boxers and church shoes

I'm writing this in my kitchen.
I am in my underwear.
I am in my kitchen in my underwear writing my writing.
I am also wearing shoes.
This is what it looks like.



Howard Stern plays on the radio behind me.
He keeps me company.
My penis is flacid...finally.

I read the news on the Internet.
The Bush Administration, the earthquake in China, Sex and the City - The Movie, The Lakers Beat the Spurs.
God hates me.

I'm sure he has his reasons.
If he doesn't, I can give him mine.
Or he can call my parents or any number of teachers that did their best with me.
There's my ex-wife, managers at jobs I showed up late and unmotivated for, brothers, sisters, therapists, Denny's waitresses, etc ad infinitum.

Did you know this?
I was a nervous child.
I went to Catholic school and in Catholic school you had to get permission from the nuns to use the bathroom.
Then they decided if you really needed to use the bathroom.

This made me even more nervous.
If the nuns wouldn't let me go, my human waste would end up in my pants.
There would be a wet stain and a smell.

If you shit your pants in grade school, you have two options: drop out or kill yourself.
So I had my mom write a note that I gave to the teacher on the first day of school every year.
It said, "Nick can go to the bathroom anytime he wants."

It sounds like she is bragging, doesn't it?
"Dear Sister Mary, my son Nick has an incredible talent. He can go to the bathroom anytime he wants! If you find extra time at the end of the day, you should have him show you. It is incredible."

Of course what she meant was that I was to be allowed to leave class and use the restroom regardless of time or place.
This worked.
The teachers let me go anytime the urge hit me.

However one time when I was caddying for a rich doctor on the golf course (14 years of age) and several times while drinking (14, 15, 16, and 18 years of age) I did mess myself.
But luckily no one knows because I wasn't in school.

my friend

I want to have sex with a woman.

(minutes pass)

It's not working.

"Dear God, send a hot woman for me to have sex with."

(more time passes)

Still nothing.

"Hello, Satan, it's me, Nick Griffin. Yes, I realize it has been weeks since we last chatted. But I really want to have sex with a woman and I know that you know a few that are, shall we say "morally compromised. So cough one up, pointy head. or I'm going to throw in with the Lord."

(a dingo howls. the wind blows.)

"President Bush, you are a dummy. I hate you and your stupid dopey white guy nervous superiority. I hate your fake love of God and baseball and wearing shirts in your off time that are supposed to make you appear like a regular person. But If you get me a cool woman that will make sweet sex with me, I will vote for you come September and not talk bad of you to my friend Satan."

(one minute goes by)

"Dear, Satan. President George W. Bush told me he saw you in the bus station blowing a guy."

The room suddenly gets hotter.And I projectile vomit green goo but, alas, no girl.

"Oprah, this is the first time I have ever written a letter like this. But something has come to my attention that I think you might be interested in - my erection. Like the troubles in Darfur, this is a problem that is not going to go away soon. But if everyone does their part we can at least ease the pain of those most in need - my erection."

My phone does not ring. My email sits vacant.

"Alright, penis. I have some bad news."

Butts

I am smoking again.
I know. I know.
It's not good for me.
If it makes you feel any better, I don't enjoy it.
I'll stop, just not sure when.
Why do I do it?
It's the best my brain can come up with.
Women hate it.
But when I stop smoking I cry.
And that's not exactly a turn on to the ladies either.
My goal is to some day cry while I am smoking.
What makes me feel better?
Ice cream.
A new joke.
A naked lady.
A good horror movie.
Yeah. I am a real classy guy.
I tried to follow the political campaigns but they are so gay.
"I am better than him."
"She's a doody head."
"I think God is so cool."
Ugh.
Sometimes I pretend like I have political views so people will pay attention to me.
Then they hear what I have to say and they think I am a dummy.
Mission accomplished.
I walk around a lot.
I drink water and coffee.
I shoot urine out of my weiner.
I eat pizza and burritos.
I stay up late.
I listen to the radio.
I am reading a book. The Easy Way To Stop Smoking.
It's taking forever.
I sleep in a bed in a small room.
i get up in the middle of the night and shoot more urine out of my weiner and when I am up I go to the window and smoke a cigarette and I think I shouldn't be doing this and then I don't enjoy it and I resent myself for doing it anyway.
Then I smash the butt in the ice cream lid i use for an ash tray and I go back to bed.
Sometimes I stop in the living room and write down an idea for a joke or a screenplay.
it usually doesn't work.
But sometimes it does and when it does I feel better for a while.

