Archive | July, 2009

SpeedBlog II: God I’m in a Hurry.

13 Jul

OK, so I wanted to post real fast but I also have to poop but I don’t want to start a post and work on it later and I really like the idea of speedblogging so I’m going to try to speedblog before I shat myself.

OK so today I went to this place called Eatzi’s. It was delicious kind of like a market but also a restaurant I didn’t know how to take it. It was kind of like a rollercoaster that was also a great pair of slacks. It was just too great.

Later we al;sd

Damn it.

I shat myself.


Getting Girls to Like You

11 Jul

Hey, guys.

Getting girls to like you is stressful and incredibly difficult–not to mention dangerous and possibly bloody. Personally, being a successful musician-turned-writer, I’ve never had trouble meeting women. Here’s a promo shot of me from back in the day:

Man, do I miss that haircut.

*This might be John Stamos

The problem with women loving musicians and artists is that most of you aren’t those things. Most of you are normal. Most of you look like this:

Not so bad.

Not so bad?

Granted, that is a lovely pair of suspenders, but other than that, there’s not a whole lot here that you would call “striking.” So what am I getting at? There’s a lot more to getting a girl than good looks (unless you’re really good looking). I’m going to show you those things.

1. Don’t ignore your appearance entirely.

Your appearance is kind of important. Girls don’t like coveralls like they used to. They no longer get into acid wash jeans. And believe me, they are not impressed by your vast array of free blood donation t-shirts. Get ready for a metaphor: there could be a sweet ass ride parked on your driveway, but if it’s covered in pig vomit, you’re going to be a bit hesitant to get behind the wheel. Girls aren’t perfect (WHAT?!), they can guilty of judging a book by its cover just like us men can. Take pride in how you look. A nice pair of jeans or a button up shirt can easily take any guy from a four to a six.  So let this be a lesson to you–wear some clean clothes, comb your hair, and do not cover yourself in pig vomit.

2. Be genuine and honest.

Women are smart. They get stuff. They get stuff that us, as men, do not (Cooking, sewing, why Sex and the City has even a nominal shread of entertainment value). One thing women “get” is constructive criticism. Here, I’ll show you what I mean. The other day my girlfriend and I decided to go to the art museum in Fort Worth. While we were there I had the… you know what? Just read the transcription:

Katie: Kyle, look at this one! (Points to a portrait of St. Jude.)

Kyle: Uh oh, careful there.

Katie: What?

Kyle: (Incredulous, whispers) Katie, don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about.

Katie: Kyle, I’m not kidding. I have no idea what I need to be “careful” about.

Kyle: You’re pointing like a man.

Katie: (Stares back blankly)

Kyle: (Buys Katie a Sex and the City box set)

See how well she took that? Women see constructive criticism as an opportunity to better themselves, especially when it deals with their physical appearance. It would be completely appropriate to, upon seeing your female in an ugly blouse, say lovingly “Ew.” or “Fuck you for that blouse.” or “Those shorts might look better on a skinny person.” Women love and appreciate honesty. Be honest. Notice their appearance and you will be rewarded (with sexy time).

3. Listen and engage her in conversation (with your penis).

OK, not with your penis. That was a joke. Your penis can’t talk. Right?

Women love a good listener, but a person who only listens and never contributes is like a word thief or a Somalian conversation pirate (Remember a couple of months ago? The pirates?). So, always be ready with what you’re going to say about midway through her sentence. You want to fire back quickly so you appear intelligent. Here’s an example:

“Yea, so, I dyed my hair and decided that it was time to start my new life, to leave my alcoholism and drug abuse behind me.”

“Yea? What color did your hair used to be?”

Brilliant. That guy is a Don Juan, a cassanova, a George Clooney. He is, as literature would say, an “unblushing libertine.” I love those last couple of words. I do.


Three steps is enough for you to think I tried, right? I sure as hell hope so, because that’s all I’m doing. With these tips, you should be more than prepared to procure any beautiful lady who happens to tickle your fancy. Believe in yourself, believe in my tips, believe in miracles. You’re a superstar. You’re god’s most beautiful creation. You’re art.


Your friend,


Liveblogging a Day in My Graduate Life.

9 Jul

I’ve decided to take a brief break from the one episode long “Kyle Helps” series to talk a little bit about something that’s really close to me– myself.

