A Serious Sandwich

A sandwich that speaks with authority...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 3

Be Logical and Empirical

The Homeless Academy

You're Totally Fucked!

Yes, you are Totally Fucked! You never saw the layoff coming, did you? Perhaps, you thought you were indispensable to your firm. If anything happened you could avoid the streets by falling back on your degree and highly marketable skill set. Hell, if the bottom dropped out, you could stay on top because you were you. Now, who are you?

Homelessness was something that happened to other people, in other places, dirty places that reeked of urine and Brute aftershave. A guy like you doesn't frequent places like that, unless you were scoring some coke and a discount hooker. The "Old Blow and Blow Combo" as you called it back then. One day, you made the big time and you didn't have to pay for your cocaine or your escorts anymore. Now, you recognize that shit was all on loan because you can't afford either. Don't worry about sex.... You're Totally Fucked!

You always figured, if all else failed, you could count on some miraculous act of a benevolent God. Right! (As if He owed YOU something.) Surely, all those times you fell asleep in church but still ponied up the twenty bucks would afford you a reprieve, a plea bargain, or maybe a voucher...something. But, no, this is the coup de grâce in a long line of miscalculations which landed you at your final destination. You have arrived... You're Totally Fucked!

Pass On The Penetration!

There's no way you want to be the bottom man in this giant ass raping pile, do you? Well, do you? Fuck no! So, put some taxpayer ass under your flesh torpedo and fire one. 

Now, is the time to accumulate massive amounts of student loan debt, which you have no intentions of repaying... because you will never be able to afford the fucking payments! They're HUGE!

By taking the initiative to fill out a few hundred forms, you'll be improving our balance sheet, committing perjury, AND you'll be getting some paybacks for the screwing you took in the 2008 Credit Crisis.

It's always some poor dumb schmuck, like you, who gets their chocolate starfish ravaged, but this time it will be different! You will have something to be proud of rather than a case of profuse rectal hemorrhaging. You will have to your credit an unaccredited degree from The Homeless Academy.
But wait there's more... You'll have your diploma scrawled on a dirty McDonald's napkin and you'll have some other poor bastards blood on your shank when he pays for those defaulted student loans you so recklessly took on! Now, that's paying it forward to somebody else in arrears!

It's a thing of ugly!

Mom will be Proud!

You're mother always knew that you would amount to nothing, and now she can be proud of how insightful she was and what a dumbfuck you are. It's all okay, it's for a good cause: You are living proof that survival of a species by natural selection has nothing to do with being the fittest. Life isn't fair because once in a while even the dumbest sperm makes it the egg first, and that's you. The miracle child who beat the other million or so sperm just in time to be a failure. That's rare!

Thankfully.

Look Ahead, You're Far Behind

Welcome to the dynamic, exciting, and life-threatening world of Homelessness, Vagrancy, Applied Theoretical Recreational Chemistry, and Allied Social Ills. We are certain that you have chosen the "mold standard" of poison ivy league academia. Not only will you be studying bleeding ledge technology from the privacy and comfort of your own public library or pirated WiFi signal, but you can cruise the porn of your preference by opening a second browser and minimizing it when that bitch librarian walks behind you in spite of your potent, pervasive, punishing social interaction shield odor you have in-stink-tively developed.

While some asshole though he was being cute when he said,

Here at The Homeless Academy, we say,

Now, that's wizz of wordom, that you can pee on, you peon! With credentials from The Homeless Academy, you're on the road to being on the streets.

Homelessness is Green

President Obama promised you a Green economy and he delivered with punitive credit terms. While the old economy (jobs) are turning Green with decay due to over fifty years of asinine government central planning, Soviet-style top down policies, misguided regulations, draconian bureaucrats, and under performing public schools… Now, you're living in a public park! That's fucking Green! 

Imagine The Homeless Academy as the dilapidated bathroom stall where you can expectorate your Green delusions. (Don’t try to use real imagination, just keep mumbling along with me.) We're all familiar with that "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" horse shit. Fucking annoying, isn’t it? So, here at The Homeless Academy we realized in a recent drug induced psychosis that those three “R” words ain't half of the Green story babble. We have enhanced the meaning of Green by adding many more "R" words to that worn out tree-fuckers mantra…

• Relapse
• Re-fry
• Regurgitate
• Ripoff
• Rats...(Millions of huge fucking rats!)
• Re-offend
• Re-sentence
• Restitution
• Recover
• Repeat

That's ten "R" words Redefined (Make that eleven!) for the Green Revolution (an even dozen, my niggas!) You can almost hallucinate the planet healing in our homeless hands if you've got good shit. 

