The Barry Rides

Memphis in May

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 02 May 2012 22:47:00 +0000

Tomorrow morning I'm taking off for Memphis to eat BBQ and see some concerts. While dreaming about the massive ammounts of pork that I'm going to eat I came up with an invention: "The Baby-Back Bjorn". Basically, it's a baby sling that you can load ribs into so that you have two free hands to drink beer with.

I'm gonna try test marketing it while I'm down in Memphis, if things go the way I expect, Facebook may end up being the second biggest IPO this year.

Stay tuned.

I'm making juice Bitch!

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 02 May 2012 22:37:00 +0000

I bought a juicer!
Not that piece of shit that Montel Williams is hawking on late-night TV, but a real deal, hippy wheatgrass juicer that I can make babyfood with.

Part of the reason for this is it's become clear to me that my body no longer gives a shit. I've never been one to eat well, or exercise much but up until recently, my body seemed to take care of itself no matter what sort of crap I decided to throw in it. Sadly those days are over. Looking forward, I see that unless I want to invest in a Rascal Scooter and a colostomy bag, I'm gonna have to be more proactive about my health, hence the juicer.

But more importantly, this isn't just some late 30's health crises, by going of the juice grid, I get to stick it to "big juice". Tropicana and Ocean Spray can go fuck themselves, now that I own an Omega 8003 they'll never see another one of my juice dollars. I can't tell you how good it feels to get their boot off my neck. No longer do I have to suffer under the tyranny of their fickle juice cocktail selections. Orange-Cranberry? Cran-Raspberry? Fuck that noise, this morning I juiced a pack of Fruit Stripe Gum, I could feel the fresh nutrients coursing through my veins.

I love my juicer, in fact, the only thing that feels better than drinking my own juice, is telling people how shitty their store-bought juice is. I can go on for hours telling friends about how the high fructose corn syrup in their "juice" is robbing them of the nutrients and enzymes that their bodies crave, while simultaneously making their asses fat. When that gets tired, I like to talk about how the petroleum footprint of their guava-mango cocktail is leading to the greenhouse gas crisis, while my home-juice supports local agriculture. Do you know what fresh wheatgrass tastes like? It tastes like victory... because if I tell you that I started my day with a fresh shot of wheatgrass you'll have no choice but to proclaim me a superior human in every sense of the word.

The Stench of Unemployment

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Tue, 01 May 2012 00:21:00 +0000

Being unemployed has been a time of revelation for me. A time where I have grown to learn certain truths about myself. And let me tell you the truth hurts or in this case stinks. First I came to the realization that no matter how hard I try or how much Rogaine I use, as a thirty-six year old man, I will never be able to grow a beard. Fantasies about having facial hair so thick and luxurious that I would have to use heavy condition to get a comb through it were dashed as I hit the three week mark without shaving and all I had was three whiskers growing out of my chin like an old lady reading tarot cards at the Santa Monica pier. When the pain subsided from my lack of testosterone, I tried to make up for it by getting in not one, but two fights. Both have been detailed here so I won't bore you with the details. Sure I kicked some ass, but really should I bring up the fact I am thirty-six again. I am too old to get in fights but too young to grow a full beard. Tragic.

Life is hard and my latest revelation might be the toughest yet. When I lost my job and decided to no longer live by the rules of society, I threw out my antiperspirant with my razor. I figured if I didn't have a job why should I give myself Alzheimer's any faster than nature intended. I was treating myself right. At first I didn't see any adverse affects. In fact it all seemed good. My shirts no longer had crusty yellow pits that the aluminum in antiperspirant caused and I was no longer soaking wet because I put ten times the recommended amount on each pit. It seemed like a win win. Sadly I was very wrong. Within a few days I noticed I smelled a bit pungent, but not overly offensive. I carried the odor of an old person walking briskly through the mall. In the course of a month however that all changed.

There is no good way to describe it so I will just be honest. I think I just went through my second puberty. My armpits smell like the crap that is left in a pipe after you smoke a bowl. I don't get it. My diet hasn't changed other than the enormous amount of granola I seem to be consuming on a daily basis. It's like my showers don't take. Is this what my ancestors smelled like back in the old country when they labored all day? By old country I am of course referring to the Bronx and by labored I mean worked in jewelry stores. I digress. The most alarming part is my left pit smells ten times worse than the right. I should ask my doctor to ultrasound my pits now that I know my thyroid is clear. Anyway I just figured I would share my latest in the long list of life altering events having no job has caused. If we hang out please don't judge me or sniff the air around me. It will make me feel self conscious.

