Christmas is in the (stale) Air (of the cave)

The Christmas season is upon us! Didn't think I'd live to see another one of these. Oh wait, yes I did. I've been alive forever.

For those of you unfamiliar with Christmas (yeah, right, get real, everybody knows about Christmas, and if they don't, then I will personally buy them a plane ticket to Saturn so they can be boring and dumb somewhere else.), it's the time of year when everyone gets together to celebrate Jesus' birthday and give each other presents.

This means it's also the time of year where everyone will get invited to a kickass Christmas party in heaven, excluding me and everyone down here. I don't want to believe that I suck too bad to get invited. But I do.

Seriously, in Heaven they have a ton of strobe lights and fog machines. Fog machines on clouds. That's the kind of excess that will be at this party. Unreal. Paris Hilton will probably be there too, and she will probably be naked.

But anyways, because it's that time of year, I'm sure you are all wondering, "What is Gary getting for all of the people he loves (is forced to tolerate) this year?" And if you're not wondering that, well...

Here is what I am planning on getting for my friends.

Adolf - that Rosetta Stone "learn English," program so he can communicate like a human being for once.

Cerberus - I got Cerberus a new bowl for Christmas, but he already ate it, along with all of the other presents, the wrapping paper, the tree, all of the lights, the ornaments, the tinsel, my Christmas spirit, and the little angel on top. He left the strings of popcorn. The strings of popcorn that happened to be the only edible thing in the Christmas vicinity.

Also, did I mention that he threw all of that shit up on the white rug later? Oh, except for my Christmas spirit. He digested that.

Saddam - Boxing gloves. He has really hard knuckles.

What's-his-name-my-therapist-with-the-tweed-pants - Altoids. Lots of them.

Phil Spector - I can't give him anything that he hasn't already taken.

St. Peter - I made him a nice sweater/robe in hopes that he would let me into Heaven for a while on Christmas. He opened it prematurely and sent a card that said "Thanks for the Snuggie."

Jesus/God/The Holy Spirit - I seriously need to find Jesus and those dudes the most AWESOME present and I can't seem to think of anything. Xbox 360? No, I bet they get a million Xbox 360's.

James Dean - I don't know, but I hope he gives me a lesson on being as cool as he is. Maybe I will get him some hair gel.

Marilyn Monroe - Dignity. Maybe if I give her some, she will give mine back.

Myself - A 360. Cerberus already ate the controllers though, and Madden. There goes my Christmas.

Jesus (sorry, dude), It's been a long time since I wasn't too depressed to write!

Hello everybody!

By everybody, I mean nobody.

Hello everybody, how are you? It's been a long time since I have given two shits enough to write my particularly witty thoughts and feelings down and publish them on the Internet. Why? Two reasons:

1) Nobody cares about me.

2)

I guess that was just one reason. For some reason it seemed like two when it was in my head. Or maybe I just forgot the second one because I was too busy thinking about the first one. Let me remind you all, why nobody cares about me, again, in a numbered list. It is, after all, the season for lists.

1) I live in an oppressively hot cave in the center of the earth, on a dimensional level different from the one that you, the reader, are currently living on. (Fortunately, the Internet has "connected" us. And no, not "or unfortunately" for you. Don't be a dick.)

2) I also live on a different dimensional level of "cool."
- Seriously, it's like the 4th dimension of "cool."
- Apparently, the 4th dimension of "cool" isn't good enough for Jesus, and James Dean and St. Peter and all the guys up there.
- Yes, James Dean and Marilyn Monroe do make out up there like every day, and if I could put it on the Internet, I would, because I would seriously be able to cash in on that.
- I asked Marilyn on a date and she told me to meet her in the sewer. I went to the sewer. She said that since I was so full of hot air, I could help recreate her famous tableaux.
- I hated myself for months after I did that.

3) All my friends and the people I know live on the 1st dimension of "cool," which sucks. For them. But mostly, for me also, because I am trapped with them in this sucky cave. And they suck.
- Adolf has started self-flagellation.
- Saddam is still mean as shit, all the time.
- Cerberus goes through like five bags of IAMS a day. Actually, that would be a gross understatement.
- Phil Spector (I know, what is he even doing here?) has seriously overproduced all of my hip-hop albums.

4) I am apparently a bleak, lecherous social leper. Who lives in a cave. Did I mention a cave?