Graduate life is much different from student or work life. You’re in a bizarre state of limbo, turning in resumés and applications, following up with not-always-receptive employers, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. They say “Kyle, why don’t you wear the shirt withOUT the Cheetos stains?” or “Kyle, people can smell you,” or “Kyle, are you purposely putting Cheetos dust on that shirt? It looks like you’ve written your name there.” They just do not get it. I want to give everybody a peek into my life– a peek into what it’s like to be a graduate.

8:30 am

I wake up and stretch. I then look into the mirror across my room and, smiling wryly, say “Just kidding,” to my reflection and go back to sleep for four more hours.

12:37 pm

Lord, it’s already past noon? A normal person might look at this time and think “God, I’ve wasted so much of the day,” but not me. No, not me.  I say to myself that I had breakfast, I just simply forgot what I ate. This is how I lie to myself. This is how I survive.

1:45 pm

Laying out by the pool. I’m reading some Stephen King. I get scared and have to go inside.

3:00 pm

Spend roughly six minutes trying to clean a speck of dirt off my computer screen. It turns out to be a comma. The cats saw me do that. I’m so fucking embarrassed.

Harsh, unceasing, judgement.

Cold, unyielding, judgment.

4:03 pm

OPRAH! OMG! I sit down in front of the T.V. with my “Oprah Snacks”: a jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of crackers, and a liter of Diet Coke. I’m comfy, alert, and ready for a good cry. I’m going to eat all of this food. Today, the show is about food. I’m so EXCITED. This really will help me lose those pesky pounds!

4:27 pm

Dr. Oz or whatever just said that Diet Coke is bad for you. He’s a fucking idiot and so is Oprah.

4:29 pm

I’m so sorry, Oprah. I didn’t mean that. I really didn’t. You’re brilliant. You’re the queen of daytime television. Dr. Oz isn’t, though. He’s a fucking idiot with a stupid haircut that wears scrubs on national television.

5:30 pm

I go to the kitchen to do some chores. I clean the counters (push the cats off the counters), mop up the floor (slide a cat around with a broom), and load the dishwasher (I put a cat in the dishwasher.).  After I finish those chores, I decide to re-organize the pantry according to my own personal likes and dislikes. I push all the “icky” stuff to the back of the shelf and pull what I like to the front. Now all you can see when you open the cabinet is a bag of croutons and a DVD of Wedding Crashers (That’s not food, I just love that movie.)

6:38 pm

I lean back in my chair and crack my fingers, adoring my newly completed blog, which is resting quietly on my screen. I wrote about pooping in a movie theater. Poetry. Poo-etry.

7:00 pm

I put on a pair of leather pants and walk around despondent, drug-addled, and bloated. From 7 to 8 I usually do my best Jim Morrison impression for everyone. Nobody at my house likes this. I just tell them (from atop the kitchen table) that they’re all slaves and that art can’t be chained down. I then throw up the crackers from earlier and fall down. I decide that I’ve pretty much ruined the evening for everybody already and that it’s probably best that I just don’t get up for a little bit.

12:38 am

My father comes into the living room and tells me it’s probably a good time for me to go to bed. He mops where I was laying. I spend six or seven minutes in quiet self-loathing before I remember that I installed the Sims on my laptop last week. I spend the next two hours trying to create a kind of breeding program in my Sim neighborhood. It has yet to yield the perfect Sim. Don’t worry, though. I have plenty of time to perfect it. I have all the time in the world.

That’s my day. Later, girls and boys.

Save Some Money. Let Me Help You.

8 Jul

There’s a lot of money in the world, and most of it isn’t yours. A good portion of it is mine. Mine, mine, mine, and you can’t have any–unless you’re my drug guy. You can have my money as soon as you get the new shit in. I’m serious. Leave it by the bench.

If you’re like me, you have a strong need for budgeting. What with the cost of helicopter fuel and giraffe food, we’re all having to tighten our belts a little bit–especially poor people, because they’re literally starving. I’ve compiled some of my best tips for saving your money and getting the most out of every dollar. Let’s begin:

1. Don’t invest.

A lot of people think that a great way to make money and to leave something for their posterity is to put it away in investments, stocks and bonds being two prime examples. Well, the stock market is mean and scary and doesn’t “do” refunds.

Bonds are just you giving your money to the government, and the government has plenty of it’s own money. Did you know it can print money at will? Can you do that? Can you? (The answer is no.)

2. Don’t buy a horse, a giraffe, or any other large, beautiful animal.

Let’s face it–buying a lowland silverback gorilla is not as easy as it used to be. Our parents could just run out to the store in their little red wagons (pulled by dinosaurs) and pick up a gorilla for a nickel. Then they’d take their gorilla down to the Yipee Skippe Stop and buy a malted milk and cheese burger for two pennies. Oh, those were the days. When I finish my time machine, that’s where I’m going.

Feeding those animals is such a hassle, and finding a tailor who can make a v-neck white t-shirt for a horse is such a beating. Did you know Honda doesn’t make passenger seats big enough for silverback gorillas? Yea, you have to have those custom made. You know how much that costs? No, of course you don’t know, because you would just make your gorilla sit in the back seat or find a ride. You’re an ass hole. I’m not. (Those seats are roughly $2,000 to design, build, and install. Goodbye, graduate school.)

Stick with dogs and cats if you really want to buy a pet.

3. Buy a good pair of running shoes.

I know what you’re thinking– “Why would I buy something if I’m trying to save money?” Simple. For the next few months, or until this recession is gone, you’re going to be stealing a lot of things. You’re going to need to be able to make a speedy get away. You remember that scene from The Sandlot when that kid puts on the ultra-cool sneakers and steals the baseball back from the giant dog and James-Earl Jones? Had he been wearing something other than the best, that movie might’ve ended VERY differently– a lot more Simon Birch most likely. Here’s a list of things you’ll have to wear sneakers to steal:

1. Baseballs

2. Food

3. Video Games

4. Clothes

5. Water (bottles, jugs, etc.)

6. A House

7. Guns

8. James-Earl Jones

9. Tools

10. Gorilla food

11. “Doo-doo” paper

You’re going to thank me later. I will accept thanks in the form of gorilla food for my gorilla.

4. Drive less

How often do you drive? Think about it for a second. You probably drive a lot. How many of those times could you of made someone else drive you? Probably every time. So, the next time you need to go somewhere, simply call up  your friend and tell them you’re having car trouble. When they ask you what exactly, say something so technical that they would have no way of knowing that you’re lying to them. You could say, for example, “My secondary rocker arm is interfering with my B synchronizing piston. Whaddaya gonna do, you know?” That’ll get ’em.  You could also use those running shoes you bought (see Tip #4) to run places, but running sucks, so try they lying thing first.

I can remember one time my grandpa sat down next to me and told me one of my family’s oldest bits of wisdom: “Nick,” he’d say (this isn’t my name), “the shortest distance between two points is a straight line or a rocket ship.” My grandfather had the most severe form of dementia, but that didn’t stop him from spreading his knowledge– or occasionally eating plastic things. He’s right. Whenever you can, try to just drive in a straight line to wherever you’re going. Ignore traffic lights or “medians,” as the law calls them. You may need a bigger car for this. Good thing you’re using your friend’s.

5. Store up your treasures in Heaven.

Just kidding. Don’t tithe. God doesn’t want your money. God doesn’t need a new swingset. God doesn’t need to fix your church’s air conditioner. You don’t need to help pay your preacher. He gets a secret check from Jesus every month. How do you think he affords all those sweaters and that fancy bible he’s always carrying around? Don’t even bother.


I hope these tips helped you. They certainly helped me. Since I helped you save probably thousands upon thousands of dollars, I’d really appreciate a little kick back. You may now start tithing out to me.

My Independence Day

6 Jul

Burn in hell, rest of the world, because Saturday I celebrated the birthday of my favorite country– the United States of America!

Every year, my family gets together to celebrate this hallowed day. Like most families, we have long-standing, deeply-rooted traditions. We have games, sing-a-longs, staring contests (We don’t count these as games–because they aren’t.), and a few special family foods. My dad makes his original, one of a kind meat sandwich that he named “Hamburgers.” He’ll also throw in a couple of these weird little things he named “Hot dogs.” On top of all that, he’ll go really crazy and treat us to his world-famous “Whiskey out of a water jug.” Oh, dad.

I got up extra early on the Fourth. I had a lot to do, so I had to get an early start. I set my alarm for 11am. I was greeted by a beautiful sunny day.

“Hello, sunny day!” I said.

“Harmful U-V rays,” the sunny day responded quietly.

I ran through my to do list:


I put on my clothes: red shorts, blue polo shirt, white socks, brown leather Birkenstocks. I then opened my closet door and dusted off an old box that’s labeled “Let’s party.” Inside the box rested a large, (comically-large, in fact) red white and blue, stars and stripes top hat. This is the hat that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.

There you go, friend.

There ya go, friend.

I then drove out to my aunt Tammy’s for a Fourth of July lunch. I brought my woman, Katie. She wouldn’t wear what I’d picked out for her. She also wouldn’t let me introduce her as my “girlfriend” until I took my hat off. She’s also a communist.

It was a delightful time. We all laughed, ate, and performed one of America’s oldest traditions, the breaking of the piñata. My mom only drank enough to throw up once. My Independence Day was really shaping up well thus far. There was a really big dog at my aunt’s house that scared Katie. It was probably because the dog believed in capitalism and every man’s right to make his own way without government interference. It could’ve also been its enormous size and overly aggressive behavior towards women. This is also why she was afraid of my brother.

After this I took the ol’ ball ‘n chain on a tour of all Waxahachie has to offer.

We returned home six minutes later.

“Let’s CELEBRATE!” I say as I kick the door open. The house is completely empty.

A few minutes later, my family came in with some groceries. I said hello to my mother and father and they simply rolled their eyes and made comments under their breath, of which I could only make out a few words, like “leech,” “writer,” and “adopted.”

After we got all the food into the house, we went out to buy our fireworks. The place we usually go to is a renovated  warehouse with the words “ALAMO! FIREWORKS!” painted on the front. We parked and walked inside. Immediately we were greeted by a bunch of almost dead (old) people who gave us a shopping cart. I thanked them all and, before I walked away, looked to each of them and said “I wish you all good luck on your final voyage into that dark night.” They start to say something back to me, but I had zoned out at the words “Dark night,” only able to think about The Dark Knight.

[Editor’s note: Kyle worked for roughly twenty or so minutes on trying to write more Dark Knight jokes. Just to give a little insight as to why they’re not included here, they involved a dream sequence and the word ‘colostomy bag.’]

We picked out a pretty large variety of fireworks: mortar cannons, firecrackers, mortar cannons, sparklers, and mortar cannons. I think there was a Roman candle mixed somewhere in there, but I refused to use it because Romans were the ones who killed my Lord.

“Ready to check out?” The kind woman behind the counter said.

“Yes.” I said. I gave her the correct amount of money.

[Editor’s note: I begged Kyle to let me take this dialogue out, trying to impress on him that the reader could just assume that he paid for the fireworks upon leaving. He disagreed, stating that he didn’t want to leave room for anybody to think he stole the fireworks in case he “ever ran for office.”]

When we got home, some of the guests had already arrived.

“Hooray! I screamed.” I screamed. I had gotten into the habit of narrating my own actions. Julian, Box, and Derek were there. They were lighting bottle rockets in my back yard. That’s trespassing.

“Hey guys!” I said. They returned the salutation.”Who’s ready to get FUCKED UP for liberty?!” I say as I pulled two bottles of whiskey from the bag in my arms. I dropped one. I looked at them making a “OH YEA!” face, holding one bottle, trying to ignore the searing pain in my foot from all the glass/alcohol.

“Not me man, I have to go to work tomorrow.” Box said.

“Yea, dude. I’m really tired.” Julian responded.

“Oh…” I said. I’m heart broken.

“Hey man, I’ll get fucked up with you! U.S.A.!” Derek yelled, ecstatic.

“No, Derek, we’re not doing that anymore.” I said and walk inside.

The rest of the party trickled in and we had a really great time. As a general rule, I only listen to Bruce Springsteen on the Fourth. We hang out in the pool and listen to (Bruce Springsteen) music. By this time, it’s me, Katie, my sister, her fiance, Lanny, Angela (Lansbury), Josh (Groban), Julian, Derek, special guest-blogger Kevin “Box” Spaccavento, my brother, and his girlfriend Nikki (Sixx).

We then shot off some fireworks. This year was a particular success– nobody died.

I didn’t fall asleep on the picnic table, but I still consider this one of the best Fourth’s I’ve ever had. God bless you all and God bless America.

My Trip to Michael Jackson’s Viewing, Part 2

3 Jul

I’m so nervous. The viewing is today, and I can’t decide what I want Michael’s ghost to see me wearing. I decided that the best thing for me to wear would be a a onezie with Michael’s face air-brushed onto the front. I get downstairs and get into my rental car. To get into the viewing “zone” I’ve done nothing but listen to Michael Jackson records with my eyes closed, so at first, the California sun is almost intolerable. At one point, I’m about five inches from striking a pedestrian with my Taurus. I kept my eyes closed for so long because I want to save all my eye powers for when I lay my vision upon thou palest and most beautiful of pop sensations.

“Driver, take me to Neverland Ranch.” I say to myself.

“OK, Iron Kyle. Right away.” I reply to myself.

My driver (me) and I (me) embark on our great Michael Jackson dead-venture.

I arrive at the hallowed ground– Neverland Ranch. I get out of my car and am shocked to look out upon a vast emptiness. Where is everybody? Looks like MJ has only one true fan–me. I walk up to the gate and shake my head at all those not in attendance. I press the buzzer and say into the speaker:

“Iron Kyle for the viewing.” I’m met with silence from the other end. I’m assuming I’m talking directly to Michael’s body. “Can I come in? That cool?”


“OK, Mike, I’m on my way in. I’ll take my usual route.” I then take my shirt off, throw it over the spikes at the top of the gate and climb over.

There’s nobody home. When I get to the front door, I’m greeted by a kindly butler/messenger/vagrant living on the porch.

“Hello there, kind sir. Where are all the mourners?”

“GIMME DOLLAR!” He yells. He reaches out his grimy hands that are covered in really smelly chocolate.

“Your hands are covered in smelly chocolate. You can’t have my dollars. You’ll make them sticky. Now, where are all the masses eagerly awaiting their opportunity to say goodbye to the songbird of the last three generations?”

The old man spit on the ground and showed me his middle finger.

“All right. Thank you very much.” I say and walk away from the butler/wine-o. I call a friend who informs me that the service has been moved to the Staples Center, where just a few weeks ago thousands of fans were greeted to the viewing of Dwight Howard (SPORTS!).

I get to the parking lot. I’m charged $15 to turn off my vehicle on a huge plot of concrete. Stupid. To make up for this inequity, I litter the shit out of the Staples Center with a 72 oz. commemorative “Come Prove to Yourself that He’s Dead. Michael Jackson: Viewing 2009” cup.

The crowds were massive. I have to stand in line for a long time. This is boring. At one point, I lean forwards to the guy in front of me and ask jokingly, “Who died again? Is this the Farrah Fawcett thing?” The response I garnered was a sneer and the guy stealing my program out of my hands. I turn to the person behind me and jest, “I’m only here because the Billy Mays viewing was all booked up.” Unfriendly glare. People don’t think I’m funny here. That’s fine. I don’t think they’re funny either.

All night and most of today I’ve been thinking of great and profound things to say when I get to Michael’s body. I figured out the perfect elegy. Check this out:

Your time was cut short. Gentle, misunderstood journeyman– trekking resolutely through your life, blessing us all along the way.

I’m really proud of that. It was pretty weak until I found a thesaurus. This is what it said before that:

You died real fast. Weak, weird, wandering guy– walking around through your life, making us all happy smile face along way.

I finally get to the casket. I’m starting to get butterflies. The casket is made of glass. That’s cool. I want my casket to be made of iron, so it has to be transported by flatbed truck and lowered into the ground by a crane. I want the only creatures on earth capable of being my pall-bearers to be Transformers.

OK. Moment of truth. Time to make history. Time to yell hard enough into the dead man ears of Michael Jackson that he can hear me in heaven. I feel sick. God, I’m nervous. I have to yell EXTRA hard because he’s in celebrity heaven, which is higher up than regular person heaven.

There’s a velvet rope keeping the commoners roughly five to seven feet from the body. I assume that since I’m a celebrity (My band in high school was on myspace.), I can step over the rope. I am terribly, terribly mistaken. A security guard reaches out and grabs me by the collar of my onezie and I fall onto my back. I hold my hands up and reassure them, “It’s cool. It’s cool. I just need to say something to Michael.” I calm myself and try to be poised and profound, but when I start to speak, I immediately go blank– completely blank. I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind: “Yippee ky-yay mother fucker!” My voice squeaks horribly at the end and the entire stadium seems to fall silent. I take this opportunity to plug my blog. I was escorted out of the building, and my story ends there. However, I would like to make one quick statement via graphic. Here:



My Trip to Michael Jackson’s Viewing, Pt. 1

2 Jul

Everyone. I have terrible news– terrible news that I have lightly garnished with good news and baked for roughly two hours. Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, is dead. (should that of been capitalized?) [Editor’s Note: Since you were using King of Pop as a proper title to rename a proper noun, it’s perfectly acceptable.] {Kyle’s Note: BORING. Fart noise*} [Editor’s Note: Why do you treat me like this?]

I found out Michael was dead while I was driving to Waxahachie, TX. I had to immediately pull over and take off one of my driving gloves in memory of my fallen comrade. I also had to put on my sequin cod-piece. I kept driving, but it was hard for me (I had recently removed one of my driving gloves and put on a cod piece.). How do I go on living? What do I do? Where do I go? For a while it felt as if I had no direction in my life. Then, I heard some miraculous news– the Jackson family was holding an open viewing of Michael’s body at his famed Neverland Ranch on July 3. I have to be there. I need closure. I need an excuse to wear my cod-piece in public. I’m also banking on an outside shot of me slapping Al Sharpton.

Neverland Ranch is located in beautiful Santa Ynez, California. I feel very at home in California, having watched The Doors upwards of 10 times in the past two years. I get off the plane and, to fit in with all the California hipster elite, immediately take my shirt off. This is what Jim did, this is what I do. I am the Lizard King. I can do anything.

A big guy with a mean, stinky face makes me put my shirt on while he points his fist at my head.

I rent a car and head to my hotel room to drop off my things. I wave at everyone on my way up the front steps. I’m really big in California. A local sitting in the lobby recognizes me from the internet. I think I see him glance at me from behind his magazine. I decide that I’ll go over and give him a big treat from a real life celebrity.

I walk up to the reading area and stand roughly three feet from the chair he’s sitting in. I lean over his shoulder without him noticing and say in my best internet voice (breathy whisper) “Welcome back.”

The man leaps to his feet and lets out a muted yelp. He throws his newspaper at me in a frenzy. He’s so excited!

“What are you doin’ man?!” he asks.

“Not much. What’re you doin’?” I ask. I had seen him reading, so I kind of know what he’s doing already, but people like it when you take a vested interest in their lives.

“I’m minding my own business, freak. Why’d you sneak up on me like that?”

“I thought I’d sign your newspaper. Do you have a pen?” He starts to tell me that he did not, in fact, have a pen, when I interrupted him. I had a pen, but people like it when you give them a chance to help, to have efficacy.

“I have one. Stop. I have one.” I remove a large, white quill from the front of my pants. “Have you a well of ink?”

“You’re an ass hole.” He leaves me. I did not follow him. People like it when you give them space.

I pick up my bags and make my way to the elevator. Once I reach my floor, I find my room and put my bags on the bed. My things securely settled, I wait on my bed for all the hilarity to start. From what I’ve drawn from popular cinema, there’s always funny stuff happening in hotels. I’m not sure what I’ll see first, a monkey going down the hall in a baggage cart that’s being propelled by an active fire extinguisher or a couple of little ne’er do wells running from hotel security. While laying in wait, I fall asleep and have fantastic dreams. Upon awakening, the hotel is just as quiet and just as boring and stupid as ever. Boring, stupid hotel. *Pouts.

@California Your hotels are stupid. About 2 hours ago from the web

I can’t wait for the viewing. I’m going to go out and enjoy some celebrity-fueled California night life before the showing tomorrow. I need to think up something profound and witty to say as I walk by his pallid, somehow richer-than-me-even-in-death corpse. For now though, I’m going to hob nob and enjoy the lovely state of California. I’ll get back to you soon.

%d bloggers like this: