The Rosary. A Story of Lust and Celibacy, Part Due. (In Italian two is “due”. Not due, like “your bill is due”. Due, like a Candadian asking if you’re drinking a Mountain Dew. “Dew, Eh?” Due, two, Italian, learning to speak it.)

Authors Note: In an attempt to display some “range” with my writing, I’ve decided to not swear in this post.  See if you can tell where I would have used vulgarity. With that I give you:

Part Two: 

The second week of February of this year I celebrated 13 years of being clean of booze and blow.

The second week of February of this year  I celebrated 10 years of being cigarette free.

As of today, it’s officially been 3 months,  OR 12 weeks, OR 84, actually 87 days since my last online date.


I quit the drinking and blow because, after a while, you get a little tired and annoyed with pissing the bed on a regular basis. And those aren’t cheap “habits”. Couple that with continuously buying plastic sheets from Walmart, even at their low, low price of $18.97; it adds up quick.

I quit smoking because the cigarettes were causing my forefinger fingernail on my right hand to become soft and yellown or brellow (You guessed it, brown and yellow officially did it, they hooked up and the child was the aforementioned forefinger fingernail).  I’ve always enjoyed the fact I’ve possessed naturally calm cuticles. So, to ruin it with a soft, yellown or brellow fingernail would have been putting a Picasso in a frame from Walmart at the low, low, price of $37.87.

And I quit online dating because well…

The Last Surviving Site…

You ever see an ad for a site, any site, and you click on, they ask you to enter your email and the next thing you know:

“Sorry, this email already exists”.

What? When? How?

Then you remember on a Friday night, you thought the prospect of sugar-free, dairy free, gluten free, taste free, high protein, sour gummy candy was, the greatest thing since Mr. Then you came to your senses and realized $9.95 for 6oz. and $4.95 shipping was a little ridiculous for something that would last two handfuls worth of time.

Well, lets just say, the email thing would happen on the following:

Plenty of



Coffee Meets Bagel (saw this one on Shark Tank)

Hot or,

And the piece de resistance, wait for it…


(No, no Farmers Only and yes, I did check out Christian Mingle until my mouth tasted like burning.) 

However, when I got back from “Date with Destiny”, (Foreshadowing) I was dating someone. Which meant my profiles were either hidden or deleted.  You actually can wash away your existence on these sites…So they say…Unfortunately, when I got back from said event, the dating someone was something…

You know, I may delve deeper into the “why” I broke things off with her someday, just not today…

Yet, there was a lone survivor…One forgotten about… Or was it?……..

Meetmindful kept popping up on my Facebook page news feed.  Meetmindful presented itself as a dating site with a “conscience”.

Aww, those poor developers had no idea what this world consists of. It was only a matter of time before a spoiled blueberry deep within the pint turned it into one fuzzy glob of penicillin. (I’m allergic to penicillin…which sucks because every time I have to list an allergy, I struggle with penicillin. Not the allergy itself, but the spelling.  The only reason I have it spelled correctly here is, you guessed it, red underscores. Thanks, Bill Gates!)

And who is that furry blueberry of death you ask? (You didn’t ask)

Spac Profile Pic

…Let’s go find some “Irie Sisters.” (hippie speak)

I’m not going to go into some long, historical diatribe about “Hippie Keith”, instead, well…

Hippie Keith

Look at those dawg gone eyebrows!

Point being, in the deep recesses of my mind I possess the vernacular needed to walk down  “Shakedown Street” and score some heady nugs.

It’s right next to those 5 years of French.  Je suis un ananas! Ananas

Well, shortly after returning from Tony Robbins (I hate “I told you so people”, and to read about My Date With Destiny…

I get messaged by an exquisitely beautiful young lady, who, wait for it, LIVES NEAR ME!  (It’s insane how many people you meet on these sites that don’t live ANYWHERE near you! Insane I tell you!)

And we hit it off…Why? Because she mentions Tony Robbins in her profile.  In many cases, especially in moments of desperation- let’s face it, when you’re on a dating site, you’re pretty dawg gone desperate-you grasp at any straw available. (Did I use the dash  appropriately? I have no dawg gone clue.)

But, when you return from a week of, well, read the blog, and the first girl you meet, unintentionally by the way, just so happens to mention a man you spent more time with than, well, your father…Thoughts of serendipity start swimming like salmon to Capistrano through your hippie speaking/French speaking/self-help motivated mind.

This is where I may creep all of you out a bit (or a bit more)…

So, to communicate with people on MeetMindful (I should mention the questions they  ask and then post your answers on your profile consists of things like: “What gets you present? What are you passionate about? What imperfections are you embracing?… Ya, you get the point…) you are given a few day window to go on a mass assault on all the hopeful, innocent hearts within a 50-mile radius of 12803. When those days expire, way too fast I might add, you have to pay to read and send emails. Here is where it gets creepy (as if), I refuse to pay. I mean, the monthly cost is the equivalent of two sets of plastic sheets at Walmart!

HOWEVER, they (profiles) provide enough information to be, well, a dawg gone stalker!  All you need is a name (provided), their city (provided), and a picture or two; you can pretty easily find them on Facebook. Just as long as you study their pics well enough to either find it’s match or a similar one. (If I studied this hard in high school I’d be a dawg gone Astrophysicist).

When you do, and I always do,  you send an Instant Message like,

“Hey, so this is Keith, from… Ya, is this cool or is this beyond creepy?”

It usually works… it always works… they get it.  However, none of the relationships (foreshadowing) work, so, there’s that.  But how dawg gone creepy, right?


Instant messages turned into “friend requests”, friend requests turned into texts, texts turned into phone calls, which turned into texts the moment our phone calls were over, which turned into staring at your phone hoping it would ring, which turned into picking up your phone making sure it was working, which turned into restarting your phone because it needed a restart anyway and SURELY she’s texted me, which turned into me sending the “Hey” text with the blushing smile face emoti, which turned into…


Then she does letting you know she was busy, sorry and is thinking about you…Because, you know, we haven’t met yet so the fantasy of “happy ever after” is being played like a GIF in both of our minds.

She says things you’ve been waiting to hear come from a sweet sounding voice, and you say things which floor her because you’ve been on so many dawg gone dates that you’ve gotten pretty dawg gone good at this. But, they’re true.  They’re how you truly feel and think.  So, what do you do?

“You should really read my blog.”

Good idea, right?

Here is my thought process when inviting a potential partner to read about a few of her, well, predecessors…

  1. You more than likely will read something if we hit it off, might as well be now.
  2. You more than likely will Google my name, and you may stumble across, well…This:

fat woman with tattoos

3. You more than likely will suck, so don’t suck so bad that I end up writing                                about you. You’ve been warned. And lastly,

4. I’m an over-flattering schmuck and all those compliments (You’re                                               breathtaking, you’re exquisite, you’re gorgeous…) Yeah, I use those A LOT,                               by all means, don’t feel special and/or unique. But I’m also a writer that desperately needs validation!

Well, I’ll let you figure you out (No, I won’t) which one of these “set her off”. (#4)

Needless to say, I got this text:

“So, I did some reading last night and I don’t know how I feel about you, lol”

LOL? LOL? What in the name of dawg gone heck are you dawg gone LOLing about you stupid dawg gone dawg goner?!? (I’m currently suffering from vulgarity withdrawal)

Needless to say, I called her. Pretty sure I cried, I’m fairly certain I cried, ya, I cried.  I’m good like that.  In between tears I rattled off the usual suspects:

“You’re different!”

“You’re so special!”

“I’ve never connected like this!”