Happy Thanksgiving. Cerberus ate the fucking turkey down here. Hope your three headed monster dog didn't eat your turkey. Really, I am being sincere.

5) I am an insincere, insecure...

Really though, Happy Thanksgiving.

Sheesh! Dr. Allen...Wait, where am I?

Sheesh! It's been a long time since I wrote on this. My life has been extremely busy lately, busy busy busy, no time to write. That's how I keep myself happy. I keep myself busy. What have I been doing, you ask?

Well actually, I have mostly just been lying on my couch with a towel wrapped around my head and hands, trying to forget my life by sheer sensory deprivation. No big deal. Just what I am up to for the most part.

My therapist recommended it. He is so smart and nice and always gives me the best treatments for when I am feeling sad or post-suicidal (I feel like that most of the time because apparently I can't die. Details). I like to call him "Dr. Allen," although he usually insists that I simply call him Allen because he "doesn't have a degree," and "is not accredited in any way." And then he recommends that I take a swim in the lake of fire or something to cool down. How thoughtful.

He doesn't accept monetary payments for his services ("What the fuck am I gonna do with a handful of your cash down here?" he says. What a clown.), so I usually try to pay him back by taking part in one of his experiments. They usually consist of me seeing how long I can hold my breath under boiling water while wearing a lead helmet without going crazy (a long time, apparently, I can't die, and I am definitely not crazy.), me taking all of the pills in my medicine cabinet to find "cures," or me locking myself in a hotel room with two of the scary hell women and waiting for something "that will carry weight in the psychological community" and/or "filmable" to happen (nothing ever happens, p.s. Dr. Allen, except for those crazy ladies yelling at me all day.).

Dr. Allen is also the pinnacle of class. Pinstripe suit. Slicked back hair. Breath that always smells like an exquisitely brewed cup of coffee. Glasses that make his eyes seem a lot smaller than they actually are.

Wait a second, what was I talking about again? God, I took way to many pills today...though it's none of your business, maybe you should get off your high cloud and come hang out with me for once...and pick up the damn phone!

Oh yeah, I haven't really been doing much you know. What?

Man's Least Best Friend

Here's a nice story for you. Once upon a time, a punk bitch named Gary decided to take a shopping trip in search of a companion to help alleviate his loneliness, and he decided to check out a quaint little pet store nestled away amongst a cluster of local vendors in a quiet and secluded suburban neighborhood in ancient Greece. It would be just another one of the numerous, yet defining bad decisions of his life, and as he walked into the shop, the little bell chimed charmingly to announce his arrival, and fate decided to take a break from kicking Gary in the face, simply with the goal of winding up to kick him in the face twice as hard. The man at the counter in the cheap vinyl vest stared at Gary with judgemental eyes and went back to feeding the reptiles without saying anything. It smelled peculiar, and not just like fish food and hamster cages, some far fouler stench hung in the air. As Gary made his way to the center of the store, he saw a rusty metal enclosure, upon which hung a crudely hand painted sign reading "PUPPY(s)." Gary wanted a puppy particularly. A good dog can be considered man's best friend forever. It was at the moment where Gary leaned over the cage that fate's kick connected solidly with his face.

Three-headed dog.

Contrary to the normal human reaction of "fear" when seeing such a frighteningly misshapen and clearly accursed creature, the broken and gnarled cogs in Gary's idiotic brain twisted and turned to deduce almost immediately that because this particular dog had three heads, that would simply mean that he would be receiving three times the friendship, love, and companionship that a regular, well-trained dog can bring. He brought it to the checkout counter and paid a nominal fee; apparently nobody would take this dog, and in actuality many people left the store upon seeing it. The pet shop clerk even threw in three food and water bowls as a perk for Gary's presumed charity, and a lifetime supply of dog food. Gary was pleased that he was so good for business. He named it Cerberus, though he doesn't really remember or care why anymore.

He did not for a second consider all of the other things that would be multiplied by three. Three times the food and bones for chewing. Three times the drool. Three times the simpering whining and barking. Three times the biting. Three times the amount of nice velvet slippers, chewed to bits. Three times the amount of grass vomited and redevoured on the living room floor. Three times the amount of legs mercilessly humped.

And the strangest thing about Cerberus, was that no matter how many times he naturally lived a normal dog lifespan, no matter how many neighborhood cars accidentally crushed him while being pursued, and no matter how many times Gary tried to feed him cyanide capsules wrapped in little scraps of cheese, he simply would not die. Cerberus became a regular staple around the cave, biting friends, snarling at relatives, chasing the mailman and generally making people paranoid, even around the holidays. Gary tried to warn people. He even hung several of those little "Beware of Dog" signs on his fence, but Cerberus just ate them every time, fence and all, with his insatiable goat-like appetite and bad morals.

Even the local Animal Control people didn't know what to do with Cerberus. They would try to wrangle him up with one of those metal loops attached to a pole that you tighten around the neck of the dangerous animal, but the other two heads would simply eat the loop, and the pole, and nobody ever thought to make a pole with three loops. Tranquilizer darts didn't work either because Cerberus ate those too, and also, he never slept, because that would get in the way of his incessant barking schedule. Luring him into giant cages with big lemon merangue pies didn't work either, because Cerberus was three times as smart as a regular dog, and therefore figured out that each time he should eat the open door of the cage before he ate the pie, a routine in which he showed incredible self-control for a seemingly wild animal.

No, all in all, Cerberus and Gary had a very Roadrunner/Wile E. Coyote-esque relationship, with Gary trying to plant expensive and preposterous traps to capture Cerberus on a regular basis, traps that invariably failed. Cerberus could always devour or manipulate his way out of them to go ahead and further terrify the neighborhood. Gary would remedy his failures by locking his doors, ignoring the angry phone calls, and crying, a lot. Man's best friend, indeed.

Adolf

Before you criticize me for "always complaining about my petty problems on the Internet," and/or "not having anything important to say," I think that you should take some time to get to know my psychotic friend Adolf. That is a picture of him at Thanksgiving dinner last year. He will not be invited again. Why don't we just say that there was stuffing all over the carpet, shallow puncture wounds all over the guests, and lots of tears. But I digress.

Adolf showed up around sixty years ago, (I can't really remember actually, the days have been a lot longer since he has been here.) and has proceeded to make my life a living hell, and before you say "Wait, isn't your life already a living hell?" maybe you should just shut up and don't bother. He showed up, and just started screaming at everyone, and he hasn't stopped to this day.

Yeah, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit, but I don't understand what he is saying, ever. Nobody else around here understands what he is talking about either. I'm just a guy who likes to toss the old pigskin around and hang out like everyone else, not some linguist or translator or something, just a cool guy you know?

Apparently, Adolf is the only German person in Hell, according to St. Peter, and when St. Peter says he is the only German person in Hell, he really means that he is the only person in Hell who can't speak English to a passable degree. And it's not really like he has tried to learn either, like, he expects all of us to learn German or whatever form of communication he has concocted for himself. Most of our conversations look a lot like the following:

GARY

Good afternoon Adolf.

ADOLF

(Pointing to his mouth vigorously)

Sladkljwper adjfiowoy alksdfjlw!

GARY

What are you trying to say Adolf?

ADOLF

(Pointing even more vigorously.)

LDAJFLKJWI WALIWETP KAL, ALJDGOWQ!!

GARY

(After a long time, trying to figure it out.)

Are you trying to say you need to go to the dentist?

ADOLF

(mournfully)

AAAAAHHWOWOWO!!!!!

Yeah, imagine trying to be friends with someone who just howls like a depraved lunatic every third sentence. But in all actuality he really isn't that loud most of the time. Usually he just lies on his bed staring at the ceiling for hours, trying to suffocate himself by holding his breath. Like that's ever going to work. And I've tried to teach him English, but he has no zest for learning. I even went into his room one day while he was lying on his bed and tried to teach him with flashcards that had little pictures on them, "APPLE, Adolf...APPLE," and he just rolled over on his belly and lay with his face in his pillow.

I try to make him happy by dressing up in that little Oktoberfest outfit that I have and bringing him bratwursts and sauerkraut one to eleven times a day, but usually he just looks at them and sighs. I just don't understand why he is so negative. The only time he is even remotely fun is when he is drunk, which is almost always, and by remotely fun I mean he cries a lot.

So yeah. If you think that I am not fun, well I should introduce you to ADOLF. Today we are going to Six Flags. You can expect Adolf to get super drunk beforehand and belligerently knock some little kid's ice cream cone on the ground. And we will be asked to leave before he even has a chance to throw up in the line waiting for the roller coaster.

Hello? Are any of you listening? Is anyone a fireman?