Thanks

I've got thyroid cancer

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 18:27:00 +0000

Well not really, but here is my story about how I thought I had it.

After six months of stalling, I finally had my annual physical last week. I could say I stalled because I was afraid of what they might find floating around in my body or I could say I was far too busy being an unemployed sloth to have a doctor fondle my balls and tell me cough. Either excuse is acceptable in my book.

When I went in everything started off fine. The nurse took my height and weight. Only a two pound gain since the year before. So far so good. My height stayed the same. Also good. Blood pressure seems ok. I'm not going to stroke out thankfully. After the initial measurements, there were lots of questions about my eating and sleeping habits, and even a few about my bowel habits. Well I might have volunteered that info. After letting the doctor know she could learn more about my regularity via twitter, she began to poke and prod my body. Reflexes, breathing, mole check, and one test that seemed odd to me. My doc took her small hand and held my neck in some sort of kung fu hold while telling me to swallow repeatedly. She did this several times before the physical was over. After the final hernia check, I asked the doc what all the neck grabbing was about:

Doc

Oh, I felt a lump in your throat.

Barry

What?

Doc

You never noticed a growth on the right side?

Barry

No.

Doc

You are going to need to get an ultrasound.

Barry

Should I be worried?

Doc

Let's just get the results then discuss.

Now I have to wonder if I didn't ask would she have said you need an ultrasound? It seemed like an afterthought. The ultrasound was scheduled for 48 hours later so that gave me plenty of time to convince myself I was dying of thyroid cancer. Sure it's treatable. I know at least two Jewish girls who had it in their twenties and survived. I still figured mine would be the rare case that would kill me quickly, but not before stripping me of the little dignity I have by taking my hair. I am clearly not as tough as a Jewish girl.

By hour 47 I was in full panic. I went to the lab to get the ultrasound done and sweat was pouring out of my nose like never before. I figured that could be attributed to thyroid cancer as well. The technician had me lay down as she warmed up the gel for the wand. She then informed me that my doctor would get the results in three days. This made me turn white and sweat even more. I knew the technician would know right away how much time I had left. Why can't they just tell you right then and there? After about ten minutes of the wand being moved all over my neck (super gay), the test was over. As I was wiping the gel off my neck (also gay), the technician said to me, "I shouldn't tell you this, but you are going to be fine. It is just a clear cyst." I was beyond relieved. I have so much living to do. I've been given a second chance. I can't squander another minute. I am just kidding. I'm not going to do anything differently. Right after the test I took a nap and wasted the day.

Final note, why do I have a cyst in my neck? The doctor called me today and said it was nothing to concern myself about, but come on, she is clearly lying to make me feel better. In my medical opinion, there is no other explanation.

If anyone is actually reading this, it's time to rejoice. I am back to blogging.

If all else fails...

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 16:42:00 +0000

Lately I've been wondering what to do with myself if my writing career doesn't take off. I've always been envious of people that have a family business to fall back on. Like an arranged marriage it seems like a no brainer of what to do with your life. You go to school, party your ass off, skip the class on resume writing, graduate, and go become a VP at a business you have no experience at. Of course all the real employees will hate you, but who cares. You earned that position through nepotism and that's awesome.

Sadly working for my parents has never been an option. Any business they ever started was instantly run into the ground because they were animals. If for some reason one of their get rich quick schemes had actually taken off, there is no way I could have worked for them anyway. That much time together would have definitely resulted in parricide. I guess in that case the warden would be my career counselor. Anyway I digress.

My new plan for when my writing career fails is to move to New Jersey and claim I'm the long lost heir to the BJF Sanitation Corporation. I figure all I have to do is say I'm a dumpster baby and no one will question me. If you think about all the babies that are thrown in dumpsters on a daily basis in the garden state, you will realize it's not my worst idea. How can anyone possibly remember every baby they've thrown away? I could be the one that survived which just proves I have the tenacity to run BJF Sanitation. I think my future is going to work out just fine.

