, we’d gone to a wedding in Palm Springs. We were just out of grad school and broke, so we couldn’t afford a hotel. We were planning on not drinking and driving back to L.A. after the ceremony, but are friends offered to put us up in their room and we were having fun. Then we had more fun, like eight glasses of fun. We caught up to the other drinkers and raced past them to buffoonery. Jess dropped her wine glass on the dance floor. I dropped mine next. Parents had to grab their kids so they wouldn’t cut themselves.

Luckily, the reception was winding down. We were told there was an after party a house someone had rented. One of my friends handed me directions on a piece of paper.

I shouldn’t have been driving, but I was told the house was only minutes away. Within a few blocks, we were lost. I was so drunk I couldn’t read the words on the piece of paper. Neither could my wife. I found a McDonald’s parking lot, drove in, and tried to pull it together.

After few minutes, I said, “Okay, give me the directions. I can do this.”

“No.”

“Jess, it’s fucking late. Just give them to me. I shouldn’t even be driving.”

“No, we don’t need them.”

“What are you talking about? We don’t know Palm Springs. We don’t live here. We don’t know where this house is, and I don’t want to get pulled over by the cops.”

“We don’t have the directions.”

“Yes, I just gave them to you. Now give them to me.”

“Fine!” She pulled out some soaking wet paper, the ink smeared and unreadable.

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“What the fuck is this?”

“I peed on it.” She sounded proud.

“What? Why – why would you pee on the directions?”

“I don’t know!”

“I-I-I don’t even know how to try and comprehend what’s happening here. Why did you pee on the directions?!”

“I put them under my leg so I wouldn’t lose them, and I must have forgotten when I peed.”

“Whyyyyyyy were you peeing in the car?!”

“I don’t know! Stop yelling! I’m sorry. I just started going and I couldn’t stop.”

Jess was crying. I felt bad.

She said, “What do we do now? I ruined everything.”

“No, it’s okay. We’re okay.” I had my cell phone. I could’ve called up my friends, but I no longer wanted to go. Jess was covered in pee. I was done driving. We simply crawled in the backseat. I covered her with my jacket and held her tight. I kissed the back of her head.

“You better not pee on me.”

What about you? Ever tinkled in public?

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/andy_burkholder/8207516333/”>Andy Burkholder</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeremybrooks/2260547281/”>Jeremy Brooks</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

My Wife Raced a Little Person

Posted on by under BLOGS ARE DUMB, humor, STUFF

I’ve been reading comments praising my wife. It’s completely deserved. She’s put up with my Viagra boner. She’s handled my depression. She’s also cleaned up my pee. Two people asked for “Team Jess” T-shirts. I’m seriously thinking about making them, but I’m lazy so I doubt I will.

She is awesome though.

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One night she raced a little person.

We’d been drinking at the Power House. It’s the kind of bar that only has PBR on tap. It’s located in the nasty neon heart of Hollywood and Highland, L.A.’s Times Square. There are souvenir stands, celebrity footprints, the Chinese Theater, Madame Tussauds, and The Gap. You’ll see people dressed up as characters from your favorite movies.

Tourists can have their picture taken with Spider Man, Captain Jack, or the Incredible Hulk.

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The people behind the masks are typically out-of-work actors trying to make a buck. They earn cash through tips.

Kids seem to love it.

Personally, I get annoyed. I have nothing against people trying to make a living, but these photo ops clog the already crowed sidewalks. I’ve seen people nudged into the street. I’m sure some have been hit by cars.

But it’s not all bad.

Jess and I live in the area. Sometimes we’ll see actors getting dressed on our street. They park near us because it’s free and it allows them to put on their garb without destroying the illusion. I’ve seen Wonder Woman stuffing her bra and Edward Scissorhands smoking a cigarette. It’s surreal seeing these iconic characters half-dressed. You’re visually deconstructing your heroes, stripping them down to sad humans beings.

The Power House offers this experience, as well, because after a shift, some of the actors stop by for a pint. I’ve thrown back drinks with Darth Vader and the Flash.

Chucky from Child’s Play is a regular.

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The actor is an African-American dwarf (I’m told by the Internet “dwarf” is acceptable. My apologies if it’s not.)

He’s almost always drunk.

My wife and I have bought Chucky a few drinks over the years. I’ve never learned his real name. I’m not sure want to. I like calling him Chucky. You see, he’s quite horrifying – not because of his diminished size or the rubber knife he wields, but because he’s an asshole. Not all the time, not when he’s sober. But after a few drinks, he starts talking shit. He’ll plunk down at your table and tell you to order him a beer. He knocks over glasses. He’s asked to fuck my wife more than once. I think it’s hilarious. Others don’t. Some want to punch him. They never would, because, well, he’s a little person. You can’t strike a dwarf without looking like a monster. And Chucky knows it. You should see his devilish grin when he backs a person into the wall. He gets off knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.

One night Chucky was going on and on about how fast he is on his Razor scooter.

“I’m like a fucking bullet.”

Jess said, “I think you’re full of shit.” She’d had a few too many. I should’ve taken us home, but frankly, I wanted to see where this was going. No one had ever challenged Chucky like this. He was getting pissed.

After a few more beers, we were suddenly on Hollywood Blvd.

Jess and Chucky were going to race.

I said, “On your mark…Get set…GO!”

They tore off through the throngs of tourists. Chucky took the lead. Jess’s high heels were slowing her down, but she found an empty pocket and cruised through. Chucky and Jess were neck and neck, and then, out of nowhere, Chucky toppled. Jess was at least three feet away, so there was no way she touched him, because she herself has little person arms.

But to everyone else, it looked like she’d just shoved a little black person, which, I’m fairly certain, is committing multiple hate crimes.

Someone said something about getting the cops.

Thinking quickly, I said, “RUN!”

We took off, turned down an alley. We didn’t stop until we were home, both of us out of breath.

“Did that…just happen?” I asked.

“Yeah…I totally won.”

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/lobraumeister/3981952479/”>Kevin McShane</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/ibtrav/1307285673/”&gt;ibtrav</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

Inappropriate Boners

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

I took a Viagra in Mexico. I didn’t need it. I just wanted it. My wife and I were on our honeymoon. I felt a little pressure – not from her; I’d just heard too many tales of twenty-four hour fuck-a-thons from buddies. Plus, we were staying at an all-inclusive, i.e., “all-you-can-drink” resort. I didn’t need to knock out my favorite appendage. I wanted this to be epic, meaning I needed to be able to do it in anywhere, at any time.

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See, usually, I have sex in bedrooms, sometimes the living room. I don’t have sex under waterfalls or on dirty sand or in public restrooms. I’m a germaphobe. I get grossed out and nervous, and when I’m nervous, my brain keeps all the blood.

But for this trip I didn’t want to be Regular Anthony. I wanted to be Super Anthony.

It wasn’t my wife’s idea. She didn’t need me to get hard while we went snorkeling, but I wanted the option. I wanted to give her an adventure, something she could fantasize about, even after I got old and fat.

I’m already on the downslope. I’m bipolar. My hair’s receding. I’ve gained weight. I get back pimples. Jess has put up with everything – the depression, mood swings, thoughts of suicide, and my sleepwalking. She’s cleaned up my pee.

I wanted to give her romance and a constantly erect penis.

Yes, I thought that was a good idea.

It was not.

There are sooooo many places where it’s inappropriate to have a boner, like the buffet or on a city bus or at the hotel swimming pool. There were children. There were grandparents doing water aerobics. I tried not to make eye contact. I just sipped my drink and faced the wall, elbows propped on the hot cement.

“Anthony, please go get us drinks.”

“Sorry. Can’t really move right now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrested.”

“What are you talking about?”

I had to come clean. I told her about the little blue pill, how I’d snuck into one of the Mexican pharmacies early that morning. They have absolutely no regulations.

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“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you…uh…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!”

“I just wanted this to be memorable.”

“Well, I’m definitely going to remember you having a boner with children in the pool.”

“Shut up, Jessica.”

“Well…can you…get it down?”

“I’m trying.” I was actually mashing it against the side of the pool, trying to push it back in like a wayward mattress spring. It hurt, not just the mashing, the erection. I’d never been this hard in my life. I’m not even sure how I had enough blood to speak. I was thankful the water was only four feet. Any deeper and I would’ve sunk. Some lifeguard would’ve had to give me mouth-to-mouth while the other guests stared at the tent in my trunks.

“So…are we just going to stay here all day in the pool?”

“No, just…” I decided to go under. I figured the lack of oxygen might send a little blood northward. I sat on the bottom of the pool with my boner. It was like a perverted version of The Graduate. Thankfully, it started to work. I could feel myself deflating. I also saw a little boy in goggles.

“Gooo awwwwaaay!” I screamed, waving one arm, while covering myself with the other.