Truth be known, we're just fucking things up in new, why-are-less, immersive, sustainable (wink) ways than just about everyone else who came before us on the dead end timeline. Don't feel bad, they thought they were doing good stuff, too. But they were wrong, and so are we... but we're all turning Green and Green means go to The Homeless Academy ! Time is running out faster than your latest crop of exs.

We got Free Cell Phones, Bitches!

The citizens have spoken and the Feds immediately kowtowed to the fastest growing demographic group that can swing votes in the next election: Single Moms! They are all broke (just like you) and need to call their dealer (just like you) to get a fist full of Xanax (just like you). See, we can all relate to the pain and hardship of single moms, can't we?

So, you better get on the fucking free Obama phone and get me some fucking Xanies right fucking now, mother fucker, or I'm gonna call the cops and tell them you hit me! Oh, and change the baby. I'm watching Full House.

Yes, We Can… all relate. Can't we?

Technology Means Abusing Anti-Anxiety Meds

In the past, Homelessness lagged behind other career paths like Biotechnology, Engineering, TV/VCR repair, Druids, and even a goddamn psychologist made $15.50 an hour. That was making bank compared to us! Well, I’m here to tell you, “That was then, and this is the same shit later.” In the digital revolution, Homelessness was merging onto a bristling new superhighway in an under-powered dumpster, an under-powered dumpster with a drunk driver behind the wheel. Fuck! There is no steering wheel! We’re all gonna fucking die! The crack cloud in the… the ah... wherever it is… Look, the upside is the dumpster is Green!

Sure, we were drunk but it's not our fault! That is the beauty of being irresponsible, we're not responsible! Besides, that damn dumpster should have been recalled. There were no cup holders. 

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah, we got free cell phones...

In the archaic past, we of the ex-domiciled persuasion couldn't afford cell phones due to all their inherent problems like; costing money, credit restrictions, and needing a home address for a plan. As if things couldn't get worse, the bone headed policymakers removed all the pay phones to stop drug deals, which worked for about 24 hours. I guess nobody in their multi-million dollar study panel explained to the bonehead policymakers that drug dealers CAN afford cell phones. Single moms can't! That's the inequality in the system! So, fix it boneheads or I'm gonna call the cops and tell them you hit me! Oh, and change the baby. I'm watching Full House.

Well, all that has changed now since the same boneheaded policymakers are giving us free cell phones and passing the costs on to the taxpayers (suckers!). That lowers the average transaction cost for narcotics by up to $744.00!¹

Horrible, wasn't it? Now, with change you can believe in, the Homeless man has been reconnected with his beloved drug dealer so he can stay out of jail this weekend while single mom is passed out in the bathroom as her precious toddler is cooing happily while setting the whole fucking house on fire! What the fuck baby?! You woke mommy up!

Hey, now she's Homeless, too. See, we can all relate to the pain and hardship of single moms, can't we?

[1] Assumes a typical 328 calls per drug transaction to "remind" the "dealer" to hurry. Yet, said "dealer" wasn't coming at all because "dealer" knows "single mom's" broke ass doesn't have any money until the fifth when she gets her child support check. So, stop calling, bitch! I'm watching Full House.

World Reviled Academics

Serious credentials require more than just an extensive criminal record and lengthy periods of incarceration, there is the commitment to maintaining a renown drug habit and the ability to show up for a job. That takes a uniquely dedicated and mythical recidivist, a hustle innovator who you won't find anywhere but asking for spare change at the finest adult bookstores and/or defiantly violating camping laws to building prolific trespass portfolios. Our scholars Consistently Consist of Consistent Consistency. (Yup, we made that last part up ourselves.)

So, without further oral gratification It's time to meet and be personally pan-handled by our World Reviled Academics found loitering around or squatting in The Homeless Academy campus buildings. Let's move along since these geni have a deadline to meet before they have to Fail to Appear for their sentencing this afternoon. After all, keeping current on continuing un-education is as overrated as everything else in “mudearn” America and this is what makes…

Graduate classes offered by Best Bum Practices

If and when they get out of fucking bed.

Not today, though. Definitely, not today.

This is a parody, but homelessness is no joke. Don’t get me wrong, there are some funny parts but they are funny for other people. Not you because you’re hungry, freezing, tired, broke, and hated for existing anywhere you are and everywhere go. If you would like to help someone trapped in this reality/finality, there are real people who need real help that can only come through real relationships with real people like you. 

Relationships are how people help other people. Programs are what machines like bureaucracies perform for their own functions (Like making itself bigger.) 

In difficult times, such as these, when our government fails to do what is right, it falls to us. Rather than wasting our time, energy, resources, and our precious patience performing political theater and arguing about WHO is right, it falls to us to DO what is right.

Please visit my other blog

Homeless University

There is nothing down here.

Dude, the bro sure ended back up there.





Way back in the other direction.

What the fuck! Are you fucking gay or some shit? Quit following me.

Unless you got some shit.

Do you?

I’ll pay you back when I get paid for this bro sure I just did... 




or you wanna trade for an Active X plug-in?

Hair Club for Savages - Style 2

Welcome to Mikey's Broken Brain

Hair Club for Savages - Style 1

Welcome to Mikey's Broken Brain

Wisdom of the Prophet Book 5

Another heaping helping of mumblings from the ether...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 2

Be an Insensitive Workaholic

Broken Brain Gallery Tour

A few classics from the Broken Brain Gallery & Garbage Scow...

Ours Together

There is something I should share with you...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 1

Be Childlike and Irresponsible

Note to Reader: Please pay attention because I'm only going to write this once.

I began my typical Saturday morning like any other 35 year old married man, by sneaking past the kids’ room with the blankets. The blankets I had delicately removed from the bed where my naked wife still slept. I've found that wearing these blankets over my head while I creep past the kids’ open door makes effective camouflage. I’m just laundry passing by on its way to the washing machine rather than daddy on his way to gracelessly maintain a slightly controlled fall down just enough steps to make me wonder if its a break or a bruise? Choking back profanity within primal, guttural syllables is automatic now with the kids around. The gruntings punctuated with rapid audible inhales aren't nearly as analgesic as a "Mother f#(ker!" would feel, but at least their automatic.

Triage complete, I resumed my foray towards the living room with only one waypoint in between. I veer left into the kitchen for some breakfast juice: vodka and raspberry lemonade. This cocktail is well renown as the pantie removing solution which I applied heavily liberally the night before. Breakfast is the most important drink of the morning, I remind myself as I spill half the tumbler down my forearm in an overly boisterous breakfast toast, or toast to beakfast. Now, it was time to get on about my productive day.

Snuggling down in front of the television with only minor protestation from my ankle, I quickly change the channel from the ceaseless, senseless high-pitched squealing of Nick, Jr. to the delightful, rejuvenating, and comprehensible violence of classic cartoons.  

Speed Racer, Bugs Bunny, and my all time hero, Roadrunner fill me with a sense of completion mixed with the much coveted sensation of getting away with something I should absolutely not be doing as a thirty-five year old married man and father of two easily beguiled children.

Huddled in my goose down feather-filled command post/sniper's nest, after the third reloading of the breakfast juice, I was really digging life in general. This was a wondrous, peaceful place in a serene world with the therapeutic effects of comprehensible classic cartoon violence permeating my essence. Nirvana, without all the extra arms, I imagine.


Then, a tiny white fluffy seal pup is staring me in the face. He looks so uncoordinated and goofy, why he’s just like me. He looks happy, just like me. The camera pans back to include some flannel wearing distant relation of Leif Erickson about to bludgeon my new fluff wearing friend with a baseball bat. What the fuck?

Paradise lost, the horrific imagery destroyed all the accrued joy that rocket propelled roller-skates could provide. This was real violence, incomprehensible violence, and the seal pup couldn’t even utter a “Meep-Meep” and escape at mind boggling speed. What the fuck! The nubile blonde woman with the pert breasts who immediately follows this nightmarish scene begins babbling about some $9.00 a month solution. What the fuck?? (Nice tits.) What the fuck!! My alcohol (over) enhanced sense of moral outrage leads to... (really nice tits) immediate action... Defense! A murmur from my son upstairs reminds me that my moral outrage should be limited to the silent variety. 

What to do? Carpet bomb Norway? Petition the UN to take Bjork or some other high value lefse munching, lutefisk slurping, seal pup smashing target hostage? Embargo the Finns from exporting unpronounceable names? There had to be more that I could do, in addition to sending $9.00 a month to a nubile blonde woman with remarkably outstanding cleavage. These poor, white, fluffy, uncoordinated creatures were bereft of a means of defense. My alcohol lubricated neurons fired into a brilliant Bacardi 151 blue flame... Fangs! That was it, fucking fangs. Nothing could menace a club toting, seal pup mauling, longboat rowing Norseman like a pair of seven-inch, razor sharp canines... with micro-serration.