You'd think that in a place where arbitrary jets of fire spray from the walls without warning and where rivers of lava pour across the kitchen floor while you are making a sandwich, that the local fire department would at least have the common decency to take some responsibility and recharge some of the fire extinguishers around this place, since they don't bother to show up at my house most of the time. Which is constantly on fire.

Why does nobody answer my phone calls?

Do you people all have some sort of a problem with me? My whole house is burning down like every other day because it keeps sinking into various pockets of magma (yes, they appear underneath you at the most inopportune moments) and I called the fire department like five hundred times and they couldn't even be bothered to show up with their hoses and Dalmatians to save me!

"Well Gary, maybe if you didn't like your house constantly being on fire, you would've have had the foresight to NOT build your little housing development in the center of the earth," Chief Barry always tells me, as if I like living in the center of the earth or something.

Well Chief Barry, who do you think I am? An engineer or a city planner or whatever? Where do you get off? It's like the economy is so bad I don't know where people expect me to live anyways. Up with Jees and the gang? No way am I cool enough to hang out with them, much less live with them.

If you have a job, DO IT!

Cramping My Style

Yeah, I am not going dance around the subject here, St. Peter is always seriously cramping my style. He is like what happens when your style eats too many PB&J's right before it gets in a swimming pool.

For those who don't know who St. Pete is, he is this old guy who sits in a dingy little toll booth at the intersection between Heaven and Hell and sends people one direction or another. Now understand that though it seems like everyone has a fifty-fifty shot at going one way or another, that this is a lie. A ruse, if you will, carried through by St. Pete, but concocted by none other than the big man in a big robe and big sandals himself, Jesus, (don't even get me started on him) who thinks he is some sort of big shot and acts like he is your friend but then makes some lame excuse every time you want to hang out (when are we gonna hang out Jees? I called and left a bunch of messages on your machine but you must be busy again. Sorry.)

In short, St. Peter caught some sort of shady deal or bribe from Jesus sometime whenever and now he sends all of the awesome people to heaven, which is most people, and then he sends the people who are complete bummers down to hell, which is like twenty "other" people, all of whom have psychotic issues. And I have to hang out with them. I try to be nice. I guess I sort of understand that it is much more "fun" to live in cloud palace or whatever than in a stuffy cave with no lights, but whatever, it's still not fair. I heard Heaven installed a bowling alley, so I installed a cosmic bowling alley. That's just the kind of guy that I am.

And it's like I can't even catch five minutes of Gossip Girl without Adolf bursting in screaming about whatever and then vomiting the nice lunch I made him into some flowerpot, or having Saddam try and give me Indian burns while I am quietly knitting him a scarf. Think about trying to organize an intramural basketball team with these people. They are the worst, all of the time.

And I blame Jesus. Indirectly, through St. Peter, because I want to be invited to the Christmas Party. Sorry.

HELLO, MY NAME IS GARY

Hello, my name is Gary...Gary Satan. Today, I decided to make a weblog, mostly because I am bored and mostly because I am not boring and I have a lot to say. And hopefully I can get some digits and make some friends because all of my friends suck. Now, before you ask me a whole bunch of asinine questions that will make us both really uncomfortable, let me make some things clear. First of all, yes, I am "that Satan guy who lives in that cave in the center of the earth." It's hot and boring. Second of all, no, I don't torture people for fun, because that is also boring, trust me, been there, done that. And don't make that joke about "Gary, you're torturing us with another blog," because no, that joke isn't funny anymore, nor was it ever funny. And lastly, yes, I have friends. Clear? Crystal.

I am seriously a really cool, not boring guy, who likes to party.

Here is a picture of me on spring break in Cancun in 2006. Adolf accidentally turned on the camera's "mosaic" function, and that's why I look like such a dumbass. He had like fifty margaritas (not really), like usual, and he doesn't speak English, he just pushes buttons wherever they can be pushed and expects people to understand his feelings as he vomits them out in German or whatever he speaks, figuratively, and literally in this case (in most cases, actually). I couldn't explain it to him. I was drunk too, and I have no idea how to work the camera, and that's why I am so not photogenic. See, but I'm fun. Adolf is not fun, but you can't choose your friends I guess. At least that's what St. Pete keeps telling me.

Apparently St. Pete gets to choose who my friends are. That's why all of my friends are balls.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The Gary party.