Always

that's me with drew hastings.

No one said life would be easy.
Well my parents kind of implied it when they told me about an Easter Bunny, a Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I mean that is not exactly a warning of things to come.
So you're mad at your parents because they didn't tell you how fucked up life can get?
No. I just thought it would be easier.
You're a dummy.
I know. And that's because I ignored what smart people were telling me when I was a kid. I thought it would be more fun to drink beer and masturbate and sulk. And it was! Sometimes I would do all three in one night. It's been downhill ever since.
But still...
Yeah. I definitely fucked up.
But you're doing okay. Right?
I just wish I were smarter and more confident in my beliefs.
Which beliefs are those?
It doesn't matter.
What is the best advice you ever got?
Always wear a condom.
What do you think is the most common mistake that people make?
They don't wear a condom.
But if your dad wore a condom, you wouldn't be here right now.
Exactly. And I wouldn't be suffering through the worst blog I ever wrote.
It is pretty bad.
I'm in a bad place with my writing. Stuck. Blocked. Constipated. You get the point.
I do and it is exceedingly unfunny.
Penis. Vagina. Shit.
What are you doing?
Sometimes people find dirty words funny. Ass. Balls. Fuck. Doody.
It's not working.
Fart. Beaver. Testicles.
This is pathetic.
Plus, I'm running out of dirty words. Uterus. Dick. Bottom.
I'm leaving.
Scrotum. Nipple. Vulva. Wiener.

Blazing Saddles

You are forty-one soon.
That is true. In three days.
Comment?
I will be forty-one on December 23 and that sure is something.
Does it bother you?
I suppose but so many things bother me that it gets lost in the pile.
The bother pile?
That's right, which is right next to my poopoo undie pile.
The good news: I found out I like craisins.
Craisins? That's a dried cranberry snack, right?
Oh yeah. You nailed it. "A dried cranbery snack". And the beatles were a "musical band." And having peepee relations with a hot sexy woman is "pleasant."
You dumbass. Craisins rule!
I stand corrected.
You stand dumb and fatass smelly.
What does that mean?
I don't know. I lash out when I am angry.
What are you angry about?
Vagina! Penis! Shit!
Let's change topics. What have you been doing lately?
Same old stuff. Although I did walk the picket line the other day.
What picket line is that?
I'm in the writers guild, you shithead. We're on strike. Don't you know anything?
How did you get in the writers guild?
I wrote for the Keenen Ivory Wayans Show one billion years ago. Only dinosaurs and Jesus watched it. That guy watches everything. I also wrote a pilot for ABC that didn't get shot.
Wow, you are a real success. What was the picket line like?
It was like any other kind of line except we were holding pickets and cups of coffee and gobs of envy and resentment. There were some famous people there walking with us. Mariska Hargitay. Chris Noth. Bylthe Danner. Eric Bogosian. I talked to the guy who co-wrote Blazing Saddles, Norman Steinberg. He is still funny.
I also saw my friend Mary Birdsong. She is in the above photo in her Reno 911 outfit. She is debatably one of the three most talented people I know.
She will be on Broadway in Hairspray soon.
I will go watch her.
Can I go?
With me?
Well, yeah.
You're not going to try anything queer are you?
I doubt it. What do you consider queer?
The normal stuff. Two men. Penis in bottom. Penis in mouth. Penis in hand. Hugging. Kissing.
I can't imagine why I would do any of those things.
You can't imagine? Or you definitely will not do any of those things?
I definitely will not do any of those things.
Because I don't want to embarrass Mary.
So you would be into those things if Mary wouldn't see you?
No!
Just asking.
Stop asking. It's a closed topic.
Anything else?
Regarding?
Anything.
Anything else regarding anything? What kind of interview is this?
A shitty one. I'm no good at this.
Slow down. What's wrong?
My mom caught me masturbating.
You have a mom? But you're a voice that lives in my head.
Wrong. I'm a voice that lives at his mom's house which is in your head.

Again

Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I was stuck in an airport.
Again.

