"Which Ad Experience Do You Prefer?"

Yesterday I hit up Hulu to watch 30 Rock, and before the program started I was given three choices of advertisements to watch. I seldom pay these any mind; I don't really give a shit about what Toyota commercial I have to sit through. I don't know how many times I click "no" when I am asked if a car commercial is relevant to me, and yet that oh-so-brilliant Ad Tailor still gives me ads for automobiles. Most of the ads on Hulu I find irrelevant, but sometimes I lie and click "yes" because I'm afraid if people don't click "yes" at least some of the time or don't click anything at all Hulu will stop being free. It's already starting to go that way with Hulu Plus, certain shows are only available through that service, and at $8 a month or whatever it's far cheaper than cable (and with less ads), it's a trend I'm not liking. Speaking of ridiculousness, I was watching The Daily Show on Comedy Central and the commercial breaks were two to three minutes long. Really?! That's some bullshit right there. When I want to watch free television on guakbot, I don't want to suffer through the same amount of commercial breaks as if I was watching it on an actual television. Fucking lame.

To get to the point of this world wide web log post, I was given the choice of "Free Popcorn," "Fred Willard," or "Quick File." Fred Willard! If given any choices that include Fred Willard I will go with Fred just about every single goddamn time. A choice between Fred Willard and fellatio might be the sole exception. I get excited every time this amazingly funny man gets some work. Even if it is working for Turbo Tax, which I have no interest in. I still clicked "yes" though.

Sunday Night, Clark and Danforth

Sunday. 9:45pm. I had no cigarettes and Vespucci's closed in fifteen minutes. It was do or die time: do I slap on a nicotine patch or do I buy smokes. Of course I was an idiot and decided I needed tobacco. I put on my coat and sneakers (and pants) and barely made it by five minutes. As soon as I exited the shop there were two drunk gangbanger wannabes walking by. One of them asked "hey, got a cigarette?" I looked down at the full unopened pack. Then I looked up at him and replied "none that I can spare." Lately it seems I can't be out of my apartment five minutes without someone trying to bum money or cigarettes off of me, and it annoys me to no end. As a matter of principle I said no. I found myself walking with them, one in front of me, the other to my left. They both called me homosexual epithets. One said "you can't spare a cigarette? Maybe I can't spare your life." The other called me a "punk-ass nigga" and then noticed my orange Vans and mistook them for jail-issued sneakers. He remarked how I just got out of county and how could I not spare a smoke? When we got to the intersection of Clark and Gray I banged a right onto Gray once it was obvious the young thuglings were continuing down Clark. I really wanted to laugh, which is usually how I react to bullshit bravado, but I didn't. I also wanted to say the following things, but I, probably wisely, decided to keep to myself:
- If you're trying to mooch shit off from other people, particularly strangers, I'm not the punk-ass.
- I couldn't care less about your sexual orientation, but if you're eying my footwear so closely you can tell the color on a dimly lit street, it might not be me who's the "fag."
- If I did just get out of jail, then there's a real possibility I just spent the last of my money on cigarettes so I really can't afford to spare any.
- Jail-issued sneakers don't have laces, poseur.

Love At First Bite

Love At First Bite

three in a series of Mad Libs

They say the way to a man's heart is through his carotid artery. Try cooking this lilliputian meal full of aphrodisiacs, and you're sure to have him waterboarding for more!
- Start with ironclad oysters on the half opiate.
- Serve a pearl necklace of your favorite champagne. A glass or fourteen (?) will relax him and stimulate his Vietnamese pot-bellied pig.
- Cook lobster and serve with drawn drool. For a side dish, try stalks of sloppy asparagus.
- For dessert, dip fresh Rocky Mountain oysters  in a sullen chocolate sauce.
- Finish the meal with a tainted cup of painstakingly rich cappuccino. The caffeine should give him a buzz that will last all fish hook long!

Breakfast In Bed

Breakfast In Bed

two in a series of Mad Libs

Every man loves to be surprised with breakfast in barnacle. Here's a romantic recipe for schizophrenic pancakes that will appeal to your guy's taste rotary phones and make his cuticle water. First, pout the batter into a mold that is in the shape of an inner thigh. Add chocolate dank nuggets and garnish with ripe, red ninja masks. Serve with a generous helping of ragamuffin. Put everything on a tray and present it to him with a copy of the morning proctoscope and a toxic rose. After he's done fellating, give him an Achilles tendon message. It's a butt-ugly way to start the day. And who knows? He may just decide that he doesn't want to get out of his Windsor knot after all. In fact, he may have a whimsical surprise for you as well!