Working My Ass Off

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:22:00 +0000

Would you believe I've been too busy working to blog? I know it doesn't sound likely, but it's true. Oh, don't get your hopes up that I'm earning a living again because we all know I'm unemployable. For the last month or so I have been working my non-existant ass off writing a sitcom pilot that I know is going to make me beyond rich. I've literally put all my eggs in one basket, but don't worry I know a huge pay day is coming. I have already maxed out my credit cards like I did on December 31st, 1999 because I know my idea is that good.

This reminds me of the time I decided I wanted to be a spy. I applied to the CIA in the hopes of being sent on a mission to kill foreign dignitaries. Shockingly, the CIA was interested. I have attached the follow up letter that they sent me. Sadly, at the time I was young and foolish. They wanted me to answer a bunch of questions about current events, but being that it was 1997, and I was only 21, I didn't have a clue. I never responded. Now if they had asked me where to buy VHS porn, I could have really shined.

Lavender Lill R.I.P.

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 06:30:00 +0000

I am sad to say that my friend Bruce lost his mother the other day. Not the good kind of lost either where she is wandering around Target while he has her paged. I am talking the rest in peace way. Over the years she has provided me with some great material for this blog and I will really miss her.

Now that Lillian is no longer able to sue me for slander, I feel it's a good time to share my favorite Lillian story. This story came directly from her, word for word or something like that.

Roughly twelve years ago, Lillian went to the hospital to visit her husband. After what I can only assume was a loving visit, Lillian walked out to the parking garage only to notice her car was blocked in. Not knowing what to do she went to the hospital reception desk to let them know. Trying to resolve the issue, they announced over the hospital PA system that the car in question was illegally parked and needed to be moved or it would be towed. Two hours went by with constant announcements before Lillian boiled over with rage. With the flick of her wrist her house key came out and in a few short seconds the illegally parked car had new pin striping. Just as she was about to sign her name the owner showed up.

Owner of the car

What are you doing to my car??

Lillian

Where have you been? Didn't you hear the pages for the last two hours?

Owner of the car

I heard them but I didn't want to cut my visit short.

Lillain

I hope they're terminal.

Now the conversation might not be exact but the incident did happen and Lillian was caught doing it. To me the best part is Lillian was close to eighty when it happened. She had that fire in her belly until the end.

She will be missed by all!

On another note I need to mention how much of an animal my brother is. The morning Lillian died, Bruce posted a note on his facebook wall letting everyone know he lost his mother and Lewis immediately clicked that he liked it. He is a savage, but then again he does provide me with great material.

Past Posts:

I need her to pick me some horses

Darth Vader

Dinner with my brother - an ongoing series

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 06:22:00 +0000

I have decided to start a series of posts that describe in excruciating detail what it's like to go to dinner with my brother. You might learn about fine dining in LA or you might hear stories about me pulling the fire alarm in an Italian restaurant to get out of the bill. Either way, I am sure there will be some mention of my brother eating a rotisserie chicken with his hands in a sushi joint (I think he brought it with him). With that said, there is no better place to start our adventure than to retell the story of having dinner last night at one of Los Angeles's finest sushi restaurants. Actually this is the story of not having dinner at one of LA's finest sushi establishments.

As some of you might know, I will only eat in one of two sushi places in the greater Los Angeles area. One is Nishimura, and the other is Jinpachi. Both are in my ignorant white person's opinion amazing. In fact the owner of Jinpachi is rumored to have worked at Nishimura for a time. I think it ended after he was caught taking polaroids of the fish so he would know exactly how to recreate the dishes for his own establishment. Lately, I 've been eating at Jinpachi since the last time I ate at Nishimura was my birthday dinner and as you may know I made a vow not to return. Okay, enough back story, we walk into Jinpachi at 6pm and I make a bee line to the bathroom to pee. I either have type two diabetes or the world's smallest bladder (a story for another time). While I am in the bathroom my brother sits at the sushi bar. Flash back to me in the bathroom, I take a piss, flush the toilet and start to wash my hands. As I am scrubbing my skin like any sane person with OCD does, I notice the urinal is running with extreme force and the water level is rising. I stare at it for a second and think, who cares, urinals don't overflow. Suddenly as I am drying my hands I notice the yellowy water is getting dangerously close to the urinal brim. Shit, time to escape. I grab fifty paper towels and open the door praying there is no skin to handle contact. As the door opens the water starts to pour out of the urinal onto the floor. I run to the first Japanese person I see and say the urinal is overflowing. After realizing he is just a customer, I tell the first Mexican I see. At this point water is rushing out of the bathroom into the restaurant.