I was sleeping on the ground in the corner because I had a layover.
I woke up.

Here is what came to mind:
"Wow. it's Thanksgiving and I'm sleeping on the ground in an airport. Maybe I should run on to the tarmac and jump into a jet engine."

But I stopped myself. "Perhaps that attractive woman looking at magazines near the kiosk will come over and have sex with me."

Then some guy steps up and kisses her on the cheek. Bastard. Look at him. All showered and sweatered and holding Fortune magazine.

Man, I need some hope. I look for it in the face of a young boy two rows away. He catches me and bellows out, "Mommy, that creepy guy is staring at me."

His mom is the attractive lady I was looking at ten seconds ago. Now she whispers something to her sweatered lover.

He puts his arm around her, pulls his son close and gives me that, "Why don't you just kill yourself, you creepy airport-sleeping motherfucker?" look.

Oh go play golf, you maincure-getting, comfortable-shoe-wearing dope.

I check my phone, see who called. Nobody. Hmmm. Okay.
I take out my notebook, work on material.

She says, "You're just afraid of your feelings." Of course I'm afraid of my feelings. Who am I? Michael Bolton. I don't know what to do with feelings. That's why beer was invented. So we didn't have to feel."

I peek over at the happy family. Now Dad is dozing. The kid is picking his nose. Mom is eyeballs-deep in OK magazine, wishing she was rich(er) and young(er) but not as lonely even though she has a kid and a husband and friends she shops with almost every day.

She truly believes if she had better tits and was banging George Clooney, she'd have peace. Maybe she is right.

I'll get a cup of coffee. That will help. Yeah. Then I'll be jumpy and have to urinate. Perfect. There is always action in the men's bathroom. "Hello, Congressman. Is that your shoe or are you just glad to see me?"

God, I hope my shows go well this week. I need my shoes to go well this this week. I have another two flights Monday morning. Two more airports. Lots of jet engines.

Brad Pitt

Anyway, I am in Omaha this week performing stand up comedy. Earlier I went to the lobby and treated myself to a Granola bar and a weak cup of coffee.

I thought of a good quote for my tombstone.

Life - it was all so embarrassing and no one knew what they were doing.

There's a new movie out, The Assasination of Jesse James.
It stars Brad Pitt.
They say he might get an Academy Award nomination for his performance.

Bradd Pitt has been a major movie star for well over a decade, not to mention very very rich. He has banged scores and scores of world class, sexually dynamic women. And after getting all he could out of Jennifer Aniston, he now uses his man part on admitted bisexual Angeline Jolie.

And he might win an Oscar?? Who did Satan fuck to create this guy? Oprah? No one has a life like that. No one. He could have painful stomach cancer and boils covering his entire face every day for the next five years and still have had more good fortune than 99.9% of the world since time began.

Brad Pitt didn't hit the lottery. He runs it. God calls him for advice and Brad tells him to call back, because he is busy having sex with his Oscar winning girlfriend. How does he live with himself?

They say Brad Pitt campaigns for good causes, that he does things to help save the earth. Of course he is trying to save the earth! The earth loves him. If the world dies, his sexual and financial gravy train ends.

If the world ends tomorrow I get out of thousands of dollars of credit card debt and a two-decade-long depression.

People will tell you, "Famous people have problems too." And I tell them shut the fuck up. I realize they have problems. But their lives are so out of sync with what they deserve. It's not their fault. They got lucky. It's just irritating.

Why so much to so few? Why so little to so many? Why Ben Affleck? Why Rebecca Romain? Why Julia Roberts? Why Bon Jovi? Why Tim McGraw? Why George W. Bush? Why Sheryl Crow? Why Brad Pitt? Why do I care?

It just seems like the people who won in high school are still winning. They always win. Winners win.

Losers mostly lose. Some losers have done okay. The Ramones. Jake LaMotta. Frederick Exley. Ulysses S. Grant. Howard Stern. Quentin Tarantino.

But most days it is not enough.

That's why beer is so popular. It makes everything okay in a person's mind. After a couple beers Brad isn't some grown up frat guy with a supermodel wife. He's that dude who was in Seven.

Maybe I am just jealous. No. I'm definitely jealous. Jealous and horny and broke. And angry. And other stuff that Brad Pitt isn't. It is all so embarassing.