Mr. Know-It-All: Big Box o’ Bad

11 Nov

from March 5, 2007

Wow, it has really been a while since Mr. Know-It-All has been sober enough to type. Man, my life sucks. I mean, how many times can you wake up in a puddle of assorted bodily fluids next to a hooker going through your wallet and her pimp doing blow before you decide to sober up? For me it’s 182 and counting.

Anyway, the infrequency of this rambling, and probably misnamed, “advice column” is not in fact due to my sobriety, or lack thereof, but to a specific legal precept * and the qualifying corollary.**

So we come now to Harriett Cole. I am going to exclusively use letters from her column. I love the tools who write in to her. They’re even stupider than the average Jersey girl. But not as big boobed. (Just kidding. I love Jersey broads. And big boobs.) Here’s the first letter, and it deals with an issue that Mr. Know-It-All is an expert in: urination.

Dear Harriette:

I work with five men and four women in an office with one unisex restroom. Whenever a man leaves the toilet seat up, he is made to assume some actual law has been transgressed.

I think these women need to realize the female method of urination is, at best, equal to the male method, but not superior to it. It’s as much of a nuisance for me to put the seat up as it is for some women to put it down. In fact, I rarely ever need the seat down at work, but I am forced to put it up all through the day.

I have the impression a couple of women here connect the toilet-seat issue to women’s rights. What a mockery. Women act as if they have some type of entitlement in the restroom, but unless they have broken arms, they could carry on as men have and prepare the seat to their own liking without the absurdity of complaint.

Jack, New York

 

Oh man where to start? First of all, a unisex bathroom is great! If I had one around here I could take down all of my hidden web cams in the women’s john.

Next, the old question, up or down? Well Mr. Know-It-All may buck the trend around here, but the answer is down, at all times. Let me explain. I take more depressants, anti-depressants, psychedelics, and just plain booze than the average army. I don’t know how many times I’ve stumbled to the bathroom, using my last erg of strength, bleary-eyed and strung out, and just made it to the toilet. I plopped down, only to fall into the bowl because the seat was up. If the seat was down I wouldn’t have gotten a goddam wet ass for like the bamillionth time. It’s one thing if I get blasted and wet myself, I don’t need a stupid seat left up to do it for me. But I got to tell you, nothing will wake you up like a splash of cold water on your nads. I learned that in ‘Nam. And it’s not like I need the seat up anyway. I haven’t taken a piss like a man since I came down with my fourth case of syphilis.

And what’s with these women anyway? “Women act as if they have some type of entitlement in the restroom,”  Jack writes. What the hell is that all about? Women’s rights? Get back in the kitchen and bake me a pie. And don’t even think about voting. Who do think you are, Susan B. Anthony? Get out of the bathroom and back in the kitchen. (And if my mother is reading this, I blame it all on you.)

———————————————————————-

This next letter is written by a jerk.

DEAR HARRIETTE: In response to Sonny in New York, I saw something on TV about “women” from faraway countries asking for money. Do not send a dime! Chances are you are not even speaking to a female. The report found a man posing as a female in this type of scam. If you send the money, you will never see that person or the cash. Also, this “woman” will invent some sob story about how she couldn’t make it into the country for whatever reason but that she spent your money already, cannot get it back and needs more money. Like Harriette said, “Trust your instincts.” Run away! And fast!

Scott, New York

I can go so many ways here. I can go with the internet scam angle. I can go with the “fool and his money” angle. But I’m going with the men posing as women angle.

Let me tell you a little story. It was July 26, 2004. I was trolling around Red Hook at 4 am looking for a little friction. You’ve all done this. At 4 am you’re not getting the pick of the litter, but Mr. know-It-All spent most of the day passed out on a strange floor and this was the earliest I could find my car keys. Well, we’ve all been there. So I slowed up when I saw this [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED]  and got her in the back and we [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED] until it was raw and scabby, but when I [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED] it was a man! So I [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED] Long story short- I paid him double and met him the next night.

And here is a part of Harriett Cole’s “response”:

I received a few letters from people who wanted me to say that Nigerians as a culture are dishonest, because the woman in question is from there. I cannot make such a statement. It is dangerous to label a whole group of people in any way. I refuse to do so.

Mr. Know-It-All has no such morals.

———————————————————————

Finally, another pathetic loser who can’t solve her own problems and needs someone to think for her. I shouldn’t complain- without them I’d have no column.

DEAR HARRIETTE: Like many others, I lost a dear friend when our friendship collapsed under the weight of changing life circumstances, disappointment, resentfulness, an inability to listen to each other and sometimes outright cruelty. The dissolution of our bond caught us both off guard – we were closer than sisters, and I had never imagined my life without her. I have forgiven her for the hurt she caused me and I have been working on forgiving myself for the hurt I caused her.

However, we still share a mutual circle of friends – we see each other at gatherings. I wish nothing but the best for her, and I am happy to see and speak to her at these gatherings. But now she has indicated, and I have heard from mutual friends, that she wants to be friends again. I tried at least twice to reconnect with her on a more frequent basis, but old feelings led to quick arguments and unpredictable meetings.

Does forgiving someone mean you have to trust her to be in your life again? Does my reluctance to reestablish an ongoing connection with her mean I’m being unfair and haven’t truly forgiven her? I feel guilty every day for not being able to willingly reciprocate her feelings, but I don’t feel comfortable allowing her back in my life.

Vivian, Chicago

Vivian, you need to be like me. Hate everybody! Hate hate hate! Trust me- people suck! All they do is steal your car keys in a misguided attempt to stop you from drinking and driving. All friends do is try to get you into some clinic to dry out. All friends do is refuse to let you vomit on their new carpet.