Finally, he spun and swam to his father. The man’s legs were as big as my body, hairy too. I pictured the kid telling him what he’d seen. I pictured getting choked, those giant hands cutting off the blood to my brain and returning it down below, which would make the father snap my neck.

That image did the trick.

Boner gone.

But I didn’t know how long it would last. I hopped out. We ran for the room. My wife stripped off her bathing suit. The boner was back. We decided to use it. It was fantastic. I was an animal. I was a porn star.

We did it on the bed, against the wall. My wife made noises I’d never heard. It was glorious. For about an hour.

Then it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I need a break, Anthony.”

“Just…a…little longer.”

Harder, faster…must…finish…

“Please, I can’t. You’re like an angry jackhammer.”

I stopped. I apologized.

“It’s okay, Anthony, I just need a little…time.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

I locked the door and flogged myself for another ten minutes. Still, nothing. It was like a champagne bottle with a stuck cork.

I gave up. After awhile it went down. We went to the buffet. I had lobster, then dessert. I felt a stirring.

What the fuck? Am I turned on by cake?

I had to flee. Jess met me later in the room. We tried again, and after another exhausting session…finally…

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I was afraid a lung was going to shoot out, too.

Sadly and painfully, the next day wasn’t any better. We went snorkeling. I saw a group of jellyfish. I prayed one would sting me.

Finally, by the third day, I was back to Regular Anthony.

My wife couldn’t have been happier.

 

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/curtisperry/64142166/”>Curtis Gregory Perry</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/alanenglish/2824228526/”>Al_HikesAZ</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”&gt;photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

 

Stand-Up Videos

Posted on by under comedy, Uncategorized

Jenny Duptsi over at happinessisnotadisease.wordpress.com/ is a hilarious writer and human being. She said I should post links to some of my stand-up clips. So…I am. I apologize, some of the jokes are repeated on the clips. I didn’t edit them.

This next one is more of the full set with an intro by the host in front of a backdrop, which I can only assume was used in the movie Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

The Dangers of Sleeping Naked

Posted on by under family, humor, STUFF

I sleepwalk. I’ve been doing it since I was little. It’s scary and gross. When I was five my father found me in the kitchen squatting on the counter taking a shit. It was dripping onto the floor. My father thought I was possessed, that he’d have to have me committed. But I was just asleep, taking a dump.

I’ve pissed in hampers and hallways and in the corners of countless rooms.

I still do. My wife has found pee in our closet.

She rarely gets a full night’s sleep. She’s always waiting for me to pop up and move. She’s had to chase me down the hallway of our building. Twice I’ve been completely naked.

Some nights she hears me in the kitchen having a conversation with myself. I’ve eaten half a stick of butter, while mumbling, “Good cheese.”

My wife videotaped one of my adventures, made me watch it the next morning. It was me, but not me, more like a zombie. I gestured a few times and kept trying to find a butter knife for my mug of water. It was disturbing and sort of heartbreaking, watching myself functioning with no memory of it.

The worst was when I was eight or nine. I was at Boy Scout camp. It was some jamboree or jubilee or something. All I know is I woke up in someone else’s tent. I was in my tighty-whities and nothing else. Before you starting thinking I was molested, I was simply trying to get in some other kid’s cot. I kept saying, “Get out of my bed.” He kept saying, “Get out of my tent!” I told him it was my tent. He finally woke up his buddy and said, “Craig, ain’t this our tent?” And Craig said, “Yeah, see here’s my canteen.”

And so I left, wandered out into the darkness. I was scared and freezing. It took me almost an hour to find my tent. I’d wandered almost a mile in my sleep.

I’ve read some people drive cars. One guy claimed he was sleeping when he murdered his wife. There’s all sorts of crazy sleepwalking stories.

For me, it comes and goes. I won’t do it for months, and then, out of nowhere, my wife will be dragging me back into our apartment. “Get in here, no one wants to see your dick.”

I’ve thought about restraints, but I’m worried I’ll end up hurting myself trying to break free. I’m like a werewolf, only less hairy. I just hope I don’t try to shit in our hallway.

Have you ever sleepwalked. If so, what do you do?

Your Dream is Boring Me

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

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My wife likes to tell me her dreams the second she wakes up. It’s like listening to a drunk tell a story — weird, fragmented details combining into nothing. I used to try to figure it out. Now, I hardly listen. I just nod and think about what I’m going to have for breakfast. I wish I had more patience, but honestly, dreams are like poems. I’m happy you have one, but I don’t want to hear it.

Occasionally, there’s a Bukowski, Byron, or Frost.

