Archive | September, 2009

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

28 Sep

Breaking up sucks. This is no lie. I’ve broken up with a few people and I’ve been broken up with by a few people. Before I continue, though, I need to do something real fast.

Honey, this isn’t working out. I think it’s best for us to see other people.

When can I come by and get my copy of “Cool Runnings”? I do want that back.

See? I just broke up with somebody just now. It happens all the time. Somewhere, right now, someone is being broken up with. Somewhere else, maybe even in the next room, two people are falling in love. [Kyle’s Note: Editor, mark that last line for my Pulitzer.][Editor’s Note: You’ve been out of contention for a Pulitzer for roughly six or seven months now. Something about “use of pervasively offensive and insensitive language.” Sorry.][Kyle’s Note: That’s ridiculous. I didn’t want that stupid Pulshitzer anyway.][Editor’s Note: I rest my case.]

Actually doing the breaking up has sucked most times (“Most” because there was that one time I broke up with a girl by showing her an interpretive dance piece of me making out with her best friend. That was kind of cool.). Being broken up with has sucked every time. As unfortunate as it may be, breaking up is a necessary part of the “dating” scene. It’s an intrinsic risk of the experience. It’s just like how drinking an entire jug of wine in a night, while tons of fun at first,  also has the potential to end with you curled up on the bathroom floor, practically covered in magenta vomit that may or may not even be your own.

Good things are fun. We love good things. I feel like the relative “goodness” of things is why we like them, or we like them because they are good. It boggles the mind.

This holds little to no signifigance to the actual subject matter. I aplogize if you wasted any brain power trying to find a connection.

This holds little to no significance to the actual subject matter. Don't try to find a connection--there isn't one.

One Harvard University psychologist, L. Lee, has posited that there are actually five steps to breaking up. I’ve added supplementary notes where appropriate:

  1. Discovery of dissatisfaction — when either or both partners become dissatisfied with the relationship
  2. Exposure — when both partners become aware of the problem/s in the relationship
  3. Negotiation — when both parties try to negotiate a solution to their problem/s (usually involves a lot of screaming)
  4. Resolution and transformation — when the parties apply the agreed solution (and/or turns into a car)
  5. Termination — if the agreed solution does not work and no further solutions are agreed or tried (one/all of those involved are killed)

I would like to add two more steps:

6. Intoxicated Electronic Supplication — Via text or facebook message, one party will either beg for the return of the departing partner, or ask for the forgiveness of the party that has been broken up with while absolutely shit faced. Watch for key clues such as “So ufckin soirry” and a heavy use of the term “baby,” which is prevalent whether or not the term-of-endearment was ever used in the relationship.

7. Disdainful Renaming — One party whispers “What a dick” or “What a bitch” every time the ex approaches/speaks/is visible. This stage is almost a guarantee no matter what end of the breakup you are on.

Did you know that even celebrities get broken up with? Yea, it’s true. Now, their rebounds are way, way, hotter than yours, but the general motive is the same. Last week Avril Lavigne and Deryck Whibley decided that marriage just kind of sucks and filed for divorce. This proves another point: not only do celebrities get broken up with, so do married people. Marriages–supposedly the most secure and well-based forms of romantic relationships–also can end.

This sucks, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. I’m bringing the room down. Maybe these will help:

fun

cute-kitten

kittybeachkyle

Jeez. Such a successful idea. I do feel better!

Here’s something from me. I don’t think you should take a break up personally–whether you’re giving it or taking it. The best thing any of us can hope for is to fall in love with and spend our lives with someone we love.

Someone I love.

Someone I love.

A break up is more an opportunity to find the right person rather than wasting your time trying to make a relationship work with the wrong person. If you get dumped it isn’t necessarily because you’re a bad person (although you very well may be), it’s because with that specific person you just don’t fit. Get it? I hope so. Now go find someone you fit with–or just let them find you.

INSIDE CELEBRITIES! LET’S GET INSIDE SOME CELEBRITIES!

