I spent the bulk of last night stumbling around trying to find my center of gravity… salted margaritas and Pabst Blue Ribbon turned out to be my center of gravity. It was an interesting evening of fun, Mexican food and the urge to curl up in the back of the bar and sleep. I didn’t get any poon, so there won’t be any spicy stories about me having fun while attempting to satisfied the other sex with my peener. THOUGH there was an awfully odd man who followed us out of the pizza place at 3:30am and onto the subway. He was drinking an extra large Redbull, speaking to himself, and licking some sort of tarish looking goop off of his forearm. When I saw he got on the same train as us I realized he could be a dangerous killer and decided to run onto the next car leaving the girls by themselves to die. I found this very funny.
No one died, but I did throw a pencil at him and told him to shave my feet as he got ready to leave.
True Life: I’m Going Bald/Losing My Hair
Are you too young to be losing your hair? Do you have thinning hair due to unlucky genetics, illness, or treatment, and it’s affecting your self-esteem? Are you hesitant to go out in public and interact with people because you think they’ll stare at you? Do you try to cover your head with hats, or are you obsessed with hair products that promise to regain growth? If you have answered ‘yes’ to any of these, then MTV would like to hear your story.
If you appear to be between the ages of 17-28 and are going bald and would like to share your story please email us at: BodyImage@mtvn.com. Please include a your name, your story, a phone number and a photo.
Looks like there’s another opportunity for me to be on True Life.
Jimmy Kimmel is a comedic gangster. He’s the 2 Pac of humor.
To quote Katt Williams, “dis shit right here nigga… dis shit right here nigga… dis shit’s called death. What nigga? That don’t even sound attractive. You mean I’ma hit it and die? Na nigga. Not death… deaf. You hit this twice and you can’t hear shit. Nigga… I got shit to do today.”
Jimmy when you make videos like this I find I catch myself imagining what it would be like to spend our lives together (great… in case you were wondering what our lives would be like if they were spent together). Thanks for the giggles. I shall spread the laughs. Enjoy The Handsome Men’s Club.
I just found the most terrible, most frightening, most wonderfully amazing website ever!
A couple days ago a friend called me up hysterically laughing/semi-crying. When I questioned why she was having a verbal seizure over the phone, she attempted to explain the unedited insanity that is Chat Roulette. After two minutes of her giggle-filled ramble I found myself unmoved by her explanation of the site and decided to tell her I was on the other line with someone prettier than her… she immediately hung up on me. I never thought about the site again. Until…
This afternoon while on the train back to Brooklyn, I tried to catch up on the current ‘happenings’ of the world. What was one of the top ‘happenings’ on my New York Times iPhone app? Chat Roulette. Sounding somewhat familiar, I began reading the short article on the site… and though it only slightly peaked my interest, I did remember it was what caused my lady friend to squeal and insist that I go on it and write a blog about the craziness I’d undoubtedly see. So I got home, put away my groceries and turned on my web cam.
Let me preface the site with this…
It is a extremely minimalistic video chat. Imagine Skype, but the people you video chat with are connected at random, from across the globe, and whenever you want to see someone else you hit next. There is no way of going back and no personal information is exchanged… though a lot of penis shots are exchanged. Matter of fact, the site seems to be disturbingly dominated my male masturbation.
Of every 10 people you chat with
5 of them will be an older man with a gut and moobs (man boobs) stroking his hairy wiener.
2 will be a surfer looking teen/twenty somethings that will give you a middle finger and flex their biceps before pushing the next button.
2 will be random topless foreign men laying in bed. Before you can hit next or say anything they will smile and ask you what it’s like to live in America.
1 will be a 10 year old boy that will look identical to Justin Beiber. When you call him Justin he will smile and say, “naaaaaaaaaa.”
And before the process repeats itself you’ll run into a group of tween girls who giggle and quickly flash you their underdeveloped breast in between episodes of Hannah Montana.
The site is garbage… pure fantastic garbage. Here are a couple screen shots of me on it today.
It’s 12:07am and I just finished watching the 82nd annual Oscars. Originally I was watching it with my roommate, but during the Oscar for sound editing she ran to the bathroom, threw up, walked out of the bathroom and into my room, laid in my bed (a splash of vomit still on her chin), got up a minute later and said, “oh that’s your room” and then stumbled to her bed to finally collapse. I’ve been watching them alone since. (It should be noted before all of this occurred she punched me in the chest and said we’d both get Oscars, and then proceeded to tickle me on my calf muscles.)
I haven’t blogged as much as of late because I’m busy trying to figure out what it is that I plan to do with my life. The two most obvious courses… a plumber and/or loser. Currently I’ve been a loser. Hopefully with guidance, perseverance, and a strong will I can become a plumber… my fingers are crossed.
I’ve been doing a million things in the past week (I haven’t done anything) and have slacked on attempting to make the world chuckle via my blog. Sorry. I’m still here. Still wishing I was holding your pretty face against my warm breast.
With one hand holding her full B cup boobs, the other brushing the hair out of her face, a naked girl got out of my bed and began collecting her scattered clothes. She was a cute, strawberry blond, with pretty feet and a helluva’ ass. As she tiptoed across the room and bent over to pick up her bra, I said:
Me: Why don’t you leave that here?
Naked Girl: What… My bra?
Me: (I point at a hook in my wall holding 20+ bras). Yeah… something to remember you by.
Naked Girl: (Giggling) Well wasn’t the sex something to remember me by?
Me: Yeah, but I want something good to remember you by. (Her sleepy eyes shot open) I’m just
kidding… I’ll remember the sex too.
Naked Girl: (Relieved) Ok. (After a moment) Wait… you’ll remember it as something good or something bad?
Me: (I don’t respond. I just laid there naked, massaging the pouch my testicles call home)
Naked Girl: Danny last night was good! I… You… We both came, and it was… wow.
Me: Yeah it was good. I just…
Naked Girl: You just what?
Me: I just was really distracted. (She waits for me to say more) I haven’t seen Lost this week and I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack and Sawyer (characters from Lost.. or maybe some hot man meat from the West Village). But it was still really good.
Naked Girl: Yeah?
Me: Yeah. (She senses something in my voice) well… I uh… I faked it.
Naked Girl: Faked what?
Me: My orgasm. I faked it.
Naked Girl: But you came all over my tits.
Me: Yeah, it was fake.
Naked Girl: (As she hangs her bra with the rest) How could a guy fake it?
Me: You had your eyes closed… I just threw some milk on you.
Naked Girl: Oh my.
Me: Yeah, I do it all the time.
She she left shorty after and I went back to sleep.
What’s that line on the top of my head? Oh that’s just my scalp… he wanted to say hello. Unfortunately I think he’s going to be coming around a lot more in the coming months/years, until he’s around for good… but you won’t care to know me by then. No one wants a bald friend… unless of course you’re also going bald and then you friend someone balder than you to make you look better (I’m currently looking for a bald person to go to bars, clubs, and concerts with me).
This past Monday I went to my ghetto Asian doctor in Bushwick, Brooklyn and told him I wanted Propecia for my baldness. This is conversation ensued.
Me: I want Propecia.
Doctor: You’re not bald.
Me: I’m going bald.
Doctor: I don’t see any signs.
Me: Why don’t you go look in my shower.
Doctor: Don’t worry everyone loses a little hair.
Me: Doc I understand you think I’m crazy, but the reason you don’t think I’m balding is because I don’t have gel in my hair. Do you know why I don’t have gel in my hair? Because when I wear gel I look like a bald fuck.
Doctor: Even if you were going bald, it’s not a big deal.
Me: That’s because you’re 60 and still have all of your hair. I’m 23 and am going to look like Larry David by St. Patrick’s Day.
Doctor: Well Propecia will be expensive.
Me: Do you know what else will be expensive? Trying to convince a girl to date a bald version of me.
Doctor: Oh I’m sure you’re doing fine with the ladies (he writes I’m NOT bald in his notes)
Me: What do you think you’re writing?
Doctor: I’m writing what I see.
Me: Take it out of my file now!
Doctor: I need to put what I feel, not what my patient thinks I should put.
Me: Are you going to give me the drugs or not? I’m telling you straight up, I’m not paying my co-pay if you don’t give me a prescription.
Doctor: I can’t prescribe them to you. I have to send you to a specialist.
Me: Then why am I even debating this with you.
Doctor: I don’t know?
Me: Me either.
I have an appointment with a dermatologist and a psychologist this week (he would only refer me to a dermatologist if I also went to see a psychologist… he’s a punk. I stole all of the Men’s Health magazines on my way out of the office).
So my job recently banned my from bringing in my laptop while DJing. What does that mean? I can’t blog and buy basketball cards on Craigslist while at work. Fools. What do they expect me to do for the 24 hours I’m there every week… work?
Sooooo I haven’t written any new blogs this week, but I did find some videos of me spittin’ some really dope rap songs. Most people say I sound like mixture of Drake and Posh Spice… you decide.
It was February 15th and I was hungover at the gym. I just finished a set of starring at the weights while thinking, “I really don’t feel like lifting you” as my phone rang. It was my mother.
Me: Yo.
Mom: Yo. What are you doing?
Me: At the gym. What’s going on?
Mom: Well, I just got out of the doctor’s–
Me: And?
Mom: My fibroid is out of whack, again.
Me: What does that mean?
Mom: Remember last time something was wrong with my fibroid I lost 20lbs? It was because there was calcium in my blood. And this time I gained 25lbs because there’s–
Me: Bagels in your blood?
Mom: (Laughing audibly) What did you say?
Me: Anytime I’ve spoken to you in the past six months you’ve been out to eat. So if you gained 25lbs I don’t think it has to do with a ‘fibroid out of whack’… but more to do so with your appetite out of whack.
Mom: My doctor doesn’t seem to think so.
Me: Well your doctor hasn’t seen you finish off a plate of penne ala vodka and strawberry cheesecake.
Mom: (her laughing turns into a uncomfortable “ow”)
Me: What?
Mom: (sighing) I went to my OB/GYN yesterday and my breast are still very sore.
Me: What?! Why would you boobs be sore?
Mom: Because he had to–
Me: He?! What are you going to a male gynecologist for?
Mom: Because he’s a good doctor.
Me: Good doctor my ass! He’s a pervert.
Mom: (Ignoring me) He was giving me a mammogram and really flattened out my breast. They’re were like pancakes.
Me: Pancakes?!!!
Mom: Yeah. He’s a good doctor, but he was a little too rough and I’m–
Me: You go in for a mammogram and this guy’s trying to make breakfast! So help me if he had syrup in the office. Don’t you have one of those things in the shower that shows you how to check yourself for boob lumps?
Mom: Danny I’m almost 54 years old… I need to be check out by a professional.
Me: Ok. When do you want an appointment? I’ll set you up with a female doctor.
Mom: What did you do last night for Valentine’s Day?
Me: I helped ghetto 18 year olds get laid by playing 90’s love songs while I gave them shout outs at work.
Mom: You go out afterward?
Me: Yep.
Mom: With who?
Me: _________.
Mom: Oh! Well… look… at… that. Where’d you two go?
Me: My apartment.
Mom: Isn’t it funny how things work out?
Me: What worked out? We didn’t take a horse drawn carriage around central park. We got drunk and I took her back to my place at 3:30 in the morning.
Mom: Well then I guess it’s safe to say you ended the night with a bang (my mother laughs to herself, as she thinks she made a really racy joke).
Me: Yes mom, I did end the night with a bang.
Mom: (Still laughing) Would that be categorized as emotionless sex? (Highly sarcastic) Like, do you think you’ll remember her name?
Me: (Shaking my head, as I realize my mother has been reading my blog) Yes mom. I think I will remember her name.
Mom: Just making sure, because you wrote a whole article about…
Me: I know what I wrote. Ok, I’m going to finish working out. I’ll call you when I’m done.
Mom: I’ll be out to lunch, so if I don’t pick up leave a message.
Me: I thought you just got back from breakfast?
Mom: Danny you don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant.
Me: You’re not pregnant.
Mom: Yes I know, but this fibroid sure is making me hungry like I was.
Me: Well with the threading of your pants in mind, I hope you give birth relatively soon.