Forgiveness? Did Mr. Know-It-All forgive his father for touching him in the garage when they were working on the car when I was only eight years old? Did Mr. Know-It-All forgive his ex-wife for stealing all his money and running off with the dry-cleaner down the block? The one who you just know could have gotten the stain out of my jacket if he really tried? Did Mr. Know-It-All ever forgive Mr. Giambucci, the gym teacher, for the “jock strap incident” in junior high? I’m still not over that one!

So be happy you lost some dead-weight and get on with your stinking life.

————————————————————————

So let’s recap this one, ’cause it was a doozy. Urination, cold nads, anti-women’s rights, my favorite cross-dressing prostitute, Nigerians, hate hate hate, and some incidents of my life that I still have nightmares about. No wonder I drink and inject cocaine in the corners of my eyeballs.

Mr. Know-It-All often wonders what the purpose of this column is. Is it advice? Is it an abject lesson in what not to do? Who cares? It pays the bills. Or in this case it buys the cheap hookers, booze and blow.

* Sometimes you feel like a nut.

** Sometimes you don’t.

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A Southern Sojourn

11 Nov

from February 9, 2007

Blog time! The happiest day in anyone’s life is when he reads a new Blog by the Master. Ahhh, blogging. Is there a greater pastime on God’s green Earth? I think not! And what greater satisfaction can there be than knowing that, just by typing, I can put a ray of sunshine into a poor reader’s otherwise wasted, wasteful, and wretched life. The power! The infinite satisfaction! The unbridled egomania I am currently experiencing! YES! THE POWER IN MY VEINS! I am a BLOGGING GOD!

But that’s all a  load of crap. (Or is it? Hmmmmmmm……OK, it’s not. I am an evil genius.) I am no more a master blogger than I am a master of square dancing.

THE DATE- June 30, 1993.

THE PLACE- Old Man Ferguson’s  Barn, Lexington Kentucky

THE EVENT- 48th National Square Dance Competition

ME- “It’s great here in Cincinnati. Which way to Riverfront Stadium?”

MAN IN OVERALLS- “Boy, you’s in the Kentucky Squaar Dancin’ competition.”

ME- “Huh?”

I didn’t do so well that night. I came in dead last. However, after the dancing there was a blueberry pie bake-off and I took the Blue Ribbon. My secret ingredient? Love.

But I digress. As I often do. If you know me you know I digress. If you don’t know me, allow me to introduce myself- My name is bmj2k and I digress.

Square dancing is a very Southern thing. Specifically, it is a very white southern thing. Now I have nothing against any race (ha ha, I love it when I bullshit!) but let’s just say that the last time I was down South (like you’d catch me down South) I didn’t see Jay-Z square dancing. I’m just saying.

But I kid because I love. I love the South. It has given us so much. Moonshine. The Dukes of Hazzard. The Cannonball Run and the Cannonball Run 2. (Not three.) There is even some culture down there. (I’ll let you know when I find some.) The finest breakfast I ever had was in West Virginia.

I was about eleven years old and we (the family, that is. Not the Manson Family, the Jacobs Family, which has it’s own very peculiar kind of indoctrination. But I digress. [Told you I do that.]) decided to go to Colonial Williamsburg and Busch Gardens. Colonial Williamsburg is cool if you are a grandmother or really easily entertained. It is an old colonial (d’uh) town and has old colonial buildings and old colonial people walking around. Yes, the people are colonial. Some of them are nearly 250 years old. However, it has the distinction of having a real, honest-to-goodness haunted house. The Wyth House is supposedly haunted by the ghost of an old woman. I didn’t see any ghosts that day, but trust me- all of Williamsburg is haunted by the ghosts of lame past.

Busch Gardens is really a cool amusement park but was marred by two problems. First, instead of wearing a normal baseball cap on a sunny day, I wore a stupid tri-cornered Revolutionary War thing I begged Dad to buy me in Williamsburg. It was so geeky. I wore it the next day to the park and was so blinded by the sun that I begged Dad to buy me a baseball cap. He did, but the look he gave me will stay with me until the day I day. “Boy,” the look said, “this is it.” I knew at that moment that I had lost all respect from my Dad forever. Trust me- it was enough to make a more sensitive kid cry. But not me because I was (and am) a prick. The second problem involved my brother. We were walking through the park, which was only half crowded. Out of the blue a young couple came walking toward us and, I am sure this was on purpose, they spilled a whole grape drink on my brother, laughed, and kept on walking. It was the single biggest example of rotten behavior I had ever seen until I started doing rotten things to other people.

But I was going to tell you about the breakfast. (Thought I forgot? Well did you? Huh?) It was buffet-style, meaning you can get as much as you want as long as you take another plate. It was the first time I discovered that you can have eggs, fried chicken, and a well done sirloin steak for breakfast. (It was also the place where my mother, in a near-duplicate of something my grandmother did decades earlier, committed petty larceny. So evil, going back at least two generations, runs in my genes.)

(Quick aside- are there two men more fey than Spence and Danny on The King of Queens? I ask because these two allegedly straight men are sharing a bedroom, despite the fact that they live in a two-bedroom apartment. And their beds are no more than three inches apart, effectively meaning that they sleep in the same bed.)

But, ahhh, the South. Smells like a urinal.

————————————————————

Want more blogs? GOOD NEWS! Transcripts of this and any of my blogs are available from me at the nominal fee of $9.95 each. CD’s are $14.95 with a bonus commentary by Sir Ian McKellan, and a DVD of Sean Connery reading my blog aloud while sitting in a comfy high-backed leather chair don’t yet exist but I will gladly send you a DVD of me cashing your check for only $24.95.

Tags: , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →