So I told him I’m as gay as much as his gas smells like roses, as much as his dating life is successful, and as much as he wipes his ass. And then he still accused me of being gay because I mentioned his ass. Hahaha!

I’d like to think that if I played for the other team I’d have higher standards. Anyway, he just moved to the back of the bus staring me down… I’ll assume he just didn’t want to turn around and expose his ass in case I felt the urge to attack it.

Hahaha!

First off, death always sucks unless a person is suffering ridiculous pain from sickness or physical wounds. Or is an asshole. I don’t think anyone will care if an asshole dies except the most zealous of anal practicioners, and even then, love is dirty and fleeting.

Second, I am definitely an 80s kid – Breakfast Club, rubber bracelets, Alyssa Milano, breakdancing, A-Team, Hanna Barbera cartoons, and Seka were just some of the things all up in the motherfucker known as my adolescence. That said, I was an involuntary witness to the Two Coreys phenomenon – Corey Feldman and Corey Haim running rampant in Hollywood and in little girls’ hearts.

And it was annoying as shit.

Did I and do I contnue to hate on them? I definitely did because looking at my little sister’s teen mags, the Coreys were ruining the good panoche of my future wife, the aforementioned Milano. Back then in eighth grade, I was sure they were tagging it. Man, I really hated those guys. Eventually, I felt bad for them because they were becoming jokes to me, even at their peak.

Do I hate them now? Of course not… I’m alive. And while my formative years were misspent searching for porn, hitting on chicks way out of my league, searching for porn, sports, and searching for porn… at least I was able to do these things and have fun being a stupid kid. We’ve come to learn that being a child star ain’t easy and is full of sin and wasted life. Don’t get me wrong. If someone told me as a teenager I could be a star and get all the tang I wanted, I’d be all up in it. And I’d make for damn sure the only thing busting my anal cavity was the crap made from all the filet mignon and Snickers bars I’d be eating.

That said, be careful, fat kid from Two and a Half Men. Just saying, save all your money because once that show is over, so is your career. I’m calling you the next Haley Joel Osment. And Dakota Fanning, you’re getting a little suspect right now.

But, back to Haim. It’s definitely a sad ending for him and beneath my cold and hard exterior, I do feel bad for him and his loves ones. But, c’mon already from everyone else that is deeply saddened by his death! You either didn’t personally know his ass or you didn’t care for it and are only acting out of some sense of nostalgia. Corey Haim was not a game-changer in the world of entertainment the way someone like, say, Michael Jackson was. I mean MJ had everyone busting their ass and spraining their ankles doing moonwalks. While I didn’t cry or go to a candlelight vigil, I can understand why people were sincerely deeply affected by that alleged kid toucher’s death.

Haim didn’t have that mass appeal. In fact, if it wasn’t for his appearance in The Lost Boys, only chicks would have dug him and his movies. I’ll admit he will always have a place in pop culture, but he won’t be the first person someone thinks of when 1980s cinema is mentioned. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be in the top ten as much as he dominated with those goofy teen movies.

Later on, after he became a has-been in Hollywood, we learned he was sexually abused during his high time and that sucks balls. Hmm… maybe I should have used different words… Anyway, like I said, I feel bad, but I don’t feel sad. What the hell did Corey Haim do for me? I mean, honestly, the only reason I watched License To Drive was because Heather Graham was hot as hell… shit, I’m old.

Anyway, the most important thing to me is knowing who the people are that I honestly care about and those that care back about me. Too bad Haim thought his life was all about pleasing others and didn’t know who was really there for him. Props to Corey Feldman for figuring it out. Unlike others I know that are pouring out with emotion over Haim’s death, I’m good, thanks.

You will check it out and put your favorite lyrics in the comments section.

Anyway, I was going to write about my brother and his gay odyssey to Florida this past weekend, but as always, something came up on my commute home.

If you’re friends with me on Facebook, then you’ll know I always have some story going on when I ride NYC’s lovely transportation system. Today was one of those days when people should have just shut the fuck up or at least thought before they said something that would have still made me think that they should have shut the fuck up.

So, I get to the train platform for the 6 line at Grand Central and it was unusually crowded. The first train comes and I have as much chance to get in from where I was standing by the steps as much as I have a shot of impregnating Jessica Alba – I’m infertile, you see, so it’s not because she wouldn’t have relations with me… I’m awesome. Okay, fine, I’m not infertile, but fat and ugly, which I hear are traits that hot chicks don’t dig for some reason.

Anyway, with the first train leaving the station, I slowly go towards the track with the penguin steps we all take as we move in a crowd and wait for the second train. It comes and I have a better shot of making it in. However, any hopes of entering are dashed when a person actually fatter than me slides (yeah, I know that’s a paradoxical statement) out from my peripheral vision and glides his way into the subway car. You have to give it up to fatty for looking smooth doing it too… he even said the James Brown “heeeeey!”