I run back to the sushi bar out of breath and tell my brother exactly what happened. I describe running from the piss water as if I were Indiana Jones trying to outrun that boulder in Raiders. I can tell he isn't paying attention. He is just waiting for his turn to talk. As soon as I get out my last word, he informs me that the owner of Jinpachi is on vacation in Japan and that he doesn't want to be served by an underling. That is when the following occurred:

Lewis -looking directly at the sushi chef but talking loudly to me

CALL MY CELL PHONE RIGHT NOW!

Barry

Okay

I dial my phone and place it in my lap. A minute later my brother's phone rings. Thanks AT&T. He looks at the sushi chef.

Lewis

I need to take this.

Sushi Chef

Yoshi

My brother gets up from the table and walks outside. He paces back and forth talking. He walks back in.

Lewis - looking at the sushi chef

That was my wife. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but I have to leave right now to pick up my daughter.

Sushi Chef

Yoshi

I burst into laughter as I get up from the bar and run out of the place. I notice out of the corner of my eye, that half of the employees are using towels to try stop the toilet water from advancing throughout the whole restaurant.

Long story short, due to current circumstances, my birthday vow has been revoked. Nishimura is back in the rotation.

Stay tuned for more dining adventures with my brother in the coming weeks.

Technical Difficulties

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 06:18:00 +0000

For some reason my phone overwrote the post regarding the best and worst of 2011. Contrary to popular belief, I did not take it down due to its lack of humor. I will go to my grave knowing the worst day of 2011 was September 11th. It was the day my feet turned blue from stepping in a puddle while wearing my new ROOS. It truly was a low.

2011: The year of Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (Jake) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 01:04:00 +0000

As the year draws to a close, it's become common practice for bloggers to look back and compile a "Best of" sort of list that re-caps the year's highlights. Since I'm confident that you're all sick to death of hearing about "Watch the Throne", or "Game of Thrones", or any of that other throne crap, I thought I'd take the next few days to look back at the mysteries and puzzles that 2011 bestowed upon us.

First mystery: What's up with Mickey Rourke's Hands?

Or really, what's up with Mickey Rourke? Seriously the guy looks all sorts of fucked up these days, but when you consider the tough life he's had and the fact that he spent a good decade or so as a shitty boxer that took a lot of shots to the face, it kinda makes sense. Until you look at his hands, then you can't help but think of that crazy little Lamisil monster, right?

I mean this picture could be of Mickey Rourke standing in front of one of his own fingernails. It's no wonder Kim Basinger once called him "The Human Ashtray". But all kidding aside, what the fuck is up with those hands. If you look at the picture below, you can see it wasn't always that way...

Sure he's a little ham-handed, but he didn't have those creepy curved nail beds, or fat-ass fingers like the dragon from The NeverEnding Story. Sure being a boxer may toughen the hands, but what's going on with Mickey Rourke's paws is simply not human.

And then it occurred to me, that's it. You heard it here first, after examining photographs taken over several years and watching all of the Twilight movies while drinking cough syrup, I've come to the conclusion that Mickey Rourke is actually a werewolf.

Notice the similarity between MR's hands and this werewolf's paws? I read somewhere that he even tried to eat Steve Guttenberg on the set of Diner. I'd hate to be his manicurist....

Anyhow, so that's just one of the things that this crazy year's made me wonder about. I'll be back with more Mysteries of 2011 over the next few days.

Happy Hanukkah - Day Two - A musical number

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 02:14:00 +0000

On this second night of Hanukkah I am giving you all the gift of music. Enjoy the festivities.

Happy Hanukkah - Day One - Fear God

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 03:19:00 +0000

I just wanted to wish my fellow Jews a happy festival of lights. On this first night, we should remember that the Lord is all powerful. One year his magic provided a temple with light for eight nights when we all knew there was only enough oil to light that place up for one. Another year he gave me Destro with swivel-arm battle grip. Sadly it's not all good, this year he turned a blind eye on his people and let Bored to Death get canceled. I question not what I don't understand, but my guess is this has something to do with Talia Shire.

