Why I do not Blog. By Mike Lackey

Seems everyone and his brother/sister has a blog these days. You know what blogs are, right? Those stupid Web sites crafted by faceless sociopaths who are so convinced that every one of their random, scattered thoughts are so friggin’ compelling that the rest of the world wants to read them.

Well, I figure I’m a faceless sociopath. Why don’t I write a blog? Hell, if Mariah Carey can have a blog, then I can have a blog. After all, I’m just as nuts as she is.

Only problem was that once I started typing out my blog, I realized that I was, well, kind of stupid. Not unintelligent, mind you. I mean stupid. The things I thought about. The stuff I did. Jesus Christ, this was stuff I never even told my wife about! It wasn’t too long before I pulled the plug on the entire ill-conceived project. However, for the sake of entertaining you, our loving (and paying) readers/customers, I present you with…


JANUARY 2, 2006

The housekeeper is coming over this morning, so I have to sweep through the house to hide all of the incriminating stuff I have scattered about. I think I have it all…Bong? Check! Anime Porn DVDs? Check! Photos of the black Klansman from the first Moist photo shoot? Check! Yep, the house looks pretty good I think, as I hop on the bus and head to work. When I get home that night I see that I left the gelatin cock ring on the neatly dusted bedside table.


JANUARY 10, 2006

I have the house to myself so I decide to masturbate. It’s been a while since I’ve JO’ed to a Christy Canyon video, so I head into the living room and stick a tape in the VCR. I plop down on the sofa, press PLAY, and let Christy’s double D’s do the rest. As I’m lying on the sofa (directly opposite the home entertainment center), I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass of the stereo cabinet. God, I’m fat and disgusting. I jerk off anyway.


JANUARY 22, 2006

I’m having dinner at a friend’s house, and we’ve just smoked a huge-ass joint. I go to the fridge to get some ice for my bourbon & soda, and I see a box of ice cream sandwiches. Man, they sure look good. I look inside the box and there’s only one sandwich left. I look around, make sure I’m unseen, and I take a huge bite out of the sandwich, right through the paper wrapper. I swallow it as fast as possible, spitting the slimy, chewed up wrapper in the trash. I get my drink and return to the table. When my host goes into the kitchen five minutes later, he totally freaks out about the sandwich. He is most incensed that it is only half-eaten, which he considers a huge insult. I deny the entire thing, although I am the only other person there.


FEBRUARY 12, 2006

I’m flying back from a comic book convention and I’m feeling horny. I’ve heard that when people have sex on airplanes it’s called the “Mile High Club.” I decide to induct myself into this elite group by masturbating in the airplane bathroom. I head into the tiny, cramped compartment and begin twanging the wire. I’m drunk, and there’s a bit of turbulence, so things aren’t going along as smoothly as I’d hoped. There’s a knock on the door. It’s the stewardess and she’s asking if I’m all right. I tell her I’m fine and she goes away. I’ve lost my boner. I get going again, and a minute later there’s another knock. Where was that bitch when I needed those potato chips? I tell her I’ll be out in a minute. Somehow I manage to pop one out into the smelly blue water. I flush the commode, spraying my jism across Ohio. When I get back to my seat, my buddy asks what took me so long, so I tell him about my newfound membership in the Mile High Club. He tells me that ever since 9/11 the airlines have put security cameras in the bathrooms. The stewardess looks at me like I’m shit for the rest of the flight.


FEBRUARY 20, 2006

I’m in the elevator at work, and as I’m the only one on the lift, I streak my hand over the buttons, pressing everything from 3 to 26. Ha ha ha, I think…I’m soooclever! As I leave the elevator, my boss gets in. All I can hear as the doors close behind me is my boss screaming “What the fu---?!”


MARCH 3, 2006

I’m at Costco looking at the twenty-five-pound bags of rice. Who, other than a Chinaman, needs twenty-five pounds of rice, I ask myself? I take my car key and poke a hole in the bag. I chuckle as a tiny stream of rice spills out like a waterfall on to the floor. I hear a voice behind me saying, “Congratulations, asshole. You just bought that!” Under the watchful eye of the Costco guy I load the humungous bag into my shopping cart. I leave a trail of rice all the way up to the checkout line, all over the conveyor belt, through the parking lot, and all inside the trunk of my car. When I get home my wife asks why I’d buy such a huge bag of rice, especially one with a hole in it. I pretend that I didn’t hear her and watch TV.


MARCH 19, 2006

My entire family—my brothers, their wives & kids, and my wife and I, are having a lovely day in New York City. We go to the Central Park Zoo, see the penguins, and have a great day. I get drunk. Really drunk, apparently. Everyone gets pissed at me when I yell a racial slur by the monkey house (and it’s not the one you might think, either!). We end the day early and pile back into my brother’s mini-van. As we speed back to Jersey though the Lincoln Tunnel, I start feeling sick. I must’ve been moaning because my sister-in-law lowered the automatic window from the front seat. “Just puke out the window!” she says. I poke my head out the window and spew 128 fluid ounces of beer and New York City street wieners across the state line. Only problem is we’re going sixty five miles an hour. The vomit blows back inside the car and covers the three babies from head to toe. I immediately pass out.


MARCH 30, 2006

I’d donated artwork for the program guide for the local college’s benefit performance for Cerebral Palsy, so the organizers invite me to the wrap party after the show. I get drunk and stoned inside of fifteen seconds and, since I don’t know anybody there, I decide to do my various comedy routines and entertain the crowd. In my very best retard-voice, I launch into a drug-fueled tirade that makes no sense even to myself. I’m just yelling Nyyaggh! Nyaaahh!” The room goes quiet. I notice, for the first time, that I’m surrounded by people in wheelchairs. I drunk drive home, punching myself in the forehead repeatedly and feeling like an asshole.


Have YOU done stupid shit that you want to share? Of COURSE you have!

Send your stupid stories to flog@moistmag.com .