What A Girl Wants

What A Girl Wants

one in a series of Mad Libs

Do you have a far-fetched fantasy about the perfect Valentine's Day? Drop some hints to your special Chinese finger trap to make your brass knuckles come true! For example:

- If you want him to send you a bouquet of bran muffins mention that your best friend received a dozen red cosmonauts from her fucked up other.
- Tell him your northeasterly job has you working morning, noon, and colostomy bag, and you're superfluously exhausted. He may surprise you with an ostentatious weekend getaway.
- Moan about your sore solar plexus and plant a bottle of massage molten lava by the bedside.

If he's still not getting the hint, send yourself a bouquet of fragrant dong knockers and make him think they're from another stool sample. He'll be so jealous, you'll receive a really great cream filling!

My VD

My Valentine's Day was spent just like almost every other Monday: waking up, lounging around for a few hours at Fort Awesome, and then driving Black Betty for ten hours for money. It was good money for a Monday. Nothing out of the ordinary to report save for one ride: I drove a man and his lucky lady to the Denny's on Brighton Avenue. You grab a hold of that one tightly, ma'am, and don't let go!

My Dawgs and Piggies

My boots are heavy and clunky. My brown work boots are sturdy, warm, waterproof, and, at least to me, aesthetically pleasing. Everything I want in a winter boot. Except for comfort. They're fine, I suppose, but when I put them on around 3:00 to go to work, and don't take them off until 2:30 or 3:00 (or around 5am Saturday mornings), they take their toll. The only thing enjoyable about wearing them is the amazing feeling I get when my when are liberated from their hard leather prison. Then, bushwa!, the sensation is incredible, almost as wonderful as going to the bathroom after holding in a waz for a couple of hours.

If I didn't walk to work I wouldn't wear the boots. At most my feet would get a bit wet, but the blower in Black Betty is powerful, and my moist dawgs would be dried lickety split! But instead I walk, and I'm not walking a mile in snow and slush in sneakers. Yet Friday I said "fuck it" and wore my orange Vans. It's cold out so there isn't much melting , and the sidewalks are, for the most part, dried and cleared off.

So I did it. Some of the sidewalks were just sheets of bumpy ice which made crossing them a tad bit treacherous, but nothing this most nimble of Guaks couldn't handle. There was a bit of slush, but all I did was make my feet just a touch damp.

I totally made the right decision. It was fucking awesome.

Guakie Loves Marcy('s)

January had been a hard month for me; Marcy's, my Sunday afternoon eatery, closes for just about the entire month of January every year.

This year was no exception. My usual Sunday...breakfast?...partners-in-crime, Luke and the Brothers Wilber, had to settle for Becky's. Becky's, which is a perfectly fine, albeit a bit pricey, greasy spoon, is no Marcy's, which serves up some mighty fucking tasty home fries and some kick-ass muffins. The owners, Murray and Jolie,  are fun and super nice despite being NASCAR enthusiasts. Dishwasher Sean, you know, that guy from Phantom Buffalo, is always good for at least one geeky conversation per visit. And the waitress, Mikey, oh, Mikey, I believe I confess my love for her every time I'm there.

The boys and I got confused about when Marcy's re-opened, thinking it was a week early. We were really excited that day, so eager to sink our teeth into some delicious motherfucking Marcy's breakfast we agreed to meet there a half hour than our usual time of 1pm. And they were closed. I was sad, so sad I think I cried a little on the inside.

So this past week I wasn't taking any chances. Friday night I drove past the diner to make sure the "closed for vacation" sign wasn't still in the window. To my utmost joy, it was not. We didn't meet a half hour early, we played it cool. And we were welcomed with open arms (well, maybe not Mike). I had an enjoyable coronary-inducing breakfast of hash, sausage, bacon, home fries, a banana walnut muffin, coffee, and water. It was as amazing as I remembered it being!

Sadly, there was a downside to my fanfuckingtastic breakfast experience: some dingus walked off with my winter coat. My winter coat is very important to me because it's winter and I need a coat. Luckily, the guy came back five to ten minutes later with my jacket, which I'm guessing is two sizes bigger than him. And it took him that long to figure it out?! Dummy. Nothing was taken save for my lip balm and Orbit bubblemint chewing gum. But, on the plus side, one of my pockets was stuffed with napkins.

