Hell…even my balls are bigger

No less than 3 times today.
It happened no less than that.
In fact, it happened exactly that.
Three times.
At work.

In reference to work-related mundane conversational filler bullshit, I told 3 separate people that I, or we, would “so and so with this” on Monday. Meaning I was putting them off and deferring our task of confronting this not-so-crucial work matter off until Monday.
Meaning Tuesday.

For I work in the United States and my employer is a normal American company which respects its Oval Officed Presidential history.
As in, the company closes the office on Monday.

But the simple fact slipped my mind 3 times today.
Am I to infer that I’m not looking forward to the day off?
Am I to infer that I would prefer to work on Monday?

What does it say about you that you forget such a delightful tidbit of day-off fun so often in the course of a normal fucked up workday?

That’s a lot of “fucks.”
I’m tremendously sorry to you of virgin ears.

Fuck is such a…bad word.
I’m sparse with it. But sometimes when I sit at this keyboard and my fingers dance aggressively over these keys, those 4 keystrokes of doom beg to be pounded. Punched.


If fuck was a longer word or with more dexterously challenging keys, I would not use it very much.
If fuck was spelled like, say, Phoenixism, I would not cuss.

I was out for my evening walk when I came up with the name “Phoenixism.” Yep, I thought of this blog’s name while I took one my my occasional walks about town in order to burn off a monumental 30 calories or just space out. I was far from a keyboard when I thought of Phoenixism which probably explains much…

I haven’t been walking as much.
Concentrating on resistance exercise. Meaning weights.
Weights have consumed my energies and I’ve neglected that delightful nighttime walk, about 30-40 minutes of blissful disconnectedness, a peaceful period of Spacing Out. A wonderful tonic for the frazzled soul.
For walking, even “purposefully” as the exercise rags call it, does not burn off a substantial number of calories. Walking will never shred you, sorry.

I see people walking purposefully and they seem to exude the proud air of someone who is bordering on Olympic devotion, but really, they are burning off more stress points than calories. Walking is wonderful for the mind and it’s not bad for the body. But it won’t make you skinny.

Still, it’s fun, I’ve loved walking all my life. Plug in the earhones and rush out that door like a lunatic and start, skedaddle right across town, walking and rubbing those thighs like you’re some hot athletic shit. But you’re not. It always helps to wear a very intense expression, and if you can swing it, that slightly physically exasperated look that you are about to fall down from exhaustion…as if you’re going to collapse, faint, from this rigor, this 4.9 mph jaunt in your New Balance shoes and slimy-looking shorts.


If you walk fast enough guy, be careful, make sure you don’t swing too much there. You don’t want to hurt the gonads. Make sure they are locked firmly in place. Spermatozoa is your friend. It is our friend, it is the friend of our species. Its housing must be carefully well-tended. Avoid the rambunctious swinging. Careful there with your manic walking.

Oh hey speaking of housing. And swinging and spermatozoa.

I saw the most ridiculous thing on the way to work this morning.

Preface…have you seen those scrotum sack things they sell which you can hang form the rear undercarriage of your vehicle? They look like this:

courtesy Curlywurlygurly

OK, well, I’ve seen them scattered around (so to speak) L.A. Invariably they are attached to a full-sized truck and they bellow out “this is a man’s car” in all their overcompensating bravado. Roar!

This morning, about 8:15, as I was driving down Cesar Chavez Boulevard in East L.A., there it was. Stopped by the curb, a 10 or 12-year-old Honda Civic sedan. Once I passed, the dude pulled away and raced up behind me in his little ghetto shitmobile and started tailgating me. Finally realizing that this street has 2 lanes for a reason, he pulled into the next lane and passed me. And that’s when I got a look.

His car had one of those monstrous (lol) exhausts that guys stick on little 4-cylinder cars that make the engine sound like a high-pitched 85 horsepower tin can. There is nothing intimidating or remotely impressive about that shit. It’s like they decide the normal underwhelming hum of an econobox engine is somehow less preferable than the sound of an engine that sounds like 50 coffee cans filled with rice being shaken in unison.

So there we were are on Cesar Chavez deep in East L.A., near Soto, and this fucknut is driving his Civic like a madman because God knows he’s late for the Indianapolis 500. And if it’s not bad enough that he has that try-hard exhaust on his Chihuahua-powered Honda, I’ll mention that his car is lime green.

Fucking lime green.
And a bad lime green.
A paint job so ghetto and bargain basement that it looks like he tried to paint his car with a thousand watercolor sets from the school district supply office.

See, what I think happened, is that he decided he would go with some really disgusting barrio lime-green scheme which might look good on one of those Sunday Chevy low-riders (because it was done correctly) but which looks like crap on the Honda because he probably, 1) didn’t have enough money to pay for a proper finish to be applied to the paint, 2) couldn’t track down the deadbeat painter after the initial coats were applied to the little Civic.

So now homeboy is driving around East L.A. in a matte-looking lime green car that sounds like a beehive and…


a set of testicles wrapped in a plastic scrotum hanging from the bottom of his rear bumper.

And they are not even an impressive set of balls. Not at all In fact they are embarrassing.

All the faux testicles I’ve seen attached to trucks have been large, manly, intimidating (like the photo above).

Not the ones hanging from this Honda.
They were Honda-sized testicles!
They were tiny and they dangled helplessly. Puny little testicles in a shriveled up scrotum hanging from a tiny little pale green Honda with a rattly-sounding exhaust.

Ah East L.A., I love you!