Elin Woods, I feel for you. Getting cheated on is the most sickening feeling I’ve ever felt. Not only do you feel absolutely betrayed, but you view yourself as completely worthless. I remember how stupid I was with my first ‘real’ girlfriend. It makes me ill to remember the person I was while dating her. What a vagina. We once had a phone conversation during the winter break of my freshman year of college that went a little something like this.
Ricky: I hope you like those flowers I sent to your house. I sent them on a Monday so all your girlies could be jealous all week. Where are ya? Are you on the treadmill? You sound winded.
Pookie: O, just at a friend’s place.
Ricky: Are you at Cindy’s or Jess’?
Pookie: Neither
Ricky: Well where are you sills nills?
Pookie: I’m actually at Dusty’s. He threatened to kill himself again if I didn’t see him. I’m the only one who can make him feel better.
Ricky: O…I don’t really like you going over to your ex-boyfriend’s, but I trust you. Tell him to feel better. When can I meet him? I know he’s still one of your best friends.
(4-5 second silence)
Ricky: Hello? Hello? Pooks?
Dusty: Hey man this is Dusty. Listen, Pookie doesn’t want to be with you anymore. She’s back with me now.
Ricky: What? We just made sweet love last week after the holiday cruise. I don’t believe you!
Dustin: Love? That’s funny. I mean it’s cute and all, but we just fucked.
Ricky: (bitchy crying voice) Why are you doing this?
Pookie: Ricky look…we had sex a bunch of times. What did you think, I was going to marry you? We’re not together anymore. I want to be with Dusty.

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It’s crazy to think that there are still pirates cruising the seas. On Monday, Somali pirates hijacked a U.S. bound Saudi supertanker carrying $20 million in crude oil. That is pretty bad ass considering they did it with shitty 80’s machine guns with wooden handles that you’d see in Rambo: First Blood Part II (never understood that title). I’ve always thought highly of pirates ever since I saw the movie Hook back in 1992. Dustin Hoffman played the perfect Capt. Hook in my opinion. He was a suicidal, kidnapping boy killer that still pulled off wearing the traditional fruity pirate garb.

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Practically everyone I know loves to drink at least once in a while. Nothing can celebrate something great in your life, or get you out of a rut like a nice stiff drink of your choice. The problem with my drinking habits however is that I still can’t drink casually. Drinking one beverage automatically triggers the desire to drink until I get the pre-puke hiccups. I’d rather drink a stirred “beagle piss on the rocks” then be teased with a couple beers, only to be forced to abruptly stop pounding.

Casual drinking is for babies

I still drink to get fucked up. Not to sound cool, I’ve been drinking since I was 13. I have fond teenage memories of my brother and I stealing the same bottles of booze from my mom. When I’d try to steal some vodka, my drink would just taste like watered down Sprite. That bastard would always get to it first and fill it back up with some water. Vodka magically froze in the freezer thanks to us. Despite drinking for a while, I still black out on a regular basis. I know my limits but still find a need to push my limits towards retardation. Nothing positive ever comes from being blacked out. You either fuck a wildebeest, drive into a pre-school’s playground slide, or simply wake up confused in a jail-cell with a mustard stained wife beater and assless chaps showing your backwards underwear you have on. It’s always tough when the boxer dick hole exposes your asshole. Awful things like this are expected, considering that when you drink your ass off you are poisoning your body, but more specifically your brain. When you’re blacked out your brain gets pissed off and says, “Fuck this, you’re on your own buddy.” It takes a first class flight to a quaint tropical island called St. Blackouticus until morning. While your brain is on holiday sipping pina coladas by the pool, your body is left to fend for itself on autopilot.

Have a nice trip to Blackoutville

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There are certain things in this world that rub me the wrong way. This week I’m sharing my pet peeves, fears, and situations that make me downright paranoid. These are the things that make me cringe when I’m stuck with my own disturbing thoughts. I’m sure some of the themes and situations will make you ask, “Really?” Others however, I’m sure you’ll be able to relate to.
I’ve always had a hard time shitting in public bathrooms. I’ll do it if I’m about to Dumb and Dumber Harry Dunne my pants, but those times are rare. It all started when I walked by a Port-A-John with the words “Hot Lunch” spray painted on the side of it with a ghoulish gray shit color. It stopped me in my tracks as it forced one of the worst visuals I’ve ever assembled in my head. All I could think of was school cafeteria chicken patty topped with mashed potatoes covered in gravy marinating in blue shaded piss at the bottom of the trench. Imagine that splash back.

Lately, even pissing in public cesspools has become a real problem. The Port Authority bus station has scarred me forever. Most of us are familiar with the stable of bums that call the Port Authority home. For those of you who aren’t abreast with this lovely hobo sanctuary, picture the Thriller video after Mike turns into a zombie and the choreography stops. Many of these homeless folks, without makeup, look like the extras that chased that hot mocha piece to the abandoned house that led to her doom. It is apparent that Thriller zombies made their way to Manhattan and now pan handle while you’re trying to get the paper in the morning. Bums like to sleep in the bathrooms because the stall feature allows them to sleep in accommodations you’d find at your local Motel 6.

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I recently read a Newsweek article entitled ‘A Path to Downward Mobility’. The quote that grabbed my attention read, “Every generation of Americans should live better than its predecessor. That’s Americans’ core definition of economic progress. But for today’s young, it may be a mirage.” Basically, my generation will be the first to be less successful than our parents. The article blamed things like increasing energy prices, stretched governments at all levels squeezing future disposable incomes, and pricey public services. However, I’m taking a different approach. Generation Whatever the Fuck, fucking sucks. I actually had to look up what generation I am a part of. It turns out I belong to Generation Y. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it as Generation X or the Baby Boomers. I don’t find it surprising Y sucks considering I’m too lazy to even put sheets on my bed. Everyday I wake up drooling on a bare, twin size mattress perched on the bottom half of a former bunk bed set. When I wake up on drunken mornings I know I’ve made it home safely if I see my signed Patrick Ewing Jersey I pissed $600 away for staring back at me. Sorry car payments and student loans, I had to have memorabilia from the eleventh best center of all time take up the entire wall facing my bed.

Living at home again after being away from college is a tough reality to swallow. When I was in high school, I thought a light bulb would go off in my head when I was in college that said, “OK it’s time to grow up.” That realization has yet to come. I can’t make a decision for the life of me. However, one of the few things I do know is that if I take a slam pig home, I can’t let Oinky see my limited edition silkscreen Arcade Fire concert posters hanging above my clown light switch from 1986. My generation is the type that when we want to class things up a bit, we will bring girls into our parents’ beds. Nothing says “I love you Mom” more than leaving a puddle of millions of potential grand kids for her to stew in. We are inconsiderate, indecisive pussies. We just aren’t as tough as our predecessors.
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Most people think this past summer was awful in the North East. It was a solid 75 degrees for basically all of July; obviously not great weather for beach enthusiasts. However, for one demographic this was complete and utter bliss. I’m talking about fat people. Reduced pool parties and beach trips with people who have sweat in the past year due to exercise, and not because they ordered ‘nuclear’ buffalo wing sauce equate to less uncomfortable moments for fats. I wish for once I could see what it is like to take my shirt off in public and not be embarrassed. My standard move for any pool function is to wait until everyone is in the pool and when the moment is right, slither into the deep end like the Grinch stealing the last slice of roast beast. Once in the pool, I never let my shoulders go above sea level to keep my jelly in the abyss below. Yes, even in four foot pools. The average person doesn’t understand a man with stretch marks. Why does that guy’s gut look like a piece of Fruit Striped Gum? Is the movie Junior based on your life? I can’t answer these tough questions. If a pool volleyball game breaks out, I try not panic. I ask if anyone needs another beverage, Grinch myself out, and never return.

Now I am not the mayor of Fatville, but I’m 24 years old and have grown little bud tits that resemble the chest of a 12 year old girl. My hairless, Irish, Smeagol skin accentuates the possibility that my tits have never seen sunlight. I’m at the point if I take a topless picture of myself from the neck down (you know it’s bad when you have to say topless) and e-mail it to one of my friends they could be arrested for kiddy porn. Is my future doomed? Will I be a huge beluga whale when I’m 45? Will I become the type of creature where you can’t tell if it is a man, woman, or just plain retarded?

It gets really bad when you have to ask yourself, is that bi-gendered lad fat or retarded? A lot of 400 plus pound guys seem to have the standard “Forrest Gump haircut”, that looks like Lego hair you can rip right off of their head and replace it with a mohawk from your cowboy and indians set. Others seem to have the ambiguous Jack Black mop top that could keep a Harvard gender studies professor guessing.

My girlfriend is one of those breakfast for dinner types so we frequently visit diners, and sometimes I-HOP. I saw this one quasi-gendered chap in I-HOP just assassinating a tall stack. It was the happiest looking thing I’ve ever seen. It should have really gotten it over with and taken it into a turtle shaped sand box and eaten them with a blue kiddy shovel. The fork could not get that syrupy goodness into it’s mouth fast enough. This one was special because it was so fat I couldn’t tell if it was Italian or Samoan. Fat had officially taken over his eye sockets leaving barely any eyeball room. It created a whole new question? Are you fat or just Asian? The kicker was it had a dirt ring. It looked like it wore a yodel necklace and someone ripped it off like a band-aid. A nice visual aide is picturing the aftermath of taking a Hostess cupcake off of the paper square.

When you’re 5’11” and 250 pounds like myself, you are at crossroads. Lose some weight before its too late, or face the tough questions. Are you asian, a man, woman, retarded, or just fucking fat?

Ricky Knowles will be performing at Broadway Comedy Club on November 13, get tickets early and we’ll keep you posted on his website coming soon.