All-in-all though, I had a wonderful time, and I am pleased as punch Marcy's is back in business.

The Ballad of The Guak, Part III: All's Swell That Ends Swell

* To see what the dilly is with this business, please consult my previous post "Secreting creative juices" *

Harry Guakomoli collapsed and landed on the cold asphalt. He was in a fuckload of pain and nearing unconsciousness. This was no way for a hero to go out, like a chump. But he was too weak. Sasquatch would never allow him to get back up. Then a small brown streak appeared from nowhere and Oslo was in the monster's face, attempting to claw out the eyes of the antagonist of this tale.

Harry Guakomoli got the opening he desperately needed. As Sasquatch struggled with Oslo, The Guak pulled himself to his feet, just to see his would-be murderer yank Oslo off his face and drop kick the sidekick. The cat flew through the air howling. The Guak swore he saw a deluge of stomach acid, malt liquor, and partially chewed Nutter Butters erupt from his only friend's mouth as Oslo hurtled away into the night.

Harry Guakomoli swung wildly...and missed...horribly.

Harry Guakomoli cursed himself for blowing his one shot. Sasquatch MacGillicuddy laughed and took a step towards his prey, unaware that his right foot was slathered in the viscous fluid that Oslo was drenched in. The ogre slipped and fell, landing hard on his bum. A burst of adrenaline shot through our hero, who lunged towards Sasquatch.

Harry Guakomoli latched on to Sasquatch's mountain man of a beard and placed a foot on the pitied fool's shoulder. While pressing down with his foot, The Guak pulled up with all of his power. Sasquatch screeched and thrashed about, but it was all for naught. It did not take long for The Guak, drunk on St. Ides and Herculean might, to yank the behemoth's head clean off, a torrent of blood rushed from his slain enemy's neckhole.

Harry Guakomoli took a step back as Sasquatch MacGillicuddy's body became the Mount Vesuvius of sanguinary discharge. The Guak raised Sasquatch's severed head so its eyes were level with his own. "You should totally fuck that skull," Oslo, who of course landed on his feet, suggested. Our hero entertained the thought briefly before he decided to just drop the shaggy head.

Harry Guakomoli felt a hand grab his own. He looked over to see the lovely Yo-Yo Ramimirez standing at his side. "You were soooo brave," she purred, "and I would like to give you a proper hero's reward." The Guak smiled, showing a grin of smashed teeth. "I would like that very much," he replied. "But first I need to throw up these Nutter Butters." The End.

The Ballad of The Guak, Part II: The Sasquatch and The Damage Done

* To see what the dilly is with this business, please consult my previous post "Secreting creative juices" *

 HarryGuakomoli was bored. It was seven at night, and not a single ass-whupping had transpired; our hero had done his job too well. No one fucked with The Guak's corner. He considered taking the rest of the night off. But then The Guak saw him, crossing the street: an archenemy long thought dispatched. The fearsome, the loathsome, Sasquatch MacGillicuddy.

Harry Guaomoli couldn't believe his eyes: he took care of Sasquatch years before. Rumored to be the offspring of an overzealous big game hunter and a hairless lady Bigfoot, Sasquatch MacGillicuddy was almost seven feet tall, 400 lbs, and shaggy as fuck. But there the brute was, with murder in his eyes and an inferno in his belly, making a beeline towards The Guak.

Harry Guakomoli stood up, dizzy. This was the first time he had been off his ass in three hours, the previous time was to go around the corner to relieve himself in his neighbor's 2009 Range Rover. "Prissy lil' bitch," Guak had muttered to himself as he pissed in the gas tank. So, as you can imagine, dear reader, our hero found himself light-headed.

Harry Guakomoli staggered for a spell before collecting himself and marching to confront his most despicable of foes.

Harry Guakomoli and Sasquatch MacGillicuddy met in the middle of the intersection. One of them would not leave this confrontation alive. Both men were fixing not to become a corpse.

Harry Guakomoli did not see it coming. Saquatch was growling and literally foaming at the mouth. The Guak did not anticipate Sasquatch's opening move: a lightning-quick knee to the scrotum. His archnemesis had used The Great Equalizer, and he had used it well. Our hero doubled over, and this half-man/half-abominable snowman capitalized on the situation by delivering the haymakerest of haymakers.
Harry Guakomoli was in bad shape. His mouth filled with blood, a few teeth knocked out and lying in the street. And, boy, did his nuts hurt.