26 Sep

Welcome to a new segment on IronKyle.com, “Inside Celebrities,” where I present a nice little expose about one of my favorite celebrities.

Today we’re diving deep inside of James Woods: Actor, semi-professional poker player, and volunteer police officer (all true).

jameswoods

James Philip Lamar Jason Michael Jack Mudpie Woods was born on August 16, 1947 to parents Jesus and A Big Pile of Diamonds.

James Woods was a precocious child, spending most days secluded in his tree house (which he made himself at the age of 6). James’s tree house was the only one in the entire neighborhood to have indoor plumbing and and a helipad. For this reason, rumors circulated that his dad probably helped him on it. Jesus said that no he didn’t help and then sent most of those people to hell for all eternity.

As a student, James was average at best, never able to truly dedicate himself to his studies. His teachers said he could often be found staring out the window during lessons, day dreaming. It was later revealed that James was watching a couple of squirrels that would use the tree outside the window for sex.

When James was a young man, he joined the Boy Scouts. This was a short-lived venture due to a traumatic and life-changing event at a holiday outreach event. The troop was scheduled to travel to a local elementary school and perform a holiday-theme musical. James, already showing a penchant for creative expression, volunteered to direct the musical. James decided to take the musical RENT and change all the lead characters to popular holiday figures. The first performance was stopped by the faculty when it became apparent that Frosty the Snowman, the life-partner of Santa Claus, was about to die of advanced HIV. Upon word of the cancellation, James threw himself into the crowd in a fit of “Musical Theater Rage” as he later described it.  This is how James Woods accidentally ruined Christmas one year.

"My first mistake was slapping that child. My second mistake was slapping that other child."

"My first mistake was slapping that child. My second mistake was slapping that other child." -James Woods

James Woods has looked 45 since he was 8. This isn’t because of any kind of medical condition. It’s because he wanted it that way.

In high school, James was the star of the theater department. One collegiate scout had this to say of the budding actor: “Wait, how old is that kid? He looks like he’s fifty. Something’s wrong here.” James was approached by an agent upon graduating high school, but turned him down, wanting to first pursue his education.

James attended MIT, planning to become a surgeon upon graduation. Woods’s attainment of this position would have seemed unlikely, as he received a degree in Economics. However, with his dry wit and Jersey-charm, James soon got a position as a neurosurgeon at New York’s Rockefeller University Hospital. Woods lost this position after he killed six consecutive patients. James was well known around the hospital for his trademark, pre-surgery tag line: “I’m not a surgeon.”

Soon after leaving the medical field, James followed his previous love, theater. His first role was in the Broadway presentation of Borstal Boy, a play depicting Irish nationalist Brendan Behan’s stay in the borstal, the British juvenile jail. Woods played Phil Gradcall, a fellow activist who happened to have fire powers. The fire powers were not part of the original script, but Woods felt that the character “called for them” and improvised the detail so well at rehearsals that it was written into the script. Writer Frank McMahon called the addition “the greatest insult to a literary work I have ever seen, but when ‘Phil’ used his fire powers to burn that woman’s clothes off, I thought that was pretty awesome.” The play garnered critical and popular acclaim and launched Woods into the limelight.

James followed this role up with another stint on Broadway and gradually transitioned into film. He has twice garnered Academy award nominations. One in 1987 for Best Actor in the film Salvador, and the second in 1996 for Best Supporting Actor in the film Ghosts of Mississippi. Ghosts of Mississippi depicted the trial of white supremacist Byron De La Beckwith (played by James Woods), who stood accused of the murder of civil rights activist Medgar Evers. There were rumors of friction between James and co-star Whoopi Goldberg, sprouting from a remark Woods had made about Whoopi’s last film, Sister Act. Said James, “I don’t get what’s so funny about Sister Act. Is it because she’s black or something? Is black funny now?” Woods then turned to then-agent Roger Williams and was heard asking “How can I become black?”

