What’s up with me being so down?
By now we know about the bad joke that my moods and emotions are. Hell, I even joke about it most of the time. But over the past few weeks, it’s gotten a lot worse. I’ve been feeling very down and I can’t seem to get any of the bad thoughts that I have in my head to go away. This has caused me to feel weird and to not really want to go out. I stay at home with my wife and my dogs and just kind of exist. I don’t really live. I just sit there and stare vacantly at a computer screen. Sometimes I read. Other times I don’t.
This all came to a head for me a few days ago (Monday, to be precise). I was having a particularly bad day both at work and in my own head when on the way to Franklin everything came crashing down around me.
Liz the G.O.A.T.*
Dear readers of The Bugg Blog, what you are about to witness in the coming weeks is a torrent of sophomoric humor, witty insights, daily bullshit, odes to obscure music and even a few paragraphs about my wife every now and then all because of the pretty girl in the picture (the one on the right). Her name is Liz, and she’s started something very big. What has she started? I hear you asking through the tubes that make up the internet, and the answer can be found in this entry, just after the mucky muck about the last few days of my life. So read on!
Dear Steve Martin
Last night I watched you perform alongside the Steep Canyon Rangers at Merlefest 2010. You were engaging, talented, vibrant, and hilarious. You also played your banjo quite well and had me mesmerized with your songwriting and stage presence. In fact, I could spend a few paragraphs and pamper you with wonderfully flowery prose about all of the things that I liked about your show last night, but I’m not going to- mainly because I know that you’ll never read this.
But if you are ever drunk on red wine (for the antioxidants!) one lonely Wednesday night and you come across this blog entry, I would like to say something to you:
You can go to hell.
Who hates me this week?
It’s not every day that I tick someone off. Okay, it might be every day. But usually there’s a good reason for it. A better person than I would see people typing ridiculous things online and just ignore it, but I’m not that person. I’m pretty petty.
Because of this I tend to have a lot of people around me that get so red-faced angry at me that they take the time out of their day to let me know what a jerk I can be. Sometimes it’s creepy, while other times it’s a little flattering. I’ve decided to take a moment and spotlight the latest person who would like my head on a platter: Dylan Schacht of Hendersonville, NC.
Brent Brown: My own personal Barbara Eden
It started out with just a random attempt at being an asshole.
I am a follower of WLOS’ Facebook page. I usually go on there and tell stupid jokes and try to get the idiots riled up. Yesterday, I made a huge mistake.
I logged on at around 1 or 2 pm yesterday and saw a post about a missing kid in Brevard. Instead of posting the typical “OMG MY PRAYERS ARE WITH TEH FAMILY WRAP YOUR STRONG LOU FERIGNO LIKE ARMS AROUND HIM JESUS” post, I decided to post something pointed and innocent on the page. I posted this:
I hope he’s just hiding out somewhere nailing his girlfriend.
Not the best sentiment, but still something better than “I hope he isn’t dead”.
About five minutes later, someone posted in the thread that the guy was dead. I immediately go back and post “ouch, sorry”.
Cue the shitstorm.
People are sending me messages threatening me, calling for my head. People are telling me to find the kid’s parents and apologize to them in person.
I keep explaining that my little joke (which was made at the time that nobody knew that the kid was dead) is probably the least of the concerns of the family and friends of the dead kid right now. But these caps lock using retards are still bloodthirsty.
Normally, this is where the story ends: me being an asshole and idiots overreacting. But not this time. This time Brent Brown (who is a famous artist) stepped in and reminded us all why he’s the Henderson County Heartbreaker (well, he would be called that if he were in his 20s. And a wrestler. And looked less like Bill Murray. You get my point).
I posted the link to the Facebook page on a local message board that I post on, and titled the thread “Bugg and the ill-timed joke”. Brent replied that the thread title sounded like the latest in a long line of children’s books starring me. I laughed. Other people laughed. Then Brent DESTROYED us by posting this image:
Blog awards, me and my big mouth, my girlfriend rocks at pop culture references and other stuff.
Not much of a unifying theme to this entry, but I wanted to get something up because I haven’t in a couple of days. Let’s do this entry with bullet points, shall we?
I won 2 awards at last Saturday’s Extravaganzablogapaloozathon: Least Likely to Make Money Blogging and Biggest Slacker. I accept these awards wholeheartedly. I could care less about making money off of my private thoughts and I’d rather be a slacker than a devout blogging psychopath.
The party itself was rather strange and awkward. It’s always weird to stand amongst people you don’t know and have them call themselves by their screen names. I met Gratuitous (who replies here), M from Husband Wanted (who is Jessica’s new best friend) and a few other people.
I wasn’t exactly prepared to be a prick like I wanted to be, but it was still fun. I also would like to take a little time to point out that George the Bastard is perhaps the unfunniest motherfucker to ever walk the earth. I’d rather felch a bum after 14 chili dogs and a pot of Hot Spot Coffee than listen to his stammering attempts at comedy. My grandmother dying was funnier than his schtick.
After the awards I went to a friends house and had a drink or two. The highlight of the night was going on a late beer run to Ingles and embarassing myself thouroughly. Let’s back up to explain. The night before I went to the same Ingles with a friend and dealt with a cashier who told me “Happy New Year” when I completed my sale. It was strange. The next night I watched him dealing with people. I came to the conclusion that he had to be retarded. Or metally challenged. Or whatever you people with conciences call it. I decided to ask the high school girl at the counter.
I’m not trying to start any sort of trouble or make people mad, but is that guy retarded? I asked. I think he is handicapped the girl said rather stone faced. I instantly freaked out. Oh man, I feel like crap for saying retarded. I meant is he just a spaz or something. She reassured me that it was okay that I called someone who was handicapped “retarded”, but the damage was done. During my rather awkward stammaring apology and explanation, I told her that I called Native Americans “Indians” and that once I locked my car doors when I saw a black man walking down the street. I left Ingles that night with a bag of chips and a rather negative opinion of how I treat people who are different than I am.
It’s pretty amazing how one word can ruin an exchange. To wax poetic for a second, it reminded me of the song “April Anne” by John Phillips. It’s a gorgeous little country rock song, but just because he says the word “faggot” within the song it will never be heard, but just like Randall in Clerks 2, I’m taking it back.
Also in a rare sober moment on Saturday, Jessica showed me a tea set she’d bought in Chinatown during her first trip to New York City. I instantly asked her if she’d be interested in recreating the tea ceremony from The Karate Kid Part II. She instantly knew what I was talking about.
Have I mentioned how much I love her?
I know it’s a lame entry, but deal with it. I promise something better when I get my work done and my comic script is complete.
From the vaults.
What follows is an actual journal entry from December 18th, 2004. Read at your own discretion.
So the bar I frequent is overrun by college kids celebrating finals being done. My friends and I were challenged to chug beers for money and then told we were little bitches because we didn’t want to. Frat Boys are the worst kind of person I’ve decided. They are so easily stereotyped and they really do nothing to prove you wrong about those stereotypes.
Three friends and I are standing outside of the bar at about 2.45 in the morning deciding what we are going to do. We look inside the Bier Garden and all of these college idiot guys and a few of their dumb ass girlfriends are having to carry a girl out of the bathroom. She looks dead. She is not moving, limp, and pale. They manage to put her in the car, and I am dying laughing at them. I get a few zingers in as they are putting her in the car. They say something like “Watch her head and put her there“ while trying to put her in the front seat, to which I respond “Fold the bitch up and put her in the truck, she’s dead”, Her friend is on her cell phone chatting with someone “What should we do, should we take her to the hospital?” to which I respond “You should give the dead chick another Dilodin, that worked out well for you”. She walks over, and this exchange happened:
“That is my best–friend over there and we are really worried about her, and I don’t appreciate you talking like that!”
“Oh really? Well then why are you talking to me? Take her to the hospital you dumb bitch.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do when I have someone I care about who might be very sick!”
“Well then shut your stupid fucking mouth and take her to the hospital.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do!”
“From the looks of it, you need to shut the fuck up and take the dead whore in your buddies car to the hospital before she jokes on her own vomit you self righteous cunt.”
“UGGGGHHHH”
At this point one of her guy friends comes and collects her, and they get into the car and drive away. Two guys are left, they are giving The guys and I dirty looks. A cab pulls up, and they head start to get in, one guy looks at me and says “Hey asshole, what is the address of the hospital?” to which I respond “It’s 123 that bitch friend of yours is going to die tonight street”. The guy scowls at me and gets into his cab to leave.
Was I out of line during all of this? Yes. But man oh man it was a hoot! That is what I need in my life, more hoots.
Is it just me…
…or are children with cancer kind of cute? I don’t wish it upon anyone, but I remarked tonight that there is something cute about a kid with cancer. I’m drunk, okay? Maybe I’m a soulless bastard, but there is something about kids with cancer. Maybe it’s that look of innocence and tragedy; like how a puppy is cuter at the pound than it ever could be at home. Once again, I’m not trying to shock or offend (okay, maybe I’m trying to offend), but there is something tragically cute about those kids.
I suppose I’m a bad person in a lot of you people’s eyes. To make up for it, here’s some Sly and the Family Stone.
Sly and the Family Stone: You Can Make It If You Try
This song is bad ass. Big horns, a cool bass line, call and response vocals and a chorus that makes you want to dance and sing.
I love black people. I commented to Jessica that there isn’t a song in the world that couldn’t have been made better by a black person’s voice (circa 1956-1981). I think it’s true. Sure there are white people that can sing, but there is something about a black person’s voice. They feel it. I’m white, so I tend to be an expert on white people, and I’ve noticed that most of the time we are full of shit and not very genuine. I wonder why that is? Maybe it’s the complacency that comes with at one point ruling most of the Earth. Maybe it’s the detachment that came from killing people and taking their land. Either way, we are boring.
Yes, that even means you.
So until tomorrow, be good.
Late night.
There’s something nice about being thirty. I could never put my finger on it until tonight. What’s nice about it is that no matter how “grown up” I try to make myself (or others try to make me) I still act like I’m 13 when I’m out with my friends. It’s the little things, like if someone falls asleep in the room where we are hanging out we chief them. Here’s our latest victim:
Man that’s fun. I can’t explain it. Let me try for those of you who are humorless: Cody is drunk and asleep, so we write things that emasculate him in a rather juvenile fashion on his arms. It isn’t being homophobic. In fact, if a homosexual has a problem with this picture, write me and I’ll personally marry you. Not to your partner, but to me. I won’t blow you or anything, but I’ll still marry you. I’m that kind of guy.
I am going away now. I’ll be around tomorrow maybe. I’m going to Greensboro with my special lady and then working on some Xpress stuff.
Jew like it funky?
Although I am an atheist or an agnostic, depending on what day it is, I do appreciate people making a joyous noise unto whatever version of a God they believe in. So when I found Numero Records’ Eccentric Soul: Soul Messages from Dimona, I knew that I would find something within the plasti shell of the CD cover and encoded upon the disc itself that spoke to me.
I’m happy to report that I wasn’t disappointed. This is music that stirs me and it is about hope and redemption, two things that I am very keen on lately. It has also brought something to light that I want to share with you, the anonymous faces of the intrawebs: I want, no wait- I demand to date another Jewish woman. I dated one a few years ago, and while it was a decent experience, it left me wanting more. I felt like I didn’t get the full Jewish girl experience. She ate bacon at the Cracker Barrel for Christ’s sake. Sure, we had latkes and applesauce at Hanukkah, but she bought me Christmas presents. This will not do. I want an honest-to-goodness Jewish girl. One who is pro-Isreal and anti me being a pig. One who dreams of marrying a doctor but for no good reason but is willing to fuck me for a little while until Dr. Right comes along.
But anyways, I like soul music, and I’m registering for an account on J-Date.
Be good.