So, it would be the third train for me, no question, as I was literally on the edge of the track looking like a suicide jumper… too thoughtless of a description? What if I told you the lead singer from Third Eye Blind was standing next to me? Whatever, the train comes and I courteously allow people to get off and I walk in. To my surprise, there were about five baby strollers in the already cramped car. Oh, and to clarify, babies and at least one parent or nanny were attached to said strollers. The strollers weren’t there by themselves, silly!

Naturally, some people were irked and that’s fine. I was too, but not stupid enough to say out loud what the guy behind me said:

“They shouldn’t allow baby strollers on the subway.”

Dumbshit.

Now, maybe I got pissed at this ignorant statement because I’m a father, but what are parents/caregivers supposed to do? Walk miles and miles like my grandfather did to school… in the snow… with no shoes on? Or maybe not go venturing out in the world because of the burden of a child? Well, maybe in China something like a no-stroller law could work, but goddamnit, not in New York City! We don’t limit the amount of kids here because if we did, all the minorities would leave, and not just the father leaving the mother, I’m talking leaving the city! We can’t help it, we like to bump uglies and ejaculate inside unless we’re filming because it’s all about the Dead Prez shot.

Man, I’ve made a short story much longer… and dirtier.

So, I say to the guy with a laugh (to mask my anger because I really wanted to deck him for being an idiot), “Shooting blanks, huh?” It took him a minute, but eventually got it and he replied that it wasn’t my business. So, the convo went like this:

“It’s cool… your swimmers are like the ANTI-Michael Phelps.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know me.”

“Uh oh… it’s the ‘you don’t know me’ line. Seriously, it’s all good, sir.”

“You can’t dictate to me how to live my life, SIR.”

“And you can’t dictate to these people with your judgments on how to live theirs. Just because they bang and you shake dice to old reruns of Quincy, ME doesn’t make them bad people because they bring strollers on a train.”

And with that I left because it was my stop, which was fortunate because the dude – a Caucasian fella in his 40s – looked at me like he was Charlie Sheen in Platoon and I was the VC.

Morale of the story: If you’re going to be a wiseass, make sure your stop is only one station away.

I’ve been doing a lot of sports writing lately, which includes work at Fanway.com, and it’s something I thought I left behind some time ago and wouldn’t come back to. Guess not. In any case, I’ve also been studying the effects of Cookie Dough Pop Tarts on one’s ass and apparently, it creates craters. Par. Tay. As far as Erik’s reasons, well, let’s just say he’s Mexican and it’s about 2pm all day for him.

My hope for telling all of you that Erik and I are writing a movie is that it holds us accountable. If you leave comments or call our toll-free number or see us on the street, please feel free to fondle our genitals if you’re a female, and ask us, “How’s the movie script coming, fucker?!?!” Yes, I think if we hear that question enough times, it will be the impetus for us to finish our script. If anything, so that we can reply, “Just like shooting in your mom’s face, it’s done!”

In all seriousness, Erik and I need to treat the script like it’s NOT a podcast. If you’ve been around here long enough, you’ll know that we never seem to do them and that can’t happen with our movie. There are a few reasons why:

1) The movie idea is hilarious, objectively speaking of course

2) From what we understand, we’ll become multi-millionaires and ridiculously famous enough that when we enter rooms, we’ll actually make the puss sweat instantly

3) We’re guaranteed Oscar winners and therefore will add a title to our names – “The long-penised Academy Award winning…”

I really can’t think of better reasons to finish writing this script… and of course I’m talking about the long-peen part.

In any case, I’m on my way home, packed in a bus like the front of Ron Jeremy’s underwear. I was sitting innocently writing the previous post on here when a rancid odor filled the air around me. It was so bad I actually made a face and immediately thought:

Damn, these people around me probably think I dropped that bomb!

Paranoid? Nope. I just know how people think… for things of this nostril hair burning nature, we all blame the fat guy. That would be me.

Let’s be honest. We never think the skinny dude, athletic person, or hot chick ever farts. Never. Why is that? Well, there are a few reasons, such as they don’t eat much, they never chow down on bad food, or make their own artificial butt plugs by clenching their ass cheeks hard. For the latter group, it must be said that their shits are the most foul smelling and akin to dead moose assholes stacked ceiling high in a room.

Anyway, the point being, society sees fat people as slobs. Smelly slobs. Smelly slobs that get blamed for bombs more than terrorists. And, judging from the guy sitting next to me subtly sniffing and looking at me in one motion, I’m pretty sure he just fitted me for a turban.

But, I implore you, the next time flatulence happens to be in the air of the crowded bus you’re on, do not quickly pass judgement and blame the fat guy.

It’s very possible someone didn’t clench a cheek fast enough.