Thursday, January 26, 2006

Thank You MBTA

The madness of riding the bus and/or the T every day has finally reached its apex. Earlier this week I was doing my normal scan of the Orange Line faithful and I happened upon the all time winner in the "I Totally Dont Give a Shit What People Think About Me" Hall of Fame. Or for short, the ITDGASWPTAMHOF." Now normally when I conduct my subway scans I log in someone that deserves a second look into my temporary (and some would say creepy) people watching file and keep the eyes moving. I then steal glances at them throughout the trip until they lose my attention and most likely leave the file. If you've never relied on public transportation, you can't know what a spectacle it is to people watch every day. You can't help but look.

Anyways, back to the hall of fame inductee. As I said, I was on the orange line scanning the crowd. Making my way around, my eyes stopped moving and focused on the obese black woman standing across from me. Why mention her race you ask? Why do you take dumps? Because you have to, that's why. She was standing in the middle of a crowded train reading. She wasn't reading Harry Potter or the Da Vinci Code, oh no. She was reading the Hoboken Times Bestseller, "G-Spot: An Urban Erotic Tale." In the middle of a fucking subway train. I don't have to tell you that this is the equivalent of seeing a fat white woman reading one of those romance novels with Fabio on the cover in public. Aren't those the type of books that you read in the privacy of your own home. That's how I know that this lady did not give a fuck about what anyone on the train thought, and let me tell you I wasnt the only one who saw the title.

Reading this in public shows a lot about her. She was bascially broadcasting, " I am lonely. I am horny. I will fuck you. Now." I get self conscious when I read a Michael Crichton book on the bus and this lady's reading a book called "G-Spot." I just wish that she stood on some newspapers before she got off the train. That puddle was fucking disgusting.

I would like to share with you a post that my good friend and college roommate left on my last entry. I will not deny or confirm that this ever took place. But it did.

Dear Matty, and Dear Friends of Matty,

Of all the trying times I've followed Matty through, none were as potent and as terrible as the night we came to the following understanding....
We were at the cheapest Chinese food place we could find in old Manch Vegas...we were at the bar with a few other sorry souls. I was challenging my cohorts to dare me to steal a bottle of Jack Daniels from behind the bar when Matty told me. He said, " you know how we hate our whore housemate, Allie?". "yeah" i said, "she's the filthiest skank i ever lent my t.v. to". "Well", matty went on " I was taking a shower the other day and I decided I hated her so much that I would scrub my ass and balls with that lufa she leaves in the shower. I think I swabbed my colon" He laughed.
I laughed too and thought about what the fuck a lufa was...then, as my face went white and a sudden feelinf of helplessness fell over me I realized what fate had done to me. " Matty," Isaid " my mother gave me that lufa, I used it two hours ago". Since then, my nipples have fallen off, and the doc tells me not to swim in sewage anymore.

Monday, January 23, 2006

A Taste of City Life

Thus far I have received 13 entries for the blog naming contest. If you havent entered yet, I expect that you will do it soon. Either post entries on this blog or the one where the contest was announced. Click on the comments link at the bottom of the post and fire one off from there. Also, February 6th is fast approaching and besides my crippling fear of public speaking, I think I will be ready. People have asked, but I dont know if you have to buy tickets in advance. Generally you do not because not that many people go to watch amateur night.

This past Thursday I saw the Father of the Year at a liquor store. Maybe you noticed that the "Father of the Year" was spotted at a liquor store and detected the sarcasm, but maybe not. This gentleman, sporting corn rows and fluent Spanish, waltzed into the liquor store with 2 kids who's combined age was no greater than 9. Now I don't speak Spanish, but I did see him kneel down and look his kids right in their eyes and say something that ended with "nada." I am assuming he told them not to touch anything, because they immediately congregated in front of a shelf that housed various economy rums and vodkas. With his kids standing like statues in front of the Rubinoff, Daddy went to the back of the store. At this point I had made my way to the counter and I was paying.
Still as curious as a cat, I watched as Super Dad returned from the cooler in the back and moved towards the counter. I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but as his little statues sprung to life to join him at the counter, I could see that my vision was not impaired at all. Papa was carrying a 12 pack of Natural Ice. It appears now that my initial impression was wrong. Drawing on my own personal experience of wrestling with the Natty Ice 12 pack (blacking out and waking up NEXT to a dumpster, 5 inch scar on my arm from tripping over a bathtub and ripping it open on a jagged soap dish, yes that was all the same night), I concluded that he wasn't babysitting his kids at all, it was their night to take care of him. Way to go Father of the Year, may your kids stay out of juvenile hall until they are at least 14.

