Will This Make Your Blog? by Jeff

Ok people, here's the first of many that I've gotten. I hope you enjoy. Keep sending them in to atthecornerbar@yahoo.com.

I've always wanted to know why Martha Stewart was
treated so well by the media, but Ken Lay, CEO of
Enron, was practically skewered. Is that a
double-standard or what? They're both crooks. They
should both be punished.

So why does Martha get a slap on the wrist? She
defrauded people, too.

I'll tell you what I think it is: Martha is part of
the popular clique. She's famous. She gives money to
Democrats. Therefore the media loves her.

Ken Lay? Oh no. He ran a big evil corporation. He's
associated with *gasp* Republicans. He must be the
devil. And he got dragged over the coals.

It's a double-standard.

Guest Writers Needed

Feel like you have something to say but don't feel like keeping it updated daily? Something on your mind and need to get it off? Have topics you want to touch base on, but don't feel like posting them on your blog? At the Corner Bar welcomes you with open arms, and then some. Contact me at atthecornerbar@yahoo.com with your stories or suggestions. If this doesn't work, I won't cry...much. God speed.

I'll Have to Look Into this More.

So the other night I was at the drive through ATM. This is when I noticed that there was Braille on it. I found this odd because I wasn't sure that blind people could drive, but as soon as I got done with that thought, a blind man drove up to the ATM next to me. How do I know that he was blind? He rolled down the window and said,

"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.

To which I could only reply,

"Yeah, it's to the left of you."

"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.

I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."

"Yeah, isn't it great?"

"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"

"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."

All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?

And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.

I'll Have to Look Into this More.

So the other night I was at the drive through ATM. This is when I noticed that there was Braille on it. I found this odd because I wasn't sure that blind people could drive, but as soon as I got done with that thought, a blind man drove up to the ATM next to me. How do I know that he was blind? He rolled down the window and said,

"Hey can you see where the ATM is, I'm a little blind?" in a very condescending voice.

To which I could only reply,

"Yeah, it's to the left of you."

"Oh hey...thanks there buddy," he said as he took a swig from a forty of Mickey's he had in his other hand.

I wasn't sure what was going on but I knew something was up. I knew a chance like this would never happen again so I yelled over to the guy.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but it appears that you are blind...and drunk."

"Yeah, isn't it great?"

"Well if you don't mind me asking, how do you know where to go? I mean, how can you drive?"

"Did you ever read Daredevil? All blind people are like that. Ha, just kidding there buddy," he said as he took another swig and mumbles, "That never gets old."

All of these questions ran through my mind; How did he know if they were the right bills he was getting back? Did he really have Daredevil-like powers or was it just blind luck? Why was he drinking and driving? Why am I drinking and driving?

And then it dawned on me. I wasn't drinking and driving. I was laying, passed out in a trunk of a car pissing my pants. I must have had one too many shots and dared someone that I could sit in the trunk of a car. I don't remember now. I don't even remember how I got here. I don't even remember having to piss, but these are things that I don't ask the questions too because I'm still trying to figure out why there is Braille on the drive through ATM's.

Banana Split Anyone?

My brain is sweating right now. I mean, inside...it's sweating. I need Gatorade for my brain. Why do you ask? I'm trying to write. It's not coming out right. I got the late night going on. I got Gwen whispering, "The shit is bananas. B, A, N, A, N, A, S."

I'm trying Gwen. I guess I just don't understand what you are trying to tell me. I really am trying to figure it out. I know you can slip on banana peels. You can also cut them up and put them in Cheerios. But what the fuck is your shit being like bananas mean? That's almost as bad as the time when I was hanging out on the North side of Kalamazoo and these two white girls came up to the porch we were hanging out at and started calling us, "fruit." Is fruit coming back as a "hip" word? Is fruit good or bad? Man I'm so out of the loop and my TRL isn't helping me at all, it's only encouraging it. Someone help me please?

"I got my orange all up in your kiwi. Back the fuck up or I'll slap you with my pineapple. I AM THE SHIT! I AM THE GRAPE!"

Does this make me hip and cool now? Because all it's really doing is making me hungry and not only am I hungry for fruit...but for knowledge. Delicious.

I Give Myself (10-13-97)

My heart to a boxer because it is always getting some sort of beating My chest to Pandora My knuckles to a sandwich My eyes to a blind man My bones to an old dog to chew on My smile to a dark room My personality to a magician because now you see it, now you don't My stomach to an ulcer so it will have a place to live My heels to Achilles My ears to Van Gogh My hands to a sinner, these hands have sinned at least once a day My blood to a vegetarian My back to you My flesh to the father, the son and the Holy Ghost My spine to a jelly fish My mouth to a black hole My tongue to taste My arms to a newborn baby to cradle in My mind to my money and my money to my mind My nose, nails and any left over parts to bologna My body to the ground which made me

Trouble, Oh No Trouble Writing a Catchy Tune

Even though Cat Stevens was denied access into the United States a couple of months ago and he is on the F.B.I.'s "to watch" list(http://www.blogsofwar.com/archives/2004/09/21/cat-stevens-denied-entry-to-us/) it doesn't mean that he doesn't mean that he couldn't write a fantastic song back in the day.

That's the beauty of writing a song, or a movie, or even a child's book. You can be fucking crazy, high on drugs or straight edge. All that matters is that when a reader reads something, or hears it or feels it, he/she can relate. It's that connection, that special bond that the artist makes with his or her audience.

I know I've gotten sidetracked from my normal rants and raves, but for the moment I'm in right now, at one thirty five in the morning on a wednesday, listening to Sheryl Crow's "I Shall Believe," I feel that it is important to continue passing on the good word. Keep it up my children and fight the power.

Trouble

Trouble oh trouble set me free
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You're eating my heart away
And there's nothing left of me

I've drunk your wine
You have made your world mine
So won't you be fair
So won't you be fair
I don't want no more of you
So won't you be kind to me
Just let me go where
I have to go there

Trouble oh trouble move away
I have seen your face
And it's too much for me today
Trouble oh trouble can't you see
You have made me a wreck
Now won't you leave me in my misery

I have seen you eyes
And I can see death's disguise
Hanging on me
Hanging on me
I'm beat I'm torn
Shattered and tossed and worn
Too shocking to see
Too shocking to see

Trouble oh trouble move from me
I have paid my debt now
Won't you leave me in my misery
Trouble oh trouble please be kind
Don't wan't no fight
And I haven't got a lot of time

Finding Yourself From the Past

You know in a way it's been hard for me to find inspiration to write. Some say wait for the moment and when it comes, pour your soul out. Others say that you should always write. At least when you are writing, you have things to fall back on. To correct. To make better.

I...I find myself somewhere in the middle. A limbo of both views. It wasn't until recently, when one of my oldest friends, after a span of fives years of not talking with each other found ourselves on the same path again. And it wasn't that we got in a fight, or that we stopped finding things in common to talk about, it was just one of those instances where we both walked in complete opposite directions. Many years of us just doing our own thing.

And then out of nowhere, Dave's sister missed her flight from San Diego to Kalamazoo and ended up in my backyard called Las Vegas. From there I had his number and swore to call him that week and three months later, I did. And with that phone call, I found something clicking in my brain again.

With anything, a strong foundation is what will make or break whatever you are building. In my case, I only had part of my foundation built, that being my friend Nate. Through thick and thin, through good times and bullshit, Nate and myself have always been there for each other, whether we liked it or not. A bond of brothers. But as I started to build, it seemed that my building always leaned to the left. It wasn't quite centered. This of course was always something that ate at me.

Others always considered myself as a writer but I wasn't buying into the hype. I had always thought that it was something I was decent at. Putting letters to form words. Putting words to form sentences. Putting sentences together to form paragraphs. Until eventually I had a story.

It wasn't until I started talking to Dave that we came to the subject of they type of writers we were many years ago. He gave me a compliment saying that I still had the same voice and that he seemed to have lost his. That he didn't write as good as he once did, but this where he was wrong. In those sentences he wrote to me, I saw the Dave that I grew up. The Dave that pushed me to be a good writer. That gave me back something that I had been missing. And with our friendship, along with Nate, I find myself builing to the heaven's above. Beyond the sun, to places that have yet to be discovered. And I will keep on building and building and building until my hands start to bleed because I know I have the friends to pick me up and put that pen back into my hand.

Vagina Pack

Living in Las Vegas I get the courtesy of seeing many things; People passed out on the side walk at three a.m, homeless men throwing back change at people because it wasn't enough. But the one thing that I wish I didn't get to see are those damn fanny packs.

I see them on everyone. I see them on hot women, fat guys, little kids. It just won't end. And all I'm thinking to myself is, "Why are you wearing that?" In all honesty, I really don't see why they are that popular. Trust me, it's not that they look fucking stupid. I really don't see that little pouch holding a lot.

"Ok here hunny, we have our camera, our wallets, this mace, our keys, our coupon book, our sun tan lotion, our drugs, our beer, our car, our brains."

This is something that I thought would die out, like Pogs and Slammers, but it just wouldn't fade away. And then, I found something out about the word fanny. Something magical. Apparently in the United Kingdom, the word fanny is another word for Vagina. All of these years, we've been calling these things Vagina Packs. All of these years I've found these things stupid but once I found out the TRUE meaning, I fell in love with them. How could you hate fanny? I mean, fanny is what drives all men. I mean, you can never have enough fanny...or can you?

I'll Take Two Adults and One, Two Month Old Baby Please...

I love nothing more then to go watch a movie by myself. Call me a loner, a rebel, but it's just what I like to do. There are a couple of things I don't like about going to a movie theater. The first thing I don't like is that I get there early and I will be the only person in the theater and then a couple will walks in. Out of all the seats in the theater, they decide to sit right behind me, pop corn asses and all. Not a row or two behind me...right behind me. I'm afraid that sometimes people don't feel comfortable unless they sit in groups, which is understandable. They aren't loners like me, and who wouldn't want to sit by me? I mean, come on, I reek of awesomeness.

The second thing I absolutley hate. HATE! HATE!! HATE!!! I hate when people decide it's a good idea to bring a baby to the movies. It's one thing if you have a two year old and a new born when you go see something along the lines of Shrek, cause lord knows there's going to be a ton of little kids running around and talking throughout the movie. It's expected, it's a kid's movie. What I don't like is when they bring a new born into a rated R movie. The funny thing is, they don't give a shit if the baby's crying throughout the movie. It's apparent that they don't really think much of other people or they wouldn't have brought the baby in the first place, so when it cries, why would they bring it out of the theater?

I don't understand why theater's allow this either. If it's because it would discriminating, then it's fucking stupid. It's not as if they had an immaculate consumption. They chose to make love, or fuck or whatever the kids call it these days. I don't feel bad if they've been at home for two weeks straight. Get a fucking babysitter. Put it up for adoptoin. Leave the baby in a cage. I don't care. Just don't bring it to the theater.

I RETIRE!!!!

I am done writing. I want to thank everyone who has had a voice in my life. Who has read my stuff and has encouraged me to keep on truckin' but I am done writing after this. I have found that this has just made me feel empty inside. That I worry too much on what people think about my views and my voice that it keeps me up at night, that I can't sleep all over some stupid fucking words. So I wanted to thank you for a great couple of months and I hope you all get what you want in life. Even if it's something impossible, go for it and reach it. Thanks again. Dan.































If you believed that shit. Stop reading my blog mother fucker. April Fools.