My wife once told me she had a sex dream with Frasier Crane. He was going down on her on a cruise ship. I was sitting on the poop deck crying, and she kept giving me a “thumbs up.”

Then there’s my father-in-law. He had a dream he was riding on a flying toilet. He was soaring over New York. Everyone below was so happy. They cheered as he waved.

I don’t put stock into dreams. I don’t believe there’s some sort of hidden message. I think it’s just your brain fucking off. All day it has to process information, you know, to help you not die. There’s a car coming. Move! That pit bull isn’t waging his tail. It’s going to bite you. That lady keeps looking at your crotch. Does she like you? Or are you unzipped?

Finally, your dumbass falls asleep, and your brain gets to screw around. What if your father had a dick growing out of his head? Or…OR what if all your teeth fell out and we replaced them with acorns?

Sometimes you just stuffed your poor brain with too crap, like Twitter and chemistry and porn, and it’s simply shitting it out before the next day.

At best, your mind is fulfilling your sick, twisted fantasies, which you can’t actually do in real life, because you don’t want to go to jail for killing your boss or biting someone’s tit off.

Last night I dreamt I started smoking again. Ten months ago I quit. Recently, I’ve been having crazy cravings. Sometimes they last for an hour. My brain tells me, Don’t do it. You’re addicted. You’re going to be back to a pack a day. And I bitch and groan and tell my brain, I hate you. My brain calmly says, It’s going to pass. You’ll be okay.

But I know my brain wants a smoke, so later that night, after I fall asleep, he lights up and takes a drag.

My brain just wants to have a good time.

Have you ever had a fantasy-fulfilling dream? (Yes, I actually want to hear.)

Don’t Say, “Moist!”

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

My wife’s friend can’t stand the word “moist.” It makes her physically ill. Apparently, she’s not alone. There’s an article on slate.com about Why We Hate Certain Words and word aversion. In the article, George Saunders recounts a cousin’s disgust when he says, “moist,” during his readings. She admits she has no problem with other words, like “fuck.”

I think we all have trigger words. Certain letter combinations create unpleasant feelings in our mouth when we say them. The experience is nasty, so we avoid these words like some diseased rat.

For me, the word is “cunnilingus.” My mouth gets watery just thinking about it, and not in a good way. It’s like I’m going to puke, and it’s awful, because I like doing it! My wife likes it. Millions of women do. I’m sure my mom does. I’ll never ask her, but it’s a fair assumption. It’s a super-duper way to spend an evening. I wish I could say, “CUNNILINGUS FOR EVERYONE!” but I can’t without Pepto.

I’m not sure what it is. I think it’s the “-gus” tail. It makes me think of fungus.

That’s the only explanation. There’s no moral aversion to the act, and I’m fine with alternative phrases, like “eating pussy” or “chowing box,” which are, when you think about it, far more disturbing. “Eating” and “chowing” imply devouring a vagina. That’s WAAAAAAY worse than licking it, which is all cunnilingus is describing.

I’m feeling woozy. I have to stop.

What word(s) makes you feel like you’re going to hurl?

Ardent Atheist Tonight!

Posted on by under comedy, gay activism, humor, lgbt

I’m going to be on Ardent Atheist tonight at 7:30 PST. We’ll be talking about gay marriage, the Supreme Court, and probably my penis.

Watch and listen at:
www.ArdentAtheist.com/live
OR www.GoCastNetwork.com

The following folks will be in the studio:

Anthony Szpak – WATCH THIS CLIP

@MyGayMom

Bryan Erwin - http://www.bryanerwin.com/Bryan_Erwin.html @bryanerwin

AND

Adam Kaplan - http://www.ammoandpussy.com/

WATCH & CHAT right here:

www.ArdentAtheist.com/live
OR www.GoCastNetwork.com

Open Letter to the Angry Religious Guy

Posted on by under humor, Uncategorized

Dear Angry Religious Guy,

We’ve heard you yelling. We get it. We’re going to hell, you know, because we’re gay or we support gay marriage.

You, on the other hand, get to go to Heaven. We don’t, but it’s okay. Seriously, there are a lot of you, like a lot, a lot, and, well, you guys are pretty intense. So…we’re going to pass, but you guys should totally enjoy it. Really. No hard feelings.

We just have one question.

If you think Earth is overrun with gay stuff, you do realize you’re just going to be hanging out on clouds, everyone wearing short robes and pretty wings, just listening to little chubby boys strumming the harp?

Anyway, have fun and don’t suck any dicks. Really. Please. Don’t.

Sincerely,

People