The Ballad of The Guak, Part I: A Man and His Cat (and a Yo-Yo Mama)

* To see what the dilly is with this business, please consult my previous post "Secreting creative juices*

Harry Guakomoli was in bad shape. His mouth filled with blood, a few teeth knocked out and lying in the street. And, boy, did his nuts hurt.

Harry Guakomoli started the day like most others: at noon, hungover and alone. The loneliness suited The Guak just fine; he realized long ago the life of a hero was one of forced celibacy. And the ladies agreed with him. The hangover, however, the hero of this tale could have certainly done without.

Harry Guakomoli walked, more like stumbled, down the stairs and outside. He sat down on the stoop, cracked open a 40 oz bottle of St. Ides malt liquor, and watched the passersby at the corner. His corner. No crime escaped neither The Guak's watchful eye nor his swift justice, unless, of course, said crime occurred between the hours of 4am and 1pm.

Harry Guakomoli was joined about an hour later by Oslo. The pair watched the corner like hawks, greeting the neighbors as they passed. Yo-Yo Ramirez winked at The Guak as she strolled by, swinging the serious junk in her trunk. "Shit, I wouldn't mind her working my yo-yo," Oslo remarked. Oslo was the smartest cat The Guak had ever met. He was also the filthiest in both mind and body.

Harry Guakomoli and Oslo spent the afternoon and early evening drinking forties and eating Nutter Butters. At one point Oslo tried to clean himself, only to become disgusted by the taste of the viscous fluid he found himself covered in, which caused him to vomit. The odor of Oslo's sick made The Guak queasy and our hero added to the puddle of stomach contents with some of his own, which sparked some more puke from Oslo.

Harry Guakomoli in turn spewed out more. This back-and-forth went on for several minutes. The Guak laughed, knowing his dickhead landlord would have to clean the mess up. The two gave each other a high-five, and this story's protagonist and his four-legged friend resumed their daily ritual of consuming ridiculous amounts of malt liquor.

Leftovers.

I haven't posted an installment of GuakTalk in four or five days now. I just haven't had much on my mind that I could write a substantial amount for a blog entry, or that I really don't want to make public. So here's some odds and ends...

It seems Imodium causes constipation. In my world wide web log entry ("Ain't that some shit!") I mentioned that for a few days I had a stomach cramp and an inability to go...you know. According to my medical advisor, it was probably because, due to a stomach virus I had the day before, I popped two tablets of Imodium because I was going to an all-day party and I didn't want an emergency pertaining to a fecal matter. Imodium should only be taken when one's bowels have run amok and not to prevent said activity from happening with a preemptive strike. Good to know!

Speaking of shit, last night I had a passenger whom I had picked up from Mercy Hospital on a taxi pass and drove to the Oxford Street Shelter. And hot crackers did this guy reek of shit! The smell was literally gagging me, and I had to roll the windows down. I immediately checked the seat for stains as soon as the vagrant exited Black Betty. Luckily, there was nary a smear to be found.

Last night I also drove a fellow hack home. Congress Street between Preble and Elm Streets was blocked off, along with Preble between Cumberland and Congress. The fellow wondered aloud what could be the reason and theorized that "maybe a nigger finally shot another nigger." Very classy, sir. Turns out it wasn't black-on-black violence but a gas leak. Go figure.

Yep, I'm still smoking a whole fucking lot.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I've been trying the online dating thing. The site that I mostly use suggests women that I may be interested in. Lately their picks have been ladies that live in the Boston area, despite me specifically stating that I am looking for someone close to me. I suppose "close" is subjective, but, Jesus, how is someone a two hour drive away considered all that close? Have I already exhausted all the possible women in the greater Portland area? Bullshit.

Speaking of online dating, I received an anonymous blog comment the other day from someone stating that one of the ladies I've met up with online is not as single as she said she is, and then I was advised to "watch myself." This comment intrigued me, mostly because while there have been a number of women that I have met and communicated with online, I have only been on five dates with three different people, the last one having taken place almost a month ago. I asked this person to email me and elaborate, out of curiosity more than anything else. Still no response.

I listen to a lot of radio when I am driving. If there's at least one thing I've noticed is that WCYY DJ Mark Curdo must be in love with his own voice because that fucking guy never shuts up. Give it a rest already, jockey, and just play the damn songs.

That's all I got. Be excellent to each other.