“What did you think of the writing?”

Authors note: Okay, lets get something clear, I’m painting myself into this corner of  being this God-Awful soul.  I’m not. I’m just, well, honest.  So, you know, deal with it and get off your sanctimonious, pretentious cloud and realize this: It’s a scary, dark world, dating.  And sometimes, well folks, sometimes,  a man does what a man has to do to survive in this cruel, superficial world…  

Needless to say, date on!

Date Night!

I really hate paying for sushi. Especially for online dates. Why? I’ve got a great hook-up, and from time to time, I’m notorious for bringng the “uninspired” dates (skeptical at best) to said hook-up. However, she found this place in Malta, and we decided to go there. And yes, I bought flowers.  (I did that crap early on, and I learned a valuable lesson; don’t do that. However, the whole blog thing threw me off, so, here I am, flowers in tow.)

She pulled up next to me in the parking lot and, DAMN! Total smoke show.  Beautiful from head to toe to ass.  And what an ass!

I gave her the flowers, and she kissed me! This was going to be the perfect night. The LAST first date, right?

The sushi sucked. It was globs of rice, fake crab, and a ton of that orange…stuff which looks like the dawg gone “secret sauce” they put on Big Mac’s.

But, damn…she was fine, and the way she looked at me…

Oh and the ambiance, it was slightly above those Chinese “restaurants” with one table, two chairs, flypaper strips in between Chinese lanterns, and for some reason a ton of maps of the city.

So, you know, romanticism was at it’s apex.  Then this happened…


“Anything else?” The young lady asks while putting down our check.  What if I said yes? What if I wanted some fried, green tea ice cream?  Maybe tonight of all nights I craved something that could simultaneously speed up and slow down my metabolism. (I didn’t, I just wanted to get dinner over with for some sushi breath sexy time.)

“No, thank you.” I innocently answered while we still had two mountains of, well it looks like the sushi chef was drunk, got home and made this for himself.

Munchies 420

At 8:50ish, another, different waitress comes over and starts to take our plates, FULL OF FOOD, away!

“Umm, we’re not done.” My beauty responds while forking in a massive glob of sushi.


Now, allow me to recreate the scene for you.

date night

I’m on the right, she’s on the left. The waitress comes from behind me to the table.  So, as she walked away, and I heard “pfft”, I wouldn’t have been crazy to think she, well, tooted… I mean seriously, what the hell is “pfft’?

She didn’t fart…

“Did you hear that?” My wide-eyed damsel asked with escalating insanity.

“Yeah…”I responded while trying to not come across as a coward. I mean…Who “pfft’s”?

“Um, excuse me, but we are going to finish OUR food, which WE (Keith) paid for!” She fired with a harsh, instigating tone and forks another mouthful of…I don’t think it’s sushi anymore.

“We’re closing!” The “pffter” slashed back.

“When?” My lady parry’s.

“9:30!”… “Pffter” is pissed! However…

“And what time is it now?” It was 8:5something, but it sure as sugar wasn’t even 9.

A second of silence (it was a glorious second too).

“Sorry, what time?  Excuse me, what time is it now? Ya, I thought so!” 1984 Mike Tyson had nothing on her…And ya, she’s ferocious, however, the tone in her voice not only changed, it developed an accent.  (foreshadowing, and no, it wasn’t high pitched like the aforementioned 1984 boxer.) 

You know what question I hate being asked by anyone I meet online? (Insert 93 jokes here.) 

“How long have you been online dating?”

The truth, I’ve been on and off for over 10 years…10 YEARS!  Again, off and on…There was this 5 year window where I didn’t have any online dating activity.  You know, because I was, well, married.  Little did I know that I was the only one in that relationship who took a break from the world wide interweb!

Have I told you about my student film “Good Grief”?


Anyway, I say that to say this, I’ve been on a dawg gone ton of dates. And this, a legitimate cat fight at a Sushi restaurant…Didn’t see that coming.

My response?

“Come on, lets go.”

Sexy time, sexy time, sexy time…Seriously, my heart was thumping like a pair of sneakers in the dryer. This was the best foreplay ever! (not really, but still pretty awesome) Very one sided, but still something so very erotic about it.  (The soft core porn writer in me was envisioning them somehow crossing paths later on and then…well…)

“Ya, lets…”  She acquiesced while firing daggers with her eyes towards the Waitress from Hell!

We walked out hand in hand to my car…I left a small tip…But I did tip.

My Car

I lease a 2016 Honda Accord Coupe.  Nice, sleek, sporty, and from time to time it can be like a fat kid in skinny jeans, a little tight.  Tonight was one of those nights.  For you see, we were going to let her car warm up while we “talked” and then made our way to a bar to “chat”.

We didn’t make it there it to the bar.

We spent the rest of the night, well, seeing how much two people could maneuver in a 2016 Honda Accord Coupe. Yet, somewhere in the middle of all of this, in the middle of her telling me how she thinks I’m “the one” and the guy she’s been waiting and “praying for”.

“I’ve got to tell you, I’m dating someone… And…Ya,  I have another date tomorrow.”

So, let me get this dawg gone straight, only 5 dawg gone hours ago, I was in dawg gone “tears” because you read my dawg gone blog and thought I was a dawg gone player. But NOW, you’re telling me that you not only have a dawg gone boyfriend, but you’re “technically” cheating on him and have plans on doing it again tomorrow, AFTER you dawg gone told me I was the dawg gone one you’ve been “praying for”?

And do you think I mentioned this?

Her response:

“I’m living my life, how I want to live my life, and I’m sorry, no, no I’m not sorry, I’m going to be me and this, this is me.”

Yeah, I had no dawg gone clue what that meant.  All I did know was that tone with the accent was back.  And it scared the ever-living poo out of me.

I’m done! I’m done! I’m so dawg gone done!

But not until we fooled around for another solid couple hours (it was brutally cold that night. Remember that stretch where it was like -17 every damn night? Well, it was in the middle of that.  We turned my car on and off like 23 times.  It was a perfect metaphor for the inhabitants of said car on this evening.).

Anyway, we parted ways.  Two days later we decided it wasn’t going to work.

And I also decided my online dating movie was…well, “Fin”.

Then, well, I got this text from someone I hadn’t heard from in some time, and it read:

“Hey Keith, Happy New Year!”


Authors Note: Totally have my MeetMindful page still up. Because, well…


Spac Profile Pic 



The Rosary: A Story of Lust and Celibacy… Part One

Analytics are a fickle little bitch.  I work within a world that is rapidly being inundated with them, all the while having none of substance to provide.  However, when you have a WordPress account, (my unfortunate blog platform of choice; they’ve gotten better though.) you have access to a portal which displays all this exciting (not at all) data.  For example: If you read this blog through Facebook, I would know it. Just a number, no name.  I bore you with all of that to bore you with this; for the past couple months, someone keeps searching my home page.  On an almost daily basis,  someone is going to my “library” and seeing if I’ve uploaded anything…

Yes, this is the one about you. (more of a composite character…For those that don’t know what a composite character is, or choose not to simply Google the fucking term; it’s two or more that are made into one. Think Donald Sutherland in JFK.  Actually, this is really about one, while a bit about another, while mentioning a couple, so like 5 characters, including me…I think…There is nothing composite about this, not at all…) 

Oh and if you’re just being introduced to me and my writing “style”; I swear, like, a lot.  And I misuse parenthesis,

(Like, all the fucking time.)

“Who’s walking down Broadway?”

You can set your watch to it.  Okay, I don’t have a watch. Actually, I do have a watch, it’s not my watch per se, but…Real quick. (This won’t be quick)…

9 years ago, my father got my brother and I matching Citizen Eco watches for Christmas.  This was shocking because they were pretty damn nice! Totally unlike my father.  However, very much like my father, they had something to do with the NY Giants (Eli Manning endorses. Yes, this is my fathers mind). And very much like my father, he got me something I will never use. There was this time when I was 15, and I was a “husky” 15-year-old

Fat Keith

And he got me a tennis racket for my birthday…Cats and kittens, I literally looked at him and said,
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

Fast forward to said Christmas morning, and I never ever, ever, ever, ever wore a watch. Actually, now that I think, that’s not true. I had a gold Movado.  I got it for $20 in Tijuana.  It fell apart a week later.  I currently wear a Hamsa around my wrist.


(Yes, the struggle between the cast of characters who comprise my personal sitcom is real.  Currently, there is a battle between Nightman Keith and Dayman Keith. Nightman Keith continues to go to the fridge in the middle of the night and suck down a bottle of maple syrup like it’s his “purpose” to totally fuck with Daytime, healthy Keith.) Where the hell was I?  Oh yeah, the watch dad got me was stolen from my car in the middle of a beverage center parking lot because I just so happened to leave my car door unlocked with my brand new watch in its case (getting a link removed) in my car…
Years later, I took my brothers because that’s what brothers do (I have no goddamn clue what brothers do), which has since been replaced by the aforementioned Hamsa (Namaste).

BUT, if I did wear that watch…

You can pretty much set your watch to it.

“So, who’s walking down Broadway this weekend?”

This is the line I hear every Friday morning from a colleague/friend. This harmless interrogation is his way of asking who is going to be my next victim, I mean blog antagonist or protagonist and maybe I’m the antagonist (that’s going to fester), I mean life I’m about to traumatize…My next goddamn online date.

Funny thing, he was actually the DJ at my wedding. (Not really that funny.)

Funny thing, I NEVER take girls “down Broadway. ”

Broadway is the beautiful, picturesque strip that runs through downtown Saratoga Springs where there is never any parking.  Where food delivery trucks just stop in the middle of the road and throw their flashers on causing a half mile traffic jam. Where god fucking forbid during the months of July and August (track season) you dare drive through this “quaint little city framed by the Adirondacks.” (I don’t know why I used quotes there. I really don’t.)

During track season, if you don’t accidentally clip with your car some drunken debutante in a hat so goddamn gargantuan that you don’t necessarily wish ill upon, just an event which will traumatize her so much she will forever associate THIS moment with THAT hat. And clutching her hand while carrying a PBR (so hip) is this douched in Creed Aventus (yes I just Googled expensive mens cologne)  and a cigar hanging from his mouth wishing it was his private school bunkmate Bradleys penis, acting as if his last name is Rockafeller (could be)  dressed in a checkered shirt and salmon shorts by POLO Ralph Lauren (Jesus Christ, I’m a description of an entree and review of “Hip to Be Square” away from being mistaken for Marcus Halberstram) prick …Yeah, if you don’t hit them with your car… You win the day.

By the way, 19 horses died there last summer.

Other than that Saratoga Springs is amazing!

Karin, Karin was the last girl I took “down Broadway”. We had a great conversation about food and I’m pretty sure I watched a male duck (a drake) try to fuck his lady of choice, a duck. Fun fact, a female duck is called…a duck. I wish I could find a GIF of Drake (the rapper, is he a rapper?) fucking a duck…Instead well, this is what you happens when you Google search a “drake fucking a duck”…I’m sorry (not one bit)

I would have broken her heart…Karin, not the duck…

Actually, I had coffee with Arielle on Broadway where we watched a homeless man get thrown out for swearing at a group of dreadlocked Skidmore students. Arielle and I would talk about…

I miss her every day and I’m pretty sure I broke her heart.

Don’t you wish there was a way you could hold onto people, the good people you come across and simply say, “the timing is just not right”?  Instead, well…

“I’ve gone celibate”, was my latest and lamest retort this past Friday when the spotlight was flashed in my eyes and the typical Friday, Broadway question was posed.

“What? Is that what you’ve given up for Lent?” He guffawed.  (I’m so fucking excited I found a way to use that word!!!)

And no I didn’t. Not guffaw, I didn’t give up sex for Lent.

But I sure as shit did now!

“Yes, yes I did! Now get me a goddamn steak!”

This is my story of voluntary celibacy…(As opposed to my late teens when, well…1998 Keith would strangle 2018 Keith…)

Oh and a story about how I came home to this…(hence the fucking title)


It started when I told her to read my blog and a “pfft”…



I’M A GODDAMN SUPERHERO! or just some douche trying to impress a cute girl: The story of a girl and her lost dog.

Quick story.  And when I say quick, you know for fact this is going to be anything but. It’s going to be long-winded, it’s going to be melodramatic, and it’s going to be 10 minutes longer than necessary.

No worries thought,  because nothing has changed since you last checked your Instagram except:

You’re “friend” is drinking a glass of beer.

You’re “friend” is drinking a glass of wine.

I’m a recovering alcoholic and I hate these “friends”.

You’re “friend” really hates Donald Trump so they share a meme calling him a misogynistic, xenophobic, putz.

You’re “friend” really loves President Trump and they share a meme calling the other “friend” a “Whiny Liberal Pussy”.

And there are a bunch of pics of someones fucking kids, dogs, cats, and some quotes about being positive or some shit.

Needless to say, you’ve got a minute or two for a cool little tale.

Anyway, not so quick story from about 12 hours ago.

Many of you who I have the pleasure of being Facebook friends know  I’ve been running again…

You want to know why I post my runs on Facebook? Not for some shit like “if I share X amount of posts, I receive a  coupon”.  Even though I do get 40% off Under Armour every once in a while.

I do it because it pisses a friend of mine off.  I know for a fact there is one person who legitimately gets all hot and bothered every time he sees it.   He even confirmed it via a text one night.

And I so get off on that!

I may go for a run tonight just because…

I’m such a spiteful, cheeky cunt.

Anyway, it’s more of a “spirited jog” really. I sustained injuries to my Iliotibial Band and my Iliopsoas last year and I’m still “in recovery”.  Essentially, the side of my leg and a muscle whose origins are just alongside my belly button are absurdly tight.

And let me tell you this, the latter, well, yeah, there is no greater hell than having a massage, from an attractive woman, who is alleviating this massive pain, all while having to fart. And folks, where did I say this muscle originates? Oh and friends, for some reason on this day,  the air coming out of my ass was worthy of Auschwitz.  Yeah, I said it. And I’m also owning the fact it was that goddamn bad.

Anyway, I can only jog. While jogging through the village of South Glens Falls, NY last night, I see a young lady and her dog. Instant thought, look graceful. Instant reality, I’m as graceful as, well…


Let me say this about the “flightless bird”, sometimes your hands go a little numb and you need to get blood pumping into them again.

Needless to say, here comes the 5’6 flightless fucking bird.  She heels the dog, which he (it’s a he) does perfectly. The young lady looks up and smiles proudly, as she should.  Cute dog, cute girl, I’m a fan of both, I reciprocate the smile. And I nailed it.

You know when you just crush a smile? Well, I sure as shit just did and you know what?

Anyway, fast forward 2.11 miles and 19 minutes and 47 seconds later. (I’m so goddamn slow and it…whatever) But I have permagrin like  Hippie Keith one hour into a Phish show and a piece of paper on his tongue.  My grin is not satisfaction due to my “end of the day jaunt”.  My grin is because I’m about to post something that will cause someone to curse my name.

Oh it’s such a glorious feeling, I highly recommend it.

Then, I see a car pull up along side of me. It’s a lady with her arm out waving me down.  I say a quick “Our Father” it’s not any of the 13 girls I’ve blogged about and lean in to see since my eyesight has gone to shit.

It’s her. The girl from before.

And yes, I’m like:


Then it dawned on me…Oh no!

I literally said “Oh no!”

Because the “Cute girl with the cute dog”, is now just the “Cute girl”.

“Hey, remember me?” she shyly inquired.

“Remember, I’ve been thinking about you for a solid 2.11 miles”…Ya, I didn’t say that. Why?

“Where is he?”  I quickly retorted.

“I don’t know!” She replied with horror behind her eyes and terror trembling in her voice.

Now, this is all happening right after running…okay, jogging, the excitement of infuriating a friend, and spiking a smile like it just won a Super Bowl. Now,a cute girl and her cute dog are in need.  I say that to say this:

Did I respond this way because she was cute?

You bet that sweet ass of yours I did!


“What’s his or her name?”

“It’s Ozzy.”

“Great name.”


“We got this, meet me down the hill at the path.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do this.”  She’s scared and I’m a sweaty guy in a bright blue North Face fleece. I’d say no to me too.

So, what did I do? Only delivered the single greatest line of my life!

“Yes, I do.”

If Nicholas Sparks is reading this, his skinny jeans just got tighter.

Yeah, I gave her hope. And that was a pretty badass moment. Which I discovered was about to be trumped (ugh) in about 43 seconds.

She went to turn her car around and I started to jog down the hill.  Remember how I just said 43 seconds? (Of course you do, it’s literally words ago.) Well, it was more like 17. Odd numbers are just funnier. Don’t know why.

I heard a ruffling in the woods to my left.  Said a quick “Glory Be” that it wasn’t a rabid cat, looked over, and there he was.

“Ozzy”, I somehow exhaled out of my “holy shit moment lungs”.

He comes right over. No shit, walks out of the woods right up to me. Stops, I give a quick “hey fella”. Pick up the leash, look up, see her in the car, yell, “hey!” and hold the leash above my head like I found fire.

Now, I couldn’t see shit, but you bet your sweet ass I could see her smile from a solid 25 yards away.

And, well, I can just describe the next moment as…well…


Nicholas Sparks just grabbed some tissues and lotion.

Seriously, I felt this urge to go chop wood and grow a mustache.

Now, in hindsight, I totally botched my opportunity to walk up and say.

“I believe this is your dog miss.”

Instead, it was more like,

“Holy shit! That was so cool!”.

And then my glasses-less face came to discover that this perfect, serendipitous moment just happened with a girl…

Goddamn it…a girl that IF she was 18, it was because her birthday was yesterday.

The most superhero moment fucking ever, and well, of course, right?

She was overjoyed, relieved, and on the cusp of tears.

I shook her hand introducing myself, because well, it’s nice to know peoples names, and headed home.

When I got home, I pondered for a brief second what just happened.

Now, I don’t know if you can tell, but I believe in God.  At that moment, I reflected what just transpired, looked up, smiled and said,

“Thanks, man.  That was pretty goddamn cool”.

Then you realize you just had a front row seat to:

Seeing someone proud.

Seeing someone frightened to death.

Seeing someone inspired with hope.

Seeing someone euphoric.

Meanwhile, she brought this douche who gets off on letting his friends know he’s running… jogging…

She brought him grace.

And ya, I’m thinking it too…

I wonder if she has any older, psycho sisters?

Spac Profile Pic


How I Got and Stayed Sober in 5 Steps: My Journey, 13 Years later…

Authors Note: Some of what you’re about to read may disturb and/or bother you. But, here is my attitude about that, first, how intriguing of a beginning huh? I got your attention, now I better not fuck it up. Back to my attitude, if things in life don’t bother those that are the subject, than I really don’t find it necessary to allow myself to be bothered by it. Unless the subject isn’t strong enough to have a choice, then, you have the strength of two and fight for them. This isn’t one of those cases.

For those who have read many of my tales, you know they usually consist of online dating fails or experiences at self-help seminars. But guess what? I’m actually a paid blogger now! No shit, big shout out to Chris at Six Marketing for taking a chance on a guy known for self-deprecating vulgar posts where I take aim at defenseless, psychotic women.

Authors Note: Holy shit do I have a story for you! I’ve written 3/4 of it, but I can’t release it quite yet. It’s called “The Rosary”. TEASE!

Nonetheless, I’m a paid blogger. And yes, I have a crush on a girl that is way too young for me. Why? Because I’m a non-committal douchebag (more on that in a moment) who loves pretty girls. Anyway, yeah, I wrote it. Let the line for possible sexual harassment suit start right…here. Kidding, I don’t have the balls to sexually harass someone. Matter of fact, I’m typically the one being harassed. What can I say, my ass of a pregnant black chick looks nice in a pair of designer jeans.

So, I’m told.
Anniversary Alert

Yesterday, I was about to hop on the Facebook to stalk all you like usual, but my computer loves to post images on my log in screen. Typically they consist of beautiful, exotic locations I could never afford to voyage off to. Even though these shit brown, near and now far sighted eyes of mine have been blessed with the marvels of God’s canvas.

Other times, I have images of spectacular animals from said regions and beyond. Well, I was graced with a picture of a snow owl that looked as if it was dying of laughter.

laughing snow owl

This isn’t the exact one, but it’s equally as magnificent.

Anyway, I instantly googled images of laughing white owls. They are actually snow owls, but I guess I have some deep seeded racism within me. And to think, the race of my sexual conquests are as diverse as the Captain Planet Planeteers!

Never had a ginger though…I don’t think…Maybe…I had spots on my penis once afterward, so I may have…

Anyway, while googling said images of said owls, I came across one that looked drunk

drunk keith owl

And another that looked stoned

hippie keith owl

And then I recalled something… It’s been 13 years since I stopped getting piss the bed drunk and almost having a heart attack on cocaine.

And then I thought to myself, “self, why don’t we tell people how we got there?” God forbid I write about something other than my self absorbed ramblings about the opposite sex and Tony Robbins.

I mean, I’ve almost overdosed twice. Once, was half-hearted intentional when I was 17. I say half hearted because right in the middle of it all, I grabbed a handful of my late, the man I aspire to be, grandfathers xanax. And when I say half-hearted, I mean this: In my drunken, drugged haze, I went downstairs to grab more xanax, I did. Then, well then, I put some back. You tell me if I wanted to die that night?

As opposed to the completely unintentional time I was “coked outta my skull” on my lifelong friends couch, her mothers couch to be precise, and my heart was beating so hard it caused my sternum to visibly bounce. And it just…wouldn’t…stop…I prepared myself mentally to die that night… Not a good time, not at all.

Funny how as I write this, and anyone suffering from any form of addiction will empathize, I realize:

While under the influence, your mind wants more than your heart can handle.

Yet while sober, your heart wants more than your mind can handle.

Folks, I know myself. I know myself quite well. Whether it’s telling you about why I’m god fucking awful at dating and/or relationships. Whether it’s telling you about my journey externally and more so internally on a voyage into and through “Emotional College”.

And, whether it was being treated at facility at the age of 17 for my aforementioned suicide attempt, whether it was for the weeks that followed surrounded by court mandated alcoholics and drug addicts who were twice if not three times my age, or whether it was from all the projectiles being flung at me from all angles of life…Many of which, self-induced…

It’s time to share a story about how I got to 13 years without a sip or a snort.
Step 1: Acceptance

Ya, there was none of that.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew good and goddamn well that I was sucking at life. But, when you’re in the deep end of the Olympic sized pool of addiction, all that matters is when you’re getting more and how…

Truth be told, when I officially went sober a week and a half into February of 2005, it wasn’t the first time. Hell, it wasn’t the first time in six months. And I’m clueless as to why I went sober six months earlier.

But, I could tell you about the night I relapsed. I could tell you what caused it. And I could tell you about the hell that followed including getting thrown out of college and having one of my best friends swallow a self-inflicted bullet.

Instead, I will tell you the last bit of “cocaine” I did was probably powdered sugar. No, it was powdered sugar. And thank god, because I had just polished off an “eight ball” of blow hours earlier. No, not by myself, but when I was sharing, I sure as shit was inhaling right next to them. By the way, those that don’t know why it’s called an eight ball, it’s mathematics. An eight ball is 3.5 grams of coke. An 1/8th of an ounce. Your street cred just increased by one point, you’re welcome.

And the last bit of alcohol I tasted was a warm Miller Lite.

Two days later, I got pulled over.

Driving to work, a block drive from where I was living, I got nabbed because I didn’t have my seat belt on and I didn’t have my 93′ Cadillac El Dorado (I’m such an asshole) inspected.

I mean who could afford to get something like a car inspected when I was paying 80 fucking dollars for a goddamn gram of confectionery sugar?

Nonetheless, I got pulled over and ticketed. I was informed by said officer if my car were to be inspected within the next week, I would have my ticket torn up.

Told the cat at work I needed to take care of some personal shit and took my car to the local garage, Blows Service Station. Still to this day, greatest slogan ever:

“There’s no job like a Blow job!”

No shit, their last name was Blow. People so wanted to be offended. Especially in city of 12,000 that had 3 Catholic Churches. Know why they couldn’t?


I’ve been going there for years, they even gave me a t-shirt. God I loved that shirt.

But on this day, they weren’t going to give me an inspection sticker unless I had $1500 for new brake lines and some other shit that sounded like high pitch ringing once I heard $1500.

Instead, well, they may have saved my life.
Step 2: Make a decision and get leverage against yourself

So, of course, I couldn’t afford the repairs, I mean $1500 is a fuckload of powdered sugar.

What was I to do?

God knows it wasn’t simply go to one of the 975 other places in Vermont that would have inspected my wannabe mafioso, chubby, hairy ass. I mean, I wasn’t too fat back then. After I quit drinking, different story. After I quit drinking, I looked like a glazed ham that got dropped on a barber shop floor.

hairy guy selfie

I wasn’t THAT bad. But I’m a little furry. And when I say a little furry, I don’t mean I’m little and dress like an animal while attending conventions for said fettish.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I didn’t go to the garage in Proctor with a guy named Ernie who would throw an inspection sticker on my window for a twenty. Instead, I did the rational thing.

Ya, I couldn’t afford a new one. And no, it wasn’t because of my negotiating sugar price skills. It was because my credit was so good I received no less than 5 calls a day from credit card companies wishing to speak to me.

Needless to say, I owed a few bucks.

Needless to say, I was failing at life.

Needless to say, I needed something that would snap me out of it.

And it came from the most obvious of places:

A 1999 Ford Explorer with a dent in the door.

Somehow, I was able to get approved, but the cost? $100 more a month than I was already paying…or more so, not paying for my Caddy.

How was I going to do it?

“Fine, I’ll have to quit drinking and doing drugs”.

Funny, in life, at least back then, I would select one person every year, consciously or subconciously to be my arch nemesis. And back on this day, it just so happened to be the gal selling me this car.

“Like you can do that.” She quipped in condescending yet accurately cunty way.

Little did she know that’s what I respond to.

Doubt me, please.

Let me know you feel that way, please.

Because, that’s when I say:

“Fuck you, watch!”

I should really thank her for that…

Ya, Im good.

Step 3: Commitment

Oh the first few days were hell. You have to cut out at least 25 people from your life, and even alienate yourself from the only friends you thought you knew. And somehow ask for forgiveness from the ones that watched you die from the sidelines.

Try not to get angry with those that say, “I was going to tell you that you need to quit”.

Try not to respond with, “Oh really? I would of thanked you if you did”.

Which is nothing more than a bold faced bullshit of a lie. Like I would of listened to anyone. Cindy Crawford could have been naked with a sash saying “Property of Keith Hannigan” telling me I was dying from my addiction. And I would have told her to go fuck herself and she turned Richard Gere gay.

For you see, I was simply looking for someone, anyone to be pissed off with.

When the cocksucker in the mirror is the one I truly hated.

You go and tell your mother and kid brother that you’re an alcoholic and an addict. She doesn’t know what to do, so she offers you to cook for you. Bless her heart. All the while kid brother looks at you and you see him judging you as weak and a coward. Bless his heart, he’s just sick of being scared about losing his only brother.

You tell your dad and he freezes. Bless his heart, only months earlier he was suffering from a marriage he couldn’t escape from.

Bless your friends that didn’t know how to respond because at the age of 26, who could have such a drug and drinking problem? I mean, that’s for guys in their 40’s and 50’s…right?

Bless all them for only years earlier, they were all standing above you in a hospital room asking:


You want to be angry, so angry. What the fuck! Why can’t I drink? Why can’t I ever again have a goddamn sip ever again? Why God, why did you do this to me?!? What did I do, huh? What the fuck did I ever do to you to give me this goddamn disease? Fuck you God, FUCK YOU!

Then, well, God gave me this and…I cried… a lot…

God also gave me a friend, her name was Nina. She too was battling this godforsaken disease. A disease I’ve had since birth. A disease I still have. A disease that is mine for perpetuity.

And Nina, well, she held my hand for the first month, because the first month, I wasn’t just struggling mentally. I wasn’t just struggling spiritually…I began to suffer physically…
Step 4: Supplementing and Rewarding

Now, there is a fat kid within me. People that see me today don’t believe it, but…well…

Fat Keith

Ya, I’m the one with the tits on the right.

Sugar… I had an unquenchable hunger for all I could get my hands on. And now that I was sober, I stopped paying $80 a gram for it. But Ben and Jerry’s is pretty goddamn close!

Not to mention my marijuana consumption had grown exponentially trying to alleviate the pain of withdrawal. Withdrawal feeling like you have the goddamn Bird-Flu for a month.

Authors Note: For those that say marijuana is a “gate way drug”. Folks, when I drank, I snorted cocaine, pills, and anything I could break into a powder. I smoked crack, cocaine, pills and anything that could be smoked. And I tried to sleep with any woman that gave me a second look. Good thing there is a very true tale of what cocaine does to the male libido at 4am. Very true. Meanwhile, pot, ya, it made me want to write, it made me want to eat Ben and Jerry’s and it made me want to kick my roommates ass in Madden. You tell me which one is the gateway drug!

You try to not smoke a carton of cigarettes a week because, well, your caffeine intake has also doubled if not quadrupled. And nothing pairs as well as a Marlboro Medium and a Vanilla Caramel Coffeemate.

Authors Note: This week is also my 10 year Anniversary for quitting butts. Now that, that sucked! Again though, the same principles here applied. And yes, including my marijuana consumption.

Then, then you realize something…you have more money. Holy shit, you have a lot more money. Don’t get me wrong, your luxurious tastes in ice cream (something about high priced sugar and me), coffee, cigarettes, and marijuana deplete the account. But not nightly. Not like before. So, what do you do with all this excessive income?

Save? Boring.

Pay off debt? Only as much as necessary to stop the cell phone from ringing.

And did it ever stop ringing. Especially when you think you’ve lost all of your friends. But you didn’t. Just the posers drifted away and the real ones came and took rightful place.

Not many, just the perfect amount.

You set up a reward system. Once a week, every week that goes by without a sip or a snort, you buy a dvd or a cd. The things that actually provided you joy, real, true joy. Movies and music.

But you keep thinking of something…

You miss your friend, Rocco. He was my friend who shot himself. He would have liked this healing version of me.

Instead, well, you only remember not answering his call because you were too hungover. The call he made the day before he, well, you know where this is going.
Step 5: Life without being numb.

There were days, weeks, months, and years that comprised the past 13 years where a drink would have been nice. Anything would have been nicer than having to sit and absorb, deal, think, and feel things like a painful divorce.

Instead, well, you grow.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the 5’6 guy that has a slight Napoleon complex and I guess is racist too. Who knew? Goddamn snow owls.

You develop new addictions. You know this about yourself. You know you have this addictive personality which goes guns blazing into everything that you do. So, you focus on your health. You focus on your fitness. You focus on your mental strength. You focus on getting smarter. You go back to school and knock it out of the fucking park while finding the one thing that you’re blessed enough to not only love to do, but actually have some talent at. And you focus on becoming an emotional titan with the ability to tell your tale in hopes of someone reading this and realizing they are not alone.

But first, you needed to ask for forgiveness and more importantly, you need to forgive.

Yom Kippur is the day where those of a Jewish faith ask for the forgiveness of God. The day before is Erev Yom Kippur, the day you ask for the forgiveness of your fellow man.

In the years that followed, you ask for the forgiveness from the ones you loved, yet hurt.

In the years that followed, you forgave and thanked the ones you hated, yet loved.

And then, one day, well, one day you look in the mirror and ask for his forgiveness.

One day you look into the mirror and you forgive him for all that he put you through…

And one day you look into the mirror and you thank him.

Because without him, you wouldn’t be who you are today.


Oh 2017, How You Gave the Miserable a Reason!

So, how was your year?

According to a few sources: TV, Social Media, Radio, even fucking Church!  I mean isn’t Church the eternal optimist?  You come here, religiously (pun intended), and when you die, you go to this little place of dancing angels and smells of chocolate chip cookies called Heaven.  Well, even Church said 2017 sucked.  And since we put such faith in what we see on TV, read on social media, hear on the radio, and believe in at Church; it must be true then, huh?

Story Time with Uncle Keith

When I was 25, I went sober for three months.  For the life of me, I can’ t recall the reason, but with laser-like accuracy, I suspect I made an ass out of myself, was going broke or both. When the drinking and drugging ceased, I lost a shit-ton of weight, got into the best shape of my life, and college became not only easy but fun.  And I actually had sex with, by far, the hottest girl I met at that time of my life. Granted, she was cheating on her boyfriend with me, but I was never, or could ever be the adulterist, so conscious = clean.

Then I fucked up my back.  It was due in part to sleeping on a feather bed a friend gave me. It was due in part to the refusal to stretch before and after I worked out. And it was due in part to the fact I’ve always suffered from sciatica.

Oh, and did I mention sex with the hot girl cheating on her boyfriend?


Or it was due in part to God saying “Fuck you! You’re about to learn the most valuable lesson of your life.”

Nonetheless, I was making my way into the ER wearing a baggy pair of American Eagle sweatpants, no underwear, a pair of flip-flops and a hoodie that smelled like really good weed and Berries and Creme Starburst.  Remember those? Holy shit were they cubed crack. Not the actual crack…That’s for another blog.

“I’m going to put you on a painkiller and muscle relaxor”. – The doctor or whatever she was informed me.  She had a badge, a stethoscope, and a notepad, so clearly she was in charge.

Yet, I suspected my appearance was what caused her to tell me what she assumed I wanted to hear.  God, I hope that wasn’t the case…That’s for another blog.

“Please don’t.” I honestly pled.

I never had a problem with pills. Other than snorting Ritalin and Tylox in the back of my friends VW Golf in the late 90’s while listening to Phish, 311, or Sublime.  Along with Heroin, pills weren’t my thing. Everything else though…That’s for another blog.

“Sir, that’s what you need.”

No, it wasn’t. For the pain maybe. It was the last fucking thing I “needed.”

I reluctantly accepted her verdict, took the note, hobbled my way to Walgreens, grabbed some more of those starbursts, grabbed my pills, and headed for the couch.

I was so blind, ill-equipped, and unprepared for what awaited. For you see cats and kittens, a week later, after my script ran out, after I smoked more weed, ate my delicious starbursts, and devoured those pills in a week when they were supposed to last me a month:

I “needed” something…anything…

I don’t know what it’s like to be asthmatic and need a shot of my inhaler. I don’ know what’s like to be a diabetic and need a shot of insulin.  I don’t know what it’s like to be near death and need something to survive.

But I do know what it feels like to need a drink.

And, I don’t want to sound ignorant or obtuse to the aforementioned and so many more; but that feeling, the feeling of needing a fucking beverage so much that if…

Have you ever had to pee really bad? I mean so bad that you if don’t piss, you’re about to do something you will pay a shrink or go see Tony Robbins to recover from? We all have, right? Now think of the moment where the toilet was in front of you. The greatest and worst moment of your life.  Because the toilet is finally in front of you, yet you regretted wearing skinny jeans, tight boxer briefs with no piss hole, and a belt with a Fort Knox like belt buckle.

The levee is about to break and what happens next is out of your control…

It’s worse than that.

Moments later,  was a glass of scotch.

Moments, days later, it was a bottle of scotch.

Moments, a week to the day later, I was informed my dear friend killed himself.

He wasn’t so dear a few days prior when he called me and I couldn’t answer because I was too “hungover to talk”…

I had my reason to loathe me.

I had my reason to despise me.

I had my reason to be a victim.

I had my reason to go numb.

I had my reason to be irate.

I had my reason to be hopeless.

I had my reason to have a reason.

I had my reason to drink, to drug, and to make up for three months lost time.

And I went on a rampage of self-destruction.

If it was, in fact, God saying “fuck you”, I was about to say “fuck you” right back…

New Years Day, 2018

Did you know by smiling, simply smiling for a brief period of time, your mind will change in emotion? Seriously, you will be in a better mood by simply smiling.
Try it.

Thanks Tony Robbins!


So, the next time you wake up and you’re homicidal and/or suicidal; think of the words of Jerry Garcia,

“Nothin left to do but smile, smile, smile.”

Raise of hands, how many of you are thinking:

“Go fuck a tree and sing kumbaya you goddamn hippie”?

I once saw a tree and wondered if a hippie drugged and/or drunk would try to have intercourse with it…


Anway, time after time, the mind is freaking out in a cage. Trying to escape the confines of an odd shaped skull. Nowhere for it to journey off to.  And if, if it does, and the mind is permitted to take one of those long drives through the country of Vermont on Route 22A; it’s suddenly broadsided by the semi-truck carrying the cargo of reality on its 18 wheel frame.

But, if we smile, we can pretend to be happy!!!

I started writing this before Christmas 2017. A holiday, many of us treasure, many of us are apathetic about, and many of us avoid.

I treasure it.


Christmas Eve was always a special day for my mom’s family. We’d all get together, more often than not without my father in attendance…”Many of us avoid”.

Well, while the others ate and drank, I anxiously and impatiently waited for Santa.

I still do.

One of my uncles, typically my Uncle Benny, he would come down cloaked in Santas clothes and hand out gifts to all of the grandchildren.  Me, being the oldest, thought and still do believe it’s all about me. And it’s a wonder why I don’t have children…

Benny was the best Santa.

Benny will always be Santa to me.

We almost lost Santa this year.

Benny had a heart attack that should have killed him.  Emma and Quido almost had their son way too early.

Not yet…Not yet.

2017, you tried and in many cases succeeded in inflicting pain.

But listen up you cunt of a year; with pain comes the opportunity to be heroic, to overcome and to possess grace.

Grace for what we have. Benny overcame his heart attack, fought back and is 25 plus pounds lighter. And you think we have a fucking shortage of heroes these days?

Grace for who we are.  The son of strugglers that struggled but never gave up! The brother to my inspiration.  The nephew to a village of uncles and aunts that are older brothers and sisters.  And the patriarch cousin showing what not to, and what to do with your life!

Grace for what we are. And that’s alive my friends.

2017 came in like a Tsunami in downtown Rutland, VT.


We don’t have Tsunami’s in Vermont, so, you know, it was “unexpected.”

Don’t get me wrong, many foresaw this, because of, well..,


Here is the thing though, when there is a storm, the sun will shine again. Hotter, and brighter than ever!

I once saw an Instagram post saying:

“Without darkness, you’d never see the stars.”

Ya, I think that’s horseshit.

It may have something to do with the fact it was a meme my ex-wife posted shortly after divorcing me.

Maybe a little.

And don’t be so goddamn sanctimonious! Like you haven’t heavy breathed on your ex’s social media window!

I also don’t care for the language in that meme either.

Why is difficulty always dark?

Why does life have to be dark?

I mean, Dark Chocolate is so spectacular that fat people everywhere are gorging themselves with the Lindt 2 for $4 special at Price Chopper.
“I’m anti-oxidized!”

Why can’t life be like the weather: Unpredictable? Yes. And it is unpredictable,  I don’t give a shit what Jim Cantore says:

When was the last time you were that pumped about anything like he was over fucking thundersnow?

Life has storms, and storms don’t last forever, and rarely do they happen multiple days in a row.

While darkness, darkness happens every goddamn day of our lives.  And if you’re in Alaska, well…fuck!

But with storms, we dry off, we shovel a path, and we rebuild.

I get it, many of you feel as if you’re in a 100-year storm but I ask:

Have you not toweled off when caught in the rain?

Have you not created a new path while shoveling snow?

Have you not fixed something that you loved when it was broken?

In 2018, go find your towel my friends. But, not one of those really comfy Better Homes ones from Walmart. They fucking suck when they’re wet.

In 2018, go find your shovel my friends. I recommend the ones with the curved handle and the blade at the end. Found at the Safety Wearhouse, South Glens Falls, NY! (Welcome Patty! She’s a client)

In 2018, go find your glue my friends.  I highly recommend Gorilla Glue and not Elmers.  Elmer’s has this sweet aroma and icing like texture that just dares you to not taste it.

I quit drinking and doing coke just over 3 months after my friend gave me the reason I needed to be my own personal nightmare I couldn’t escape from.

Truth was, it was an excuse. Don’t get me wrong, those pills sure as shit helped.  And don’t get me wrong, Donald Trump, your job, your days, and your nights help make 2017 a massive hemorrhoid.

But here’s the thing…

I’ve been sober for just shy of 13 years since.

I stopped using him as an excuse to hate myself.

Stop using Donald Trump, stop using the economy, stop using all of these bullshit reasons to hate yourself.

In 2018, go get a fucking waterproof, really thick North Face coat, grab your hammer, and go take on the storm head fucking on!

And it’s okay to be afraid my friends…

For you see, with fear, comes the opportunity to be courageous!

In 2018, go be your own fucking hero!


The Life of Radio Salesman

I sell air.

If you give me an hour of your time, I’m pretty sure, no, I’m positive I’ll convince you that the air you breathe isn’t nearly as valuable as the air I’m selling.

How do I know that?

Because the air I sell you contains language and harmony. The air I sell can make you think, make you informed, make you laugh, make you angry, make you aroused, make you intrigued, make you cry, make you wonder, and make you dream.

While your air gives you life, my air makes you feel alive.

Do I honestly believe all that is true? Truthfully, I’m indifferent.

For you see, all that matters is that I convince you.

When I’m done, you will be absolutely fucking convinced my air is the greatest goddamn thing that ever happened to your miserable life.

Don’t get me wrong, I used to face the world of tangible products, aka a coupon.

I then went toe to toe with narcissism and bad acting that is television.

Then fucking Stern goes to satellite.

But, yet, like spam, and I’m not talking about the emails for dick pills or your long lost Dominican uncle that was worth billions just died. I mean like the can of jelly coated fake ham.

Like that spam, we survive.

Wanna know why? Because we don’t cost shit.

That’s right.

Think about it. Radio is totally free.  While everyone thinks we’re archaic, or worthless.  Guess what? We are!  We’re old and trusted and we don’t cost you, the consumer a fucking dime.  Call your cable company now, if you have one, and tell them you’re going to cancel.  Don’t own the top package? No worries, they’ll give it to you for what you’re paying now. Go ahead, try…You’re welcome for your 3 free months of HBO.

And are you receiving Sirius mailers like their fucking Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons?  If you wait, they’ll pay you to listen.

Yet here we are in radio, in all our canned, slimy, pink glory.

Oh are we currently going at it with the “sexy” analytics that is digital? Yes. Why? Because, right now, analytics are to businesses what cocaine was to 1981 Miami Beach.

At least that’s what they’re being told.

Does anyone know what an impression is? No, I’m not talking the sweaty outline of your fat ass peeling your almost dead body off your yoga mat.  It’s when you see an ad. Or more than likely, don’t see an ad.  Think about the boxes on the right that show some donkey getting jacked…..think about the pair of shoes on your Facebook page, that you JUST looked at on the G.H. Bass website.  It’s called retargeting.  Did you buy or get pissed? I bet you in your subconscious you were not only annoyed, but creeped out.

In a world where paranoia and fear are as regular as those goddamn Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons,(I have enough to build a fucking lean-to) all digital advertising does is make you feel invaded. It doesn’t convince you to do jack shit.

And if it does, I ask you to dig a little deeper before making a decision.

You ever hear a funny radio commercial?

You did, didn’t you?

Of course, you did.

Ever laugh at a pair of shoes haunting your soul the next 24 times you go anywhere and everywhere on the World Wide Web?

Don’t you get it?

We like to be told stories.  We all do.  Whether through person, song, film, book, game, et cetera. Don’t believe me? What’s that book of stories that so many people read?

Oh yeah, the FUCKING BIBLE!

On radio. We tell you stories.

And we’re damn good at it.

Our stories can inform you, anger you, sadden you, and of course, humor you.

I leave you with this thought, I took statistics a couple times, so I’m going to say I have zero credibility on the subject. But you’re reading this, and that’s because I’m a good storyteller.   Or, a good bullshitter. Many will choose the latter and I am one of them.

Nonetheless, for my final project, I was to present something based on statistics, in, well, my 16th Century European History class! Goddamn, my A.D.D and repetitiveness get so fucking annoying.  Seriously, I’m the guy that has ham at Easter and talks the next 3 weeks about:

“Why don’t I eat more ham?”

Because, it’s fucking ham…

Anyway, I had this statistics project and  I did mine on the NFL QB Rating.  Wanna know how they compute the NFL QB Rating? No, you really don’t, but allow me to cut and paste:

Start with .095 and subtract interceptions divided by pass attempts. Divide that product by .04. To gain 2.375 in percentage of interceptions, a passer would have to go the entire season without an interception. Add the sum of 1-4, multiply by 100 and divide by 6

If you can figure that out, you’re an asshole.  And you may always be an asshole. So own it…being an asshole.

Anyway, during my presentation, I read what I plagiarized to the class, and then asked the class, what’s the one thing that is not represented in that entire equation?

…wait for it…


I don’t mean the Wilson sisters.  Even though, I saw them live one summer and they fucking killed it. Best show of the summer. And I saw Phish, Motley Crue, and Journey that same year.

Ya, not them.

The one thing that we can’t measure in any Nasa nuclear quadratic, (by the way, I typed quadramatic. Thanks red squiggly line because I didn’t have a goddamn clue.)  formula that only can be understood by (stereotype) an Asian student at M.I.T?

It’s our heart.

Don’t be a douche and say and EKG. You know what I mean and you’re about to kill the moment and my momentum…

Not only does radio make your heart dance, your heart sing, your heart race and your heart gently weep, but we play Heart too!

Radio doesn’t try to predict your decisions…radio just helps your heart make them.

And the last time I checked, the best decisions I’ve made, you’ve made, we’ve all made…

Came from your heart…





Tales of Serial Dater: The Do’s and Dont’s of Online Dating

We’ve seen the commercials about finding someone special using an app and/or website.  You know the ones, they are usually sandwiched in between a pill that will get you to quit smoking, yet will cause you to tirelessly contemplate killing yourself.

But hey, at least you quit smoking.

And the other commercial is about life insurance.

So, to recap, quit smoking by slitting your wrists, find the love of your life, then buy life insurance. Clearly they are in no specific order.  Because that would be, you know, influential.

Nonetheless, as you sit at home on a Friday night, binge watching Stranger Things,  while eating your 4th pint of Halo Top Ice Cream, you decide that you’re tired of being alone.

So, you do it, you sign up for online dating.

Your gender, age, race, or sexual orientation aside, this is a world unlike any other.


Well, allow me to elaborate by giving you what will happen as you create your profile and…well, what will happen immediately after.


For a man, you sit there and upload photos that you think are cool.  Ones of you doing stuff and photos of the stuff you like doing.

What do I mean?

Well, Vinny from Secaucus, NJ loves his IROC. So here are photos of him in his IROC. Here are photos of him shirtless washing his IROC.  And of course, a photo of his IROC, all alone in its glory.

Vinny will describe himself as a fun guy that loves to play hoop, have drinks with the boyz, and of course, his IROC. His primary objective is to land a hot broad that will be fun for him to go to the club with and show off to his buddies.


Meanwhile there is Bonnie from Burlington, VT.  She has photos of her hiking, her friends, her hiking with her friends, her dog, her hiking with her dog, and of course, the mountain she hiked, all alone in its glory.

Bonnie will describe herself as an intellectual that is down to earth.  She is looking for someone that will love her with or without make up, preferably without, someone that she can have coffee with, drink Pinot Grigio with, is kind to her dog, and will love spending time with her friends and family.

They couldn’t be any further a part.  Yet, so very similar.

Once they complete their profiles, they submit.

Then, all hell breaks loose.


Vinny will go on a Safari like Rainbow Randolph in Death to Smoochy!

Vinnies hunt consists of him:

Finding any and all ladies on there that attract him.  Not paying one bit of attention to what they’ve written, where they are and what they do.  All he looks at are the pics, and when he’s done, he’s liked all their photos, winked at all their profiles, and sent an obscene amount of emails. All with the elegant prose of:

“Hey, wanna hook up?” Written underneath a pic of his dick.  While in his IROC.

His reward:

Endless notifications from fictitious profiles from “girls” that look like they are supermodels, have zero standards in their “Wants/Looking For” and magically live in this town where the hottest girl in town IS the hottest girl in town because she has more than 9 teeth.  I’m from Vermont, so I have some expertise on that. All providing their email in their profile that looks like: merta@gamaledotcom

Meanwhile, theirs Bonnie. She hits submit, and before she even has the opportunity to go “shopping” for the man of her dreams…

Her reward:

Endless notifications from every man imaginable that likes all of her photos, winks, and endless emails with the elegant prose of:

“Hey, wanna hookup?”

And if she doesn’t respond to guys like Vinny, Vinny calls her a cunt and hopes she dies in hell.

Nice huh? And that of course is written underneath a pic of his dick, while in his IROC.

Before she has an opportunity to have an opportunity, she is already contemplating whether or not this has been the biggest mistake of her life.

With that, I give you my online dating do’s…Oh, and before I begin, you may be wondering what gives me the credibility to be your “Online Dating Guru”?

Well, please note what a parable is, and see if the stories above may seem somewhat insightful.

And no, I don’t own an IROC…

With that:


Be yourself.  Seriously, not everyone is comfortable writing about themselves.  And I get that. I have no problem with it per se, however, I understand there is a comfort level in it.  Seriously, you’re on an online dating site, whoring yourself out to the most eligible bachelor or bachelorette.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say confidence isn’t your strongest emotion.

So, if you’re uncomfortable about writing about yourself, don’t. Write about who you want to meet and what you want.  And if that is too hard for you, then what the fuck are you doing?!?

You don’t know who you are, or what you want?

My suggestion then, go find some porn and take care of business until you figure that shit out.


We don’t go on a road trip without knowing where we want to go do we? Sometimes people like to go for a drive. But they know who they are and why they are doing it.  And typically that is in an effort to “clear your head”.

Well, you subjecting yourself to this world is in hopes of finding love…right?  Or it may be to get laid.  Again, if that is the case, you have some standards now don’t you? And if you don’t please refer to the porn comment a paragraph ago.

Point being, if you don’t know who you are, or what you want, then you will suffer immeasurable pain.  You will be treated like shit by some piece of shit that is just like you.

You will come across serial daters, such as…

Spac Profile Pic

And they are just as lost as you, and will tell you all the things you want to hear in an effort to make themselves feel better. Which of course it won’t.  So, what do they do? Take you for granted, take advantage of you, and take away your dignity as they walk away like you never existed.  All after they made you feel like the greatest thing on earth since Blue Raspberry Airheads.

Insecurity has always been an issue of mine. Until this past week.



And when you’re insecure, you lack the confidence to be present with a woman you find attractive. To go engage them.  Instead, with online dating, you have all these “likes, winks, then emails.”  What ends up happening? Your expectations grow to unimaginable levels and the lady or man you meet doesn’t stand a Pint of Halo Top ice cream chance in hell.

This leads me to the next point:


Don’t fucking do it.  Don’t go online to date.

Imagine this, you meet someone online, you engage them, they like you, and you like them, then you meet, then you realize they suck, then what?


Why can’t it be like that with someone you meet at the grocery store, the gym, through a friend, through fucking Facebook?  At least on Facebook you can see all the photos they DON’T post on an online dating site.  Seriously! I’ve gone out with girls that had their profile pic on be a photo taken back in 2008!  Do you think she looks a little different in the fucking decade since?

Moral of the story.  Please believe in yourself.  Who you see in the mirror may be beautiful to a stranger.  Christ, we all get tired of certain people in our lives, seeing them day after day after day. So you can bet your sweet ass that your perspective may be a little skewed  when you see yourself.

To you, you may look nothing but ugly.

To another, you may be the most exquisite thing they’ve ever seen.

Good luck!



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