Saturday night, I was on a mission to find a "slump buster." Myself and a few others were planning on going out and finding "fat whores with low self esteem." What happened next is so chock full of cruel irony that I am having trouble typing this story. We made our way to Boston Billiards around midnight. We walked in and I chose the first open seat and me and my two partners in crime set up shop. Before long, a beautiful young lady who was "off duty" approached us and aked us if we wanted to do some shooters. She sais she worked there but tonight she was just hanging out. She was hot and we were hammered so we said sure, bring onthe shooters. Several shots and several more dollars later, it was near closing time and not one of had spoken to the aforementioned fat whores with low self esteem. Reflecting on this the day after, I came to a conclusion.
My friends and I turned out to be the fat whores with low self esteem. We were on a mission to basically just get some ass and we were sidetracked by a girl with a nice rack who we all knew wasn't even going to leave the table with us, let alone go back to one of our apartments. She must have thought to herself, here are 3 hammered dudes who will most certainly not say no to shots served by beautiful women. I think I will help my friend the shot girl out. Just like if I scouted out a beast that I thought would hook up with me, this off duty Boston Billiards employee decided she could get a bunch of money and several free shots out of the deal.
This is why I think shot girls should be illegal. They are generally among the hottest chicks employed by their bars and they prey on drunk men like Steve Irwin hunts crocodiles. Notice, next time you are out that they never lead in with "I'm selling shots for 6 bucks a piece." Oh no, its more along the lines of "WHO WANTS A SHOT OUT OF MY TITS!!" Of course all the guys nearby hop in line. You never think to ask a price on something like that. After you all down your boob shots, she comes at you with an absurd bill that no one wants to pay. Shot girls are no different that the late night sausage vendor that swindled me out of $21 a few months ago, other than the fact that they all have huge tits.
Needless to say, my night ended with a one mile walk home alone and a Tony's fucking Pizza. Hey, there's always next weekend.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Better late than never....

I returned back to my apartment on Monday after a long weekend of drinking and punching one of my best friends' in the face focused on delivering my Monday blog, as promised. The makers of my wireless router had other ideas. I was politley told by an Indian gentleman on the phone that he couldn't offer me any technical support because my router's warranty had run out. Sweet policy netgear and kudos on the outsourcing. The fuckin thing is only a year and a half old and this clown wasn't allowed to help me. Fine, fuck him....Ramon from Staples hooked it up and I am back online.

Also, if you feel inclined post a comment after these posts. Tell me how much I suck, or that you want to hook up with me, I really don't care. I think I've finally figured out how to get the thing working right so let's take advantage of it. I have grand visions of a message board type deal where men praise me and women leave me their bra size and phone numbers. But if the amount of people who got at me on facebook after my last entry is any indication, the comment function will go as unused as a female retard's box. I implore you, if you like this blog send it around to your friends. I will update as much as I can. I am desperately looking for a way out of the corporate world. In addition to "chief," my boss recently added "captain" to his belittling nickname repertoire. The clock is ticking......

I went back to the gym this week for the first time since......October 26th. I know this because I asked when I swiped my card and the alarm went off. Day 1 I did 35 minutes on the treadmill watching PTI (they have TV's on the treadmills). I'm not claiming I ran the whole time, I had to walk once in a while because my beat ass headphones kept falling out of my ears which is wicked annoying. I need to roll into the gym with some DJ headphones. Anyways, when I stepped off of that treadmill I looked like I just stepped out of a horny whale's snatch. Day 2 was no better because I wore long sleeves in an attempt to cover up my 4 months pregnant stomach. Again, I exited the whale's box, showered and here I am.

Another funny thing that happened yesterday occurred on the bus. What a surprise. I was reading a book like I usually do when all of a sudden from behind me I hear none other than "This is How We Do It" by Montell Jordan. You guys remember that track. Montell is kind of buzzed and its all because, "this is how we do it." You never really realize how sweet those lyrics are when you are a 14 year old kid blasting that song in your mom' blue subaru wagon. I guess age has its perks. Speaking of age, I neglected to mention where this sound came from. A black man no younger than 45 with those headphones that are so terrible that the music is as loud in his head as it is to everyone around him. This guy was jammin so hard I had to put my book down and stare out the window for the remainder of the trip. Also, I can't be sure, but I think I saw a white woman lean up a bit and put a metro newspaper underneath where she was sitting. I guess its pretty obvious. Montell still makes the bitches wet.

Also, some unsettling news about one of my closest friends. I believe it was two weekends ago, we were hanging out and a preview came on for the show "Love Monkey" (starring Larenz Tate, Tom Canvanaugh and Jason Priestly...Tuesdays at 10 on CBS!!!). Then came the 7 magic words that changed my friendship forever, "Dude, I will definitely watch that show."