James Woods has had a number of small roles since his success in the late eighties and mid nineties, but none compare to the role he played in 2006, when he played himself in the season premier of the hit television show Entourage. The role pushed James’s acting to a new level. “I had to be myself, and I’m an incredibly complex person. I had to really live as myself for a few days to get into the ‘Woods’ mindset. Do you have any idea how much sex I had to have? A lot.”

The sky is the limit for this creative titan. Burn on, James. Burn on. Just don’t ever burn out.

For Inside Celebrities, this is Iron Kyle Irion. Thanks for reading.

Interview With a Beaver

23 Sep

We’re all trying to get greener. Why? The most obvious reason is so Leonardo DiCaprio will invite us to his parties. Despite my great success as a writer, I have yet to be invited to one of these oh-so-green get-togethers.

The thing is, we all want to be green, but not really for the Earth’s sake as much ourselves. We want to stay green so we can survive on this planet longer. If there were no negative repercussions for humanity, we would pollute forever, because WHO GIVES A SHIT IF A FEW DUCKS GET COVERED IN OIL? We only care because roasted duck tastes horrible if it’s full of petroleum.  I mean I’ll eat it, but I won’t enjoy it.

I decided to reach those who would ultimately be affected the most by a decline of pollution, the citizens of nature. I sat down with a beaver, and after several minutes of delightful banter and then several more minutes of me trying in vain to convince the beaver to hit me with his tail, he agreed to do an interview for today’s entry. I hope you enjoy it.

—————————–NATURE!—————————————-

“Hello!” I say, waving from atop a crest looking down at the beaver’s river bank home. He just looks up at me, defecates, and smacks his poop onto his dam.

I walk tentatively down the steep embankment holding my big yellow legal pad. Then, my fanny pack gets caught on a stump and the sudden halt of momentum throws me off balance. I careen down the embankment and land a few feet from the beaver. He looks so embarrassed. All his beaver friends are laughing at me. Their laughs cut into me. I am cut.

“Sorry about that. Hello, I’m Iron Kyle.” I hold out my hand to the beaver. The beaver holds out his paw and shakes my hand.

“I need this done quick, I usually don’t hang out much during the day. Nocturnal and all that.”

“Ah, I gotcha. So this is kind of your bed time?”

“Bed time?”

“When you get all cuddly wuddly in your sheetzy weetzies with your luvvy wuvvy.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t understand a word of that.” I take note of this. The beaver strongly reprimands me on my diction. Combine this with his jagged, protruding front teeth and I have reason to believe that all beavers may be English.

“This when you usually sleep?” I ask.

“Yea, this when I usually sleep.”

“Good, w–“

“Can I ask you something?” the beaver asks.

“Of course, beaver, go ahead.”

“Why do you humans always laugh when somebody says ‘beaver’?” I rub my neck and look around for another person to throw this question to. I shouldn’t have told Editor that our animal interview was with some rats in a local sewer and that I’d “meet him there.”

“Well, can I say something?”

“I guess,” the beaver says.

“I ask the questions,” I say. Nice.

The beaver sighs. “Answer me,” he says. There are all of a sudden a lot more beavers *snicker* around.

“Fine, fine. OK, like, you know what human women look like?”

“Human women? I thought you were a human woman.”

“What? No. I’m a man. I look like a man, don’t I?” I ask, concerned.

“You wear a fanny pack.”

“Plenty of men wear those,” I say.

“You have a perm.” He says.

“Yea,” I say. “Yea, I do. I want to have nice hair.”

“You wear lip stick.”

“Yes, but I–“

“You have the figure of a woman.” Beaver says.

“That’s enough! I’m a man. I just dressed like this because all my nature clothes were at the dry cleaners and I didn’t want to get my regular clothes messy.” [Editor’s Note: How do lipstick and a perm protect you from anything?]

The beaver simply stares at me, poops some more, and puts the poop on his damn. He does that a lot. Beavers are gross.

“All right, sorry. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why do people laugh when they hear the word ‘beaver’?”

“Because!” I stand up, waving my arms for all to come in closer. I wave especially to the little beaver children. During the interview, quite a crowd had come out to see the human man from the information highway. “Because, your faces all resemble that of a woman’s [REDACTED]! OK? You look like a girl’s [REDACTED]. And come to think of it, you kind of smell like a [REDACTED] too. Is that what you wanted to know? God damn you all!” The little beaver children are crying. I think I might be too. I quickly get out my compact to make sure my mascara isn’t running.

“Well,” Beaver said. “I guess you really said it, then.”

“Yea, listen, I’m sorry.”

“You know, you’re the second human I’ve met and I gotta say the first guy is way better.”

“First guy?”

“Yea. He’s been living here for a few months now.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yea, he’s over there.” The beaver points to a large at the mouth of river. It may be one of the largest I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen two (including the big one). From out of the dam, comes a beleaguered, dirt covered man dressed in filthy clothes. His hair is unkempt and his facial hair is long and nearly touches his chest.

Muh...muh musik...

“Joaquin Phoenix! Man what are you doing here? Why do you look so angry?”

“I j…It’s coming fr… Well…” He takes out of his mouth what I first believe to be a piece of gum. It was an acorn.

“Joaquin. What are you doing in the forest? I’m sure people are looking for you. Does anybody know where you are?” Now he gets really close to my pad and tries to talk into it like a microphone.

Where did those sunglasses come from?

"Muh...muh music...Music"

“What? Wha…What?!” I’m actually a little frightened at this point. Joaquin yanks my pad away. He seems to have acquired beaver-strength.

Oh...oh, God.

Oh Jesus.

I back away, tripping over a stick. There are TONS of those in the forest. Somebody needs to clean this place up.

“Joaquin, I’m telling you–I’m your friend, OK?”

“Come on, Joaquin. You can trust me.”

“You can trust me. Take my hand.” I reach out my hand. He sees that there’s a piece of gum in it for him.

Trust.

Trust.

“That’s right, Joaquin! Friends.” I look around to the beaver crowd, smiling. They’ve mostly gone back to sleep. I take Joaquin by the hand and guide him back to the car Editor had recently arrived in.

“Holy shit! Is that Joaquin Phoenix?!” He yells, getting out of the driver’s seat.

“Yes, it is. Good Christ you smell bad,” I say. “Here, get in the back seat with him.” Editor opens the back door and gets in. “He seems to have reverted to some kind of animal-state. If he tries to nurse, let him.”

“Wait, what?” I put Joaquin inside and slam the door shut.

I get in the car and drive away. I hope you all learned something about nature. I for one didn’t learn jack shit. Nature sucks.

Me SO SITED

23 Sep

I got a URL now. You can now reach this site via http://www.ironkyle.com. Isn’t that EXCITING?! It’s so exciting that you know what? I’m taking the “e” off that “exicted.” I’m now X-Cited.

FUCK YOU!

I'm drunk.

I'm drunk.

Celebritweets 2: The Tweequel

21 Sep

So, hey! Twitter is still up. Good. Good for them. Also, good for us because there are still plenty of celebrities tweeting away facts that are, for the most part, just as mundane as the ones us regular folks post, but hey! These are CELEBRITIES! Now, there are even more celebrities for me to tweet at than last time. That’s also good for us.

For those unfamiliar with the twitter format, here’s a quick summary: in twitter, you can send updates describing what you’re doing throughout the day to your twitter account. It looks like a big message board. When you want to respond to something on somebody’s twitter, you simply type “@(username)” and then your message. So, if somebody wanted to message me they’d type “@IronKyle.” You can also “retweet” what someone else tweeted by simply typing “RT @(username of person you’re retweeting).” Twitter also allows you to send pictures through tiny links called “twitpics.”

If you’re still confused, don’t worry. You’ll catch on.

————

levarburton @IronKyle: I don’t do that show anymore. It’s been canceled for 4 years.

IronKyle @levarburton: What? Did people stop reading or something? Did you reach the end of the rainbow and find that everything had already been adapted into a movie?

levarburton @IronKyle: Lol, No, I didn’t ever try to find the “rainbow.” It was just a graphic, really.

IronKyle @levarburton: You know what, Levar Burton? You’re kind of an ass hole.

—-

AlYankovic: I’m going to be on the Jimmy Fallon Show!

IronKyle @AlYankovic: Are you rolling the dice that by some miracle Jimmie Fallon has found the only 100 or so people left in the world who haven’t heard “Amish Paradise“?

AlYankovic @IronKyle: Haha, real funny. When will you be on Jimmy Fallon?

IronKyle @AlYankovic: After I beat your ass for making a mockery of Don Mclean’s “American Pie.” What you did to that song is like me putting a giant copper mustache on the Statue of Liberty.

AlYankovic @IronKyle: Kyle, I’m sorry if my parody offended you.They’re meant as kind of “comedic parodies.” There’s no call for you to threaten me.

IronKyle @AlYankovic: I’m going to turn your face into a “comedic parody” of your ass.

AlYankovic@IronKyle: That’s enough. This conversation is over.

IronKyle @AlYankovic: Later, Yankadick.

—-

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: Would you say you’re kind of like the Fonzie of “Entourage”?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Haha, I wish. I can only hope to be compared to a character like that.

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: Yea, here. http://twitpic.com/imj4

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: What is that?

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: It’s me peeing on Fonzie’s house holding the season 1 DVD’s of “Entourage.”

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: God. You’ve got to be kidding me. First of all, his name is Henry Winkler, not “Fonzie.” Second of all, I don’t condone any of this just because you’re holding “Entourage” DVD’s.

IronKyle RT@JeremyPiven: God? You’ve got to be kidding me.

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: That is NOT what I said! Take that down!

@JeremyPiven: Hey, right now, are you wearing a really nice suit, clutching your cell phone and half-yelling?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Are you asking if I resemble my character on “Entourage”? Well, no. I’m sitting quietly at my computer talking to a child.

IronKyle @JeremyPiven: When you go pee, do you call yourself “Jeremy Pissin’.”?

JeremyPiven @IronKyle: Stop it. Go away.

—-

IronKyle @johncmayer: So, you have a new album coming out?

johncmayer @IronKyle: Yea man, I absolutely do. It should be coming out pretty soon.

IronKyle @johncmayer: Did you do another song about trying to halt Earth’s orbit around the sun? That was epic.

johncmayer @IronKyle: What song?

IronKyle @johncmayer: “Waiting on the World to Change.”

johncmayer @IronKyle: Dude, come on. Do you ever listen to these songs? Or do you just read the title and make the rest up in your head?

IronKyle @johncmayer: Play a guitar solo.

johncmayer @IronKyle: Did you even read my response?

IronKyle @johncmayer: I can’t remember. Did you date skinny Jessica Simpson or fat Jessica Simpson?

johncmayer @IronKyle: Go to hell, man.

IronKyle @johncmayer: Hey, do you feel weird that you Jessica dated you to round out her “high school archetype” list?

johncmayer @IronKyle: What?

IronKyle @johncmayer: She dated “the jock,” Tony, the “sensitive guy,” Nick Lachey, and then you, the “musician with a stupid face.”

johncmayer @IronKyle: Remind me why I talk to you, you fuck.

IronKyle RT @johncmayer: Remind me why I fuck you, you talk.

johncmayer @IronKyle: You are such a beating, dude. I’m out.

IronKyle @johncmayer: John Mayer, you’re more of an asshole than Levar Burton. You know that?

Letter of Apology to My Childhood Self

18 Sep

Dear Child Version of Me,

How are you? You’re probably doing great, what with the recess and all. The biggest thing you probably have to worry about is whether or not you’re going to make it to the bathroom before you have an accident. We still kind of worry about that, actually. I’m writing you this letter to say “I’m sorry.” I kind of let you down in a couple of ways, and I feel I owe you an apology.

I’m currently 5’10”. This is painfully shy of our childhood goal of 6’6″. Sorry.

Football? No. Baseball? No. Basketball? Hell no. Yea, we still suck at sports. Nothing’s changed. Sorry I couldn’t fix that for us.

This isn't you.

This isn't you.

People are probably just now starting to tell you how smart you are. Neat, huh? After initially bucking at the idea because you thought it was going to be similar to the “special” class, you’ve allowed yourself to be enrolled in the “gifted and talented” class, doing your own special science and art projects. Class work is pretty easy for you. You have incredible potential. You’re thinking you could be valedictorian one day, maybe go to college and be a great scientist.

Last semester I wrote a paper that was described by my professor as a “philosophical and mechanical mess.” I suppose I should have tried harder. But hey, as we look down at our mediocre, half-assed C+’s and our B-‘s, we can still think back to how much “potential” we had, convincing ourselves that the sheer existence of this potential somehow makes it all right for us to never, ever, utilize it.

This either.

This isn't you, either.

Around the age of fourteen or fifteen you toy with the idea of dressing well. Most of your fashions will be taken from episodes of Boy Meets World that are themselves already five years old and slightly out of date. You’ll try hard, the open-flannel shirt getting you to the fashion playoffs, but as you go to kick the girl-winning extra point, your ill-fitting cargo pants will fumble the snap and you’ll find yourself tackled on the one yard line, a crumbled mass of Sketchers, plaid, and superfluous hip pockets.

You spend your youth never quite understanding the rules of fashion. Your dependence on white shirts will become one of your friends’ most beloved “Kyle” bits. I’m sorry I never let you wear a god damn polo.

This isn't you on so many levels it makes me wonder why I even chose this photograph.

This isn't you on so many levels.

Another thing: We can be fairly charming. You’ve grown into a fickle bastard, though. For this reason, a lot of girls hate you now. Sorry. Maybe learn to treat women as lovely glasses of wine. Sip, savor, enjoy. Don’t drink too fast, because everybody knows wine hangovers are the worst.

This is you. This is how you spend the best years of your life.

This is you. This is how you spend the best years of your life.

Finally, my biggest apology: Remember how we wanted to be an astronaut so bad? It was a beautiful dream. Do you also remember how in that one kindergarten presentation of “What we want to do when we grow up,” in order to save money and effort on an astronaut costume, you just dressed up as a construction worker? Yeah, sorry about how not far-fetched that career path is for us now. I got us a degree in English. My bad. Yea, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. Not a whole lot of English majors get to be astronauts. That’s why Hemingway never wrote about space–he wrote about fishing, driving ambulances, and drinking a lot.We’re not going to space. (Note to self: Create a draft of The Space Gatsby. Also consider The Sun Also Rises…on the Moon.)

I’m sorry, me. I’m sorry that I don’t roller blade everywhere or have a pet zebra named “Rocket Ship.” I don’t know why you wanted those things, but you did, and I couldn’t deliver.

We didn’t become the man we had hoped to be (Spider Man), but I think we end up doing all right. We have good friends, good family, and good health. So even though we probably won’t be going to space, scoring touchdowns, or sporting the latest fashions in Milan, we still end up leading a pretty great life. Take care of yourself, Kyle of the past.

Oh, and thank you for ignoring the practically innumerable violations of the laws of physics and the space/time continuum.

Love,

You.

Never stop dreaming. There will always be room for dreamers--in space.

Never stop dreaming.

Guest Blog by: IronKyle Editor, edited by Kyle.

16 Sep

Today’s guest blogger is my editor, whom I lovingly refer to as “Editor.” I’ll be editing throughout, mainly for word choice. Enjoy Editor’s blog, but not too much. I’m still the funny one. Don’t forget. Please?

——————————————————–

Hey everybody, you may know me as the Editor of Iron Kyle’s blog. Kyle’s been super busy recently and hasn’t had a chance to write anything new. Therefore, Kyle asked me to take a shot at writing today’s entry. [Kyle’s Note: I only asked you because my shits don’t have thumbs and can’t use the space bar.]

Kyle’s notes will be in the brackets from here on out. I won’t be able to comment back before Kyle publishes this, so be gentle, Kyle! 🙂

Here it goes!

I wake up and turn off my alarm clock. “It’s morning already? I just laid down!” I think to myself. Then, I eat a big bowl of [shit]. I love Frosted [Shits]! They’re my favorite. I’ve been eating [shit] since I was a little boy. I can remember my [hobo dad] coming into my room, turning the lights on and saying gently [“You’re adopted.”]. I hated getting up in the morning, as I still do, so I’d lay in my bed just a little longer until my dad would come back and pull my covers back. If I still resisted, he would [fuck] me up and [kick] me down the stairs. Jeez, I’m rambling. Sorry, still new!

Usually, by the time I wake up, my wife is already at work. She’s a [stripper] at a local elementary school [for strippers.]. I have some coffee, eat breakfast (Frosted [Shits]!), and take my vitamins. I try to take my vitamins everyday, especially vitamin [balls] because of my [balls] deficiency.

I get in my car and drive to work. The commute is usually pretty frustrating. The money Kyle pays me isn’t enough to get a place in the city, so I have to commute [like a bitch].

I get into the office around 9:30 or 10. Kyle shouldn’t show up for another two or three hours. Now is when I get most of my work done. I spend the majority of my morning answering e-mails and phone calls from people trying to collect on winnings from the impossibly unrealistic sweep-stakes Kyle makes up to get out of tight spots. Today, I talked to a woman who told me that Kyle said she could move into the White House if she let him burn her house down with fireworks–said he told her “‘Bama’s pickin’ up everybody’s tab nowadays. Don’t worry about it. It’s cool. He’s cool. He is. He IS.” She noted that Kyle sounded kind of threatening at the end. This is fairly commonplace. Kyle loves to end conversations with a tinge of intimidation–he says it gives him the “Jack Bauer” effect. I told him it gives him the poor conversation effect.

Kyle usually arrives around eleven or so. I bring a change of clothes for him because the ones he comes in with often smell of five or six unidentifiable substances. Sometimes though, we get lucky, and can tell what’s on Kyle’s clothes. Yesterday, his shirt held a mixture of whiskey, blood, Gak, and women’s perfume. Kyle came into the office as he often does: hung over from a night of [witnessing] and wreaking of [cinnamon and good deeds].

“Editor! Editor! Have you prepared my computer?” What Kyle means by this is “Have you brought up Google image search and typed ‘Regina Spektor’ into the search bar.” I had, in fact.

Kyle puts on the fresh shirt I bought him. “No calls until noon.” It was 1:30 pm.

“Sir, it’s 1:30. It seems you got in a bit later than usual.”

“What? No. Set all the clocks back to 10 am, then no calls until noon. Do it. Get it done. Do it. What am I p…” His voice trails off as I slowly shut his office door. Sometimes the best way to deal with Kyle is the same as dealing with a messy room: just shut the door so you don’t have to look at it.

I return home to my [woman slave] and my newborn [child slave]. He’s so [dramatic]! I never thought I would create something so [fat]. On most nights we will all go out to our favorite local hole-in-the-wall restaurant, [Hooters] and grab a bite to eat. I usually get the chicken sandwich and my wife usually gets the Caesar salad.

When we get home, my wife and I will put the [poop factory] to bed and spend a few hours watching old movies on AMC. My wife loves those movies. She says they remind her of a time before [our marriage]. She’s amazing.

After awhile we both tucker out and crawl into bed, resting up to [donkey punch] the day!

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