Joyeux Noel - 12 Days of Poop Jokes

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 16:52:00 +0000

I was thinking that between my poop post yesterday and my Twitter feed, there is the slightest chance that I discuss excrement a bit too much. It's possible that people have heard enough crowing jokes to last a lifetime. I did some soul searching and was about to lay off the constant chatter about my quivering bowels when I was given a sign from the gods to stay the course and never give up. Everyone knows that doodie is funny, even Santa.

Next time you're constipated during the holidays, remember it's probably Santa punishing you for being bad.

Writer's Bathroom

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 03:33:00 +0000

The other day I was talking to a two year old who happened to be sitting on a toilet (not at all creepy out of context) and I asked her to come up with her two best sitcom ideas. She cocked her head, grunted, and the next thing I heard was a splash.

Two Year Old

Oooooooooooh, I just made a little poop.

Barry

Good job.

Two Year Old (while grunting)

Let me make it bigger.

PLOP!!! - Not sure how to put sound effects into dialogue.

Two Year Old

I made it a friend!

Barry

I like where you are going with this.

I have no intention of giving her a writer's credit.

Our country is going to shit

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 20:58:00 +0000

Today I was eavesdropping on two five year olds and honestly I might need to go to therapy to get over the crap coming out of their mouths. I am only posting this to show you how far America has declined in the last thirty years. I warn you, the words you are about to read are graphic and disturbing. If for some reason you ever hear them spoken in your vicinity, I don't think there is a court in the land that would convict you of child abuse for the punches you would desperately need to throw.

Five Year Old (1)

I think Darth Vader is better because he can turn into a droid for attack.

Five Year Old (2)

No, no, I think Darth Sidious is better because of his battle grip.

What the hell is either of these brats talking about? Star Wars has clearly been ruined.

I know you're all disturbed by this pointless post ,so I hope this picture makes up for what I thought would have been a funny tirade.

Time for my nose to sweat

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 21:46:00 +0000

I am just putting the finishing touches on my spec script outline. It came out well except for the fact that my grammar skills indicate I was educated under a bridge by a pack of feral cats. I had a couple of people review it, pat me on the back for being clever, and of course fix what college couldn't. Now it's on to submitting it to my teacher so he too can pat me on the back and possibly provide me some notes, that will enrage me since I hate criticism. Once that is complete it is on to the next level to achieving my black belt in sitcom writing. The first class was all about the outline, and how Red Fox used to love coke (don't ask), and the second is all about the dialogue for each scene. I just realized this means I am going to have to read my script out loud on a weekly basis. I foresee my voice cracking and my nose sweating profusely each time I open my mouth. I might need to use robot voice to do all my talking for me.

Robot Barry

Philadelphia 2 - This time with more AIDS!

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 03:37:00 +0000

I can honestly say I have never sat through the movie Philadelphia. When I was younger I avoided it because I thought it might give me AIDS (times were different back then). Now I can't sit through it because the premise seems absurd. People don't get AIDS anymore. That was so 1990. At least that is what I thought until I saw my brother the other day. I went to run some absurd errand with him that involved us driving to the San Gabriel Valley to get a permit for some sort of art show that he plans to put on in the park (lies, but might be good for another post). I pull up to his place and he walks out looking like a homeless Tom Hanks and this time Denzel won't represent him.

Let me break the outfit down for you. He is wearing all black Nike sneakers, the kind you wear if you are waiter or a nurse. I didn't see his socks, but let's just assume they were torn to shreds. Move on to the pants, Brooks Brothers, wool pleated suit pants, funny enough purchased roughly the same time Philadelphia came out. I would say pleated says it all, but I was told that the previous day one of his friends informed him that his pants had the distinctive odor of vomit, so I am pretty sure vomit trumps pleated. The shirt, XXXL dry-fit with a week's worth of crumbs stuck all over. On top of the shirt was a filthy Patagonia fleece that looked like it was purchased during freshman orientation at Brandeis. Moving on to the face, the perfect cancer beard. You know the kind that makes people think, poor thing, he clearly is dying. Finally we get to the baseball hat, the same cancer description applies here as well. Each item was gross on their own, but together it created some sort of Voltron animal of disgust. If I knew the words to the Bruce Springsteen Philadelphia song, now would be a good time for me to sing them. If I had a time machine and a jar full of AIDS, I could easily make some money having my brother be Tom Hanks's stand-in. It was all very sad. Hopefully my brother can get to a doctor before his condition worsens.

He covered his face out of shame!

Han Solo has dementia and I have diarrhea

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 03:08:00 +0000

I should say had diarrhea since this this story is a week old. Captain Solo still has dementia though.

It all started in a galaxy far away that I like to call Brentwood. It was Wednesday night and I was driving my land speeder to my brother's for an early dinner before my class. Traffic was a complete nightmare. I think a couple of droids got run over in front of Mos Eisley's cantina and there wasn't a jawa in sight to clean it up. With traffic being a complete nightmare, my brother thought it would be a good time to go to a local sushi place that I had previously told him was delicious. That was ten years ago and we both know my palette is much more refined now. I was down for going anywhere close as long as there were no sand people there (with or without the Star Wars joke it sounds amazingly racist).

We got to the sushi place around 6PM and there wasn't another customer in sight. Now when we are dealing with raw fish, not having many customers can cause one to worry, but I was still being optimistic. We sat at the bar and ordered a few pieces. Each piece made me wish I had shot first, but it was too late. The damage was done to my midi-chlorian. As I sat there chewing wookie meat, who do you think walked in the door? It was none other than Han Solo himself (with an earring) and what I would assume was Princess Leia after she went on a hunger strike. There was also a child but he looked more adopted than Skywalker. Everyone that worked in the restaurant said "Hello Captain Solo, your usual table with your back to the wall?" He said of course and sat down with one hand on his blaster while keeping the other free for his chop sticks. I overheard him order a bunch of rotten fish while I sat sadly realizing my hero clearly had early onset Alzheimer's. I mean I had an excuse as to why I went to this dump. It had been ten years and I was young. He clearly goes there all the time. Maybe with all the trouble in the middle east, it is too expensive to take the falcon more than a few parsecs past his mansion.

Now on to the death star in my bowels. After we finished eating, I needed something to get the horrible taste out of my mouth. I made my brother stop at Coffee Bean where I got myself a piece of coffee cake. I have no clue why I ordered it. I never eat coffee cake. Anyway, I shoved the entire piece in my mouth in a fashion that would have made Jabba proud. As we walked to the car I felt that as if there was a direct hit to my core reactor. Sweat started pouring down my face. I had planned to have my brother drop me at class as I couldn't bear to get back in my speeder, but I had to have him take me to his place instead. Since this is a Star Wars post I might as well accurately describe my brother's apartment. Remember the trash compactor scene? That is me being kind. I ran in his place and made the biggest toilet paper nest you have ever seen on a seat that was more dried piss than plastic. Even with the nest, I used my best Yoda impersonation to levitate over the bowl. I destroyed the bowl like George Lucas destroyed my childhood memories (Star Wars coming soon in 3D!)

I made it to class 45 minutes late. Master Windu was none too pleased.

The greatest person I ever sent to co-worker heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 03:17:00 +0000

As many of you might be aware I was recently let go from my job. It either had something to do with my twittering about shitting or revenue projections. Regardless, as one would expect I no longer get to see my former co-workers very often . At first I tried to try to go in and pretend I wasn't let go, but I never got past the parking lot security. Who am I kidding, I never got out of bed to even make the half assed attempt to go to my office as a joke. Since I am so lazy and refuse to see people (sent them all to co-worker heaven), the guy I sat across from for years, Peter, left me a birthday gift in my mailbox. I think he did it under cover of night as to not scare me. He knows everyone from work is dead to me if I am not there. Last thing I need is to think I see ghosts.

Now on to the gift. I would have expected a 15 buck gift certificate to Applebee's and if he was feeling generous a card that played the Macarena on a loop, but no he had to blow my mind and make me reevaluate everything and everyone. I had to use my new scanner to show the world Peter's birthday card, or as I like to call it, "Self Esteem Building Blocks For Dummies":

Seriously, there is someone out there who realizes I am wasting my talents more than me. It is sad and touching all at once. He also gave me a book that I have no intention of reading, The War of Art. I have had it four days now and it is a great book. It fits perfectly in my back pocket. So far I have impressed the checkout girl at Pep Boys and my mailman, with the fact that not only do I carry a book with me but it has War in the title.

On a serious note, thanks Peter. I will read the book and hopefully one day you can be my assistant. I plan to frame the card.

High School Bedroom

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 22:06:00 +0000

As I go through old pictures the memories are flooding in. Today I reminisced about how much I jerked off in high school and that even back then I dreamed of one day moving to California (see poster of a better life). You will notice in the picture my high tech home entertainment center with a state of the art VCR. Many a night I am sure my parents pretended to hear nothing as the VCR groaned from me hitting, play, rewind, play, rewind, play, fast forward, play, for three minute increments every hour on the hour. Those were good times.

Upon further examination I have realized this picture was from college not high school. The masturbation stories still hold true.

Why I wish it was 1978 - part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 18:42:00 +0000

Here is a picture of me playing with some toys as a little boy. The best part of this picture is the fact that my toy box is a sorry ass card board box with no structural integrity. I would like to say my parents were young and starting out, but I am pretty sure that box is still in our dining room. Ten points to whoever can identify the action figure laying on top.

Why I wish it was 1978

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 18:21:00 +0000

I just bought a new scanner which means it's picture time!! First stop on my memory lane is the 70s. I am going to go out on a limb and say it was the best decade ever. Name another time you could go to a mall pet store and come home with a chimpanzee?

I am so glad all my childhood polaroids are in mint condition.

Mission Accomplished - Unemployment Complete

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 22:25:00 +0000

Oh don't get all excited that I got a job because I didn't. I am talking about the fact that as of two nights ago I have accomplished everything I ever wanted to while being unemployed. The final item on my list was to get into a fist fight and of course win.

It went something like this. It's Sunday night, I realize I need to move my car for street cleaning, I throw on some shorts (was nude from the waist down) and go outside. Standing in front of my house is a stocky drunkard holding two pink roses. I open my gate and proceed to walk down the street. He mumbles something to me and then proceeds to spit on my lawn. I turn around and tell him to keep moving. He curses at me and motions to piss on my gate. I tell him to get the fuck out of here and he is messing with the wrong person. I then tell him that I am a local cop (why??? I have no idea, but it makes the story so much better). Next thing I know, I push him, he pushes me. It's on! Within a few seconds I have him in a headlock. I then proceed to drive his head into my fence. I let him go. He comes at me again. We lock arms, I knee him in the chest. Game over. He stumbles away, leaving his roses in front of my house. I now understand how my dog feels when he gets into a fight with a local alley cat. I was panting, tongue out, and my tail was wagging. I never felt so full of life. I have accomplished so much in my three weeks of unemployment. Every unemployed 36 year old needs to get in a fight.

My stoner neighbor told me the idiot came back later looking for his roses. While looking he pissed on another neighbor's house. Classy guy. I wonder if he was coming or going from a date. I hate to think he showed up to a lady's house empty handed. That isn't very gentleman like. Poor girl.

Greatest night of my life!

Very worldly

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 23:22:00 +0000

I am becoming a more evolved person. Instead of getting all my news from the Yahoo scrolling home page, I have picked up a thing or two from this month's Esquire magazine. I found it in the park. Today I read that Coke was an amazing company and that I should sell everything I own to buy one share of it and I also read an article about sitcoms and pilots. Very timely stuff. I can't wait to bring it up in class tonight.

If someone would leave a New York Times on the street there is no telling what I could do.

Beerfest

noreply@blogger.com (Barry Fein) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 22:03:00 +0000

Today I was at the park when I bumped into a man that can best be described as your go to guy if you need a henchman for a Cinemax movie. I am talking a man so large that his muscles have muscles and those muscles look like they do roids. I stared at him and thought our paths had crossed before. When he spoke I knew for sure. It was Schlemmer of Beerfest fame. I don't normally talk to celebrities or strange men in the park but I did strike up a conversation with Gunter that either went one of two ways:

Barry: Sucks the Germans lost WW2, I mean Beerfest
Gunter: Stop tapping your shoe and get away from me.

or

Barry: Were you in Beerfest?
Gunter: Yes, I was. How did you know?
Barry: Not many men your size with German accents floating around that could pull off that roll.
Gunter: Stop tapping your shoe.

Either way Beerfest is an awesome movie and Gunter was a really nice guy (clearly afraid, Gunter will google his name, find this post and come kill me). I should also note that we discussed a second Beerfest and both hope it happens.