American Idol is back for another season. Unfuckingbelievable. Granted, I am madly in love with Kelly Clarkson, I still think the show sucks balls. I personally feel (and this opinion is based solely on the commercials...I havent watched sine my man Ruben won) that Simon should be allowed to swear at the contestants to spruce up his lame, condescending British putdowns. Instead of the smarmy (probably not a word) "That went from torture to murder," how about Simon unleashes something like "I would rather have my testicles shaved with a rabid dogs mouth than listen to you sing one more fucking note of 'rythm divine'" Not bad, but now put it into that guys accent and we have a winner, a show that I would tune into religiously. If that were the case, Clay Aiken would have been called a "queer fucking pedophile" and this whole 'If he is in fact straight, Clay Aiken gets more pussy than Matt DiOrio and that isn't fair at all' thing would have never happened.

Contest Alert!!!!! Since this blog has no decent name, I would like to welcome any suggestions to be posted on the site for a good blog name. Leave your name and a way to contact you if you win. Deadline FEB 1!!!
The person with the winning submission will receive a personal check from me, Matt DiOrio, for $15 US Dollars.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

And We're Back

It has been over a month since this was last updated. For those who noticed, I apologize and it shant happen again. Beginning on January 16, I will have 2 updates a week. One will be every Monday by 9 pm. The other will be a floater day or whenever I feel like writing. Please welcome this humble scribe, who has guaranteed at least two posts a week, back into your life.

In an unrelated note, I will be taking the stage at the Comedy Connection on Monday, February 6th, for Amateur night. I have to last at least 5 minutes and if you've slept with me you know that this is nearly impossible for me to do. I'm going for it anyway, so come on down. It will cost you 15 bucks but you've been getting this for free since September so I don't want to hear any complaints.

During my recent trip to Colorado it was brought to my attention that a member of the 2000 ORR Football team was stricken inseason by Scurvy. You know scurvy, that disease that pirates used to get when their bodies went too long without vitamin C. And by too long I mean weeks and months baking in the Carribbean sun on a disease filled boat. This guy got it in Southeastern Massachusetts during football season. Either this is the most random affliction I have ever heard of or it is the all time absolute worst excuse to get out of practice. Why not just go up to your coach and say, "Listen, I am a total pussy and I do not want to play today or know what, Ill be ready in a couple of weeks." I bet that was met with a better reception than, "Coach I cant go today"
"Why not"
"I got scurvy....came out of nowhere." Followed by the coach looking like he just had a frontal lobodomy. Looks like this guy's health plan didn't cover 'glasses of orange juice' or 'bites of clementines.'

The holidays have recently passed and I am disappointed that I did not fire off a seasonal entry. I will keep this brief since it is totally irrelevant on January 12, but I want to bestow upon my faithful reader(s) a few gifts crafted out of words.
I am 99% sure that when I have children someday I will not feed them lies about Santa Claus. We all remember when we found out that that fat fuck wasn't real. It is a traumatizing experience for a 14 year old to handle. Nothing about it makes sense. He travles by sleigh to every house in the world, leaving better gifts for the "good children" (kids who's parents have money) and leaving crappier gifts or sometimes nothing at all for the "bad kids" (who are obviously poor). Why not just sit your kid down and tell him that people with money are good, and people without money are bad. That is the basic idea that the legend of Santa is projecting.
And another thing that sucks about Christmas is Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Santa can deliver presents to every house with a chimney on Earth, but a little fog hits and he has to call on a Reindeer with a 2 volt battery for a nose or else Christmas is lost? Buy some fucking lights you obese tub of shit. Fuck Rudolph.

On a lighter Christmas note I want to share a story about my dear old Grandmother. She has dished out some all star gifts in her day; a bottle of cologne shaped like a choo choo train that happened to smell like burnt matches, a black phil simms sweatshirt (in 1999) and a ratty stuffed Siberian Husky that served as an intended reminder to my mother of her precious dog that ran away 19 years earlier. She outdid herself several years ago, however, with a gift so legendary that it is referred to in the DiOrio household only as...."the shirt." Our expectations are always rock bottom and even we didn't understand what a gem we had in our possession until a few days later. Grandma gave my brother Adam a forest green crew neck sweat shirt, embroidered in paisly
with a huge purple and yellow LV on it. Across the LV read "Las Vegas." A hideous shirt, but basically par for the course. It wasn't until a few days later when we were looking through old photographs that the legend was born. In an envelope from the previous Easter, there is a photograph. At the center of this photograph is my smiling Grandmother, wearing a forest green, paisly embroidered Las Vegas sweatshirt. A used Christmas gift. To keep in line with family traditions I am going to give out old socks (that there is a 99% chance they have been jizzed in).

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