Like any good seal fang fabrication technician, of which I am the only one, I needed a design. I was properly motivated and adequately inspired as I beamed down at the prototype sketched in purple crayon on a torn Pampers box a scant four minutes later. It was crude, but workable, but mostly crude, very nearly incomprehensible, but workable.

By my fifth revision on the vodka raspberry lemonade the same drawing looked fucking awesome! I was a goddamn seal pup dental Di Vinci. May I point out that I am the only one of those too. It was time to move from the Renaissance into the Age of Technology with the wonders of Adobe Photoshop 5.0. Just a few clicks of the mouse later, conservatively numbered in thousands, my masterpiece was complete. I was satisfied that I had done something positive for Mother Nature and scored points with Miss Cleavage 1999, the fit-titted PETA spokes-chicky all before 8:00 AM.

I settled into a well deserved C₂H₆O meditative state. As I watched Speedracer go, go Speedracer go, I heard the pitter-patter, skid, and pitter-patter of footie panamas approaching. In the doorway appeared a sleepy eyed boy of five... OK, five and a half. His bossy baby sister of three peeked around his shoulder. Robert was content to nestle himself into my lap with over emphasized crash sound that he loved to make and stared out the window. Sierra was having none of that, and apparently none of this, or anything else either. I tried to coax her into my available side.

Nope.

"What baby girl?” I desperately searched her scowling face for some clue. 

Silence surrounded her increasingly stern look of dissatisfaction. Remembering that she was a "show me girl" rather than a "tell me girl" in the morning, I moved Robert aside, stood, and took her hand. She lead me a few steps and then in a surprising burst of speed circled back and sat directly on Robert’s head. Robert protested and struggled to get his petulant sister off of him. This kind of antic was how Sierra typically started her day. The minor melee ended in a victorious big brother dealing out a harsh walking away to the toy box. Sierra defeated, claimed my goose down feather-filled command nest and evicted her brother simultaneously.

Robert pulled out trucks and cars from the toy box and began vvvvroooming them around the living room carpet. I retired to my desktop computer and ink jetted fanged seal creation into 8½” x 11” life. After cutting eye slots and a bit of girding with tape and string, I donned the fanged seal helm over my face. Perfect. I felt much safer and far more attractive. I sat at my desk waiting for the kids to notice. Minutes passed.

Long, slowing minutes passed.  

Creeping, agonizing minutes dragged by me like crippled slugs.

Any minute now, at least one of the kids would look up and see me.

Any minute. 

Any fricken’ minute.

Fine.... I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

I tapped the desk.

Nothing. 

I slammed a drawer. Sierra started crying, then collapsed face forward into her goose down feather-filled princess flower something. Robert ran to her and soothingly said, "See-air-wah, don't cry. It's A-Kay. It's A-kay." I stood up and came to her aid, as well.  Robert and I calmed and cooed Sierra, who continued to sob miserably into the pile of goose down feather-filled flying flower whatever.  Try as I might, Robert would not look my way. He focused on the blubbering baby sister and I was too, kind of. Then, Robert caught a glimpse of my fanged masterpiece's awesomeness and was instantly terrified by the menacing sight. Robert reflexively trembled in hysterical laughter. He laughed, I laughed, and Sierra sobbed less intently. Finally, she couldn't resist looking any longer. She was transfixed in dread and roared her approval, "Rrrrrarrr!" The sound she imagined anything with fangs would make. The living room exploded in fear driven, pull-ups wetting, raucous laughter.

Laughter, that ended quickly when the deafening snarls of the angry mommy dragon echoed through the room, ”What the hell... (mumble, mumble)... knock it off... (more irate, indecipherable syllables)... Where’s the Goddamn blanket?"

This was the real test... Fanged Baby Seal vs. Angry Mommy Dragon.

The kids fell silent and looked anxiously up the stairs where the profanity spewing dragon would emerge from her lair. I crept silently into a good ambush position behind the wall. As the Dragon sleepily, but menacingly, shuffled into the living room, I pounced. The flash of seven-inch micro-serrated baby seal fangs ripped through the suspense filled air with a defiant "Grrrrr!" The sound that I imagined anything with fangs would make. At once, the Angry Mommy Dragon was startled into annoyance and mortally unimpressed. Given the opportunity, she would have surely sat directly on my head. Like mother, like daughter.

                                 

Alas, my first milestone in defensive seal physiology technology had ended in an abject failure, a glorious but abject failure. If fangs could only entertain small children and annoy an angry young mommy dragon, what chance could it stand against a Marmot wearing, snowshoe treading, seal clubbing Viking son of a bitch?

Back to the drinking drawing board.