Life, America, Randomness

Archive for July 2009

In a Perfect World…2

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Worrying will burn calories


Written by Frankelstache

July 31, 2009 at 7:19 am

Posted in Humor, Life, Randomness

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I have to say that I’m pretty impressed with Rush Limbaugh, who yet again masterminded a controversy. It’s amazing what one bamboozle (yes, I’m using it as a descriptive curse) can do with a Microphone. As the old saying goes – “When one fool throws a rock inside the well, not even ten geniuses can pull it out.”

Now as someone who’s oftentimes mistaken to be of Hispanic descent, I feel like it is my cultural duty to declare my support, and aid, as much as I can, to put Sonia inside the courthouse.

Dear Sonia,
My name is Frankelstache and first and foremost I love burritos. I know that you’re actually Puerto Rican and more actually you’re from the Bronx, but since it’s hard for us Caucasians to distinguish all you Spanish speakers, I’ll just refer to you as Mexican, if that’s alright with you.

I once had a Mexican coworker in my office and she was wonderful. Made Tamales and lots of other goodies. I liked her. Maybe you should start by bringing some Guacamole to the Senate Judiciary Committee? Not too spicy though, you don’t want the food to burn twice (on the way in is okay, on the way out – not as much). Make some Alfajores cookies, too, cause that’s an awesome sweet Mexican delight people always get in Taquerías and they will associate you with cookies and sweetness.

You could also play on the fact that you Mexicans are of small stature, so you can probably get the tiniest office, the one nobody wants cause it’s right next to the restroom’s door and it smells and you hear women cry in there all the time, which is a colossal distraction. Your size, or lack there of, also means you are much closer to the floor, so when one of your potentially future colleagues loses a contact lens you will be there instantly to find it between the small cracks in the marble.

You should also, of course, remind them to utilized your presence in the office for communicating with the ever-devious cleaning crew. No way they will cut corners now that there’s a fellow Mexican around, and you can guarantee they will replace all the garbage bags, even the ones under the printers. However, dear Sonia, watch out for this reasoning because it could easily backfire. You don’t want your coworkers to worry about you conversing in that laud ‘sitting outside The Home Depot’ language of yours with the mention crew, so be sure to clarify that though you share the same dialect, you would much rather praise Jesus and eat apple pie than to chitchat with the clean team.

A huge turn on for you, Sonia, is that Mexicans invented Tequila and you can probably boost casual Fridays taking down shots during Happy Hour. In fact, I suggest you arrive at the next Senate hearing with a little bit of salt and lime positioned carefully next to your thumb. The smart men amongst the committee will get the hint, and soon enough that will stimulate all the memories they poses of fun times during Spring Break in Cabo San Lucas. Don’t let them lick you, though, that’s inappropriate.

But the truth, Sonia, is that you are a member of the female gender, and you are one of those females who likes to speak her mind, which is not too popular in this patriarchal society. Unfortunately there’s nothing I can say or suggest that will help you overcome that unforgiving flaw of yours. Maybe you can say that you’re just a really passable and beautiful Tranny who just landed from Tijuana and you’re actually a man named Jose? No, don’t say that, that will make you an illegal immigrant and that is too much hassle, trust me. I don’t know, Sonia, I don’t know how to fix this vagina problem. Everything would have been so much easier if you were a dude.

But nevertheless I vow to continue seeking for answers, in the name of justice for you, for womenkind, and for all of Mexico. Together we can finish what Che Guevara started. Hasta La Victoria Siempre!

Yours truly,

Written by Frankelstache

July 25, 2009 at 8:57 am

Upcomong Must Sees

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Ari Gold on crack

This is going to be epic.

Written by Frankelstache

July 24, 2009 at 3:02 pm

Posted in Humor

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More Dog News

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0 experience The Woman I Love and me have raising puppies. Dog is predestined for therapy.

1 boy named Mango J. Frankelstache The First. Given name is a tad androgynous but nothing else stuck.

2 times I consummated since his arrival. I get less vajayjay than George Michael, Elton John and Idaho Senators altogether.

3 hours and the pup needs to pee. He was blessed with a woman’s bladder.

4 consecutive hours of sleep is the most I’m getting nowadays. I’m awake so much at night, I know all the neighborhood pimps by names.

5 lbs this elfin creature weighs. Just like the perfect boob.

6 times a day we pull out ticks from his dainty body. Like a Trojan Horse, you welcome a gift and get 100’s of horrible insects.

7 weeks are left before he can interact with other dogs. His immune system now is weaker than Michael Jackson’s.

8 different bands / singers I played for him thus far. He seemed to love Pink Floyd the most, the little fascist.

9 different toys he has and had already diminished two. Anger management is imminent.

10 trips to the pet store already. Almost as if he found us on “”

Mango The Labradoodle

Mango J. Frankelstache The First

Written by Frankelstache

July 22, 2009 at 7:26 am

Last Day of Freedom

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The Woman I love
Is pushing for a puppy
We will rescue one,
She says,
This will make me happy.

The dog will be named ‘Poop’
Maybe ‘Chicken’
Or even ‘Sharpie’.
I refuse to put him in a coop
Those crates are simply nasty.

Sharpie / Chicken / Poop
Is hypoallergenic
He was conceived in an orgy
So not so clear about genetic.

Rescuing is pricey
Like a ticket to Antarctica
As if I were Madonna
And the pup just came from Africa.

But The Woman I Love
Is hard to resist
Her hearing is selective
And she knows how to persist.

It goes:
Boyfriend – Plant – Dog – Child
Yes my friends,
That’s how women operate.

But of course that I don’t mind
Just as long as I get to consummate.

Written by Frankelstache

July 16, 2009 at 11:27 pm

Posted in Humor, Random

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How Significant Is College

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I never attended college. Heck, I barely even attended Middle School. My academic resume includes rejection and ejection from the system at age 16, and sneaking my way into a creative Portfolio Program at 23 (most likely because the owner is 134 years old and his much younger wife will accept anyone willing to issue a check). With that said, I’ve written letters on behalf of many of my friends who aspired to get accepted into various establishments, and (knock on Ron Jeremy’s wood), I have an amazing perfect success rate, thus far. I’m especially conceited due to my latest achievement, getting one of my best friends into Medical School. Good luck, EK!

Will my lack of college education thwart me as I move forward in life? Most likely it will, especially here in Uncle Sam’s land where it seems like even the dumbest living (Caucasian) organism has some sort of post high-school learning.
This got me thinking about the various degrees people obtain during their college years, and how essential those degrees are for their life.

BFA in Ancient Greek Poetry – “This degree together with my ‘Trader Joe’s’ arm tattoo and an emo haircut will give me lots of street-cred within the Hipster community. It will aid me in articulating my rage toward America’s imperialism as I scream with zealous I would move to France if I didn’t need unemployment checks.“
P.S. “Nobody gets my art.”

Undergraduate in Computer Science –  “I spent $100,000 on tuition to learn how to make a Power Point Presentation and I look forward to a life of fixing people’s emails. With my vast IT knowledge only Asians will understand me, so I’ll naturally spend most of my work conferences inside a massage parlor, begging for a happy ending.”
P.S. “I have a mohawk cause I’m a rebel, so don’t let the suit fool you, fool.”

BA in French – “Since I never left America (call me a patriot), this will be awesome. I’ll eat escargot and make love with chicks that don’t shave their armpits. Sure, I’ll miss Wal-Mart and Baseball, but hey, I’ll learn lots of pick up lines.”
P.S. “It’s Freedom Fries, motherfucker.”

Business Administration – “I took all of my classes online so I can graduate in the nude. My Professor’s avatar told me it foresees a bright future for me managing a Mickey D’s branch but I’m thinking I’m much more of a JC Penney’s type of guy.”
P.S. “My name is Jud and I’m a Phoenix.“

All jokes aside, I will still gladly change places with either of the above, make no mistake about it. I feel that not pursuing a higher education was a misstep in retrospect, especially given the new American economic reality. One of these days I’ll get my degree, though, I’m sure. Even if only to prove to myself I am capable of doing that. My college experience won’t include beer bongs, hazing or popping 18 year-old cherries. It might be the first step I take as I change careers, it might be purely for my intellectual entertainment and enrichment. One way or the other, I promise to find my old teacher’s house afterward and urinate all over the bitch’s lawn.

Written by Frankelstache

July 15, 2009 at 12:08 am

Why I Decided to Work In Advertising

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I was 18 years and six months old when I joined the Army for a mandatory 3 years service. I hated running, loathed ships, and was too dumb and clumsy to pass the Air Force screenings. I also had clear goals and knew I wanted to do something meaningful with my service, (i.e. 1. Kill a terrorist, 2. Fuck a female officer, 3. Get thrown into Military Prison).  So I found myself happy being drafter into the Armored Corps and was soon enough sent to Basic Training in the desert on my way to a glorious military career at the 74th Battalion of the 188th Brigade in the 36th Division. Awesome.

Time passes really slowly when you’re a soldier, but jumping forward, less than a year after I was stripped of my civilian stature, I found myself deployed in the city of Jenin as a tank driver for “The Wolfs”, arguably the toughest, craziest, funniest and haze-iest Company in the Corps. One random day while cruising the alleys we were informed over the radio that there’s some sneaky action going on inside the Refugee Camp and we should keep our eyes open for snipers (which is, in this location, like telling someone to ‘watch out for boobs’ in a Strip Club).

In any case, some 4-5 people started shooting at us as soon as we crossed a certain intersection and we were struggling to locate the exact window / rooftop that was hosting the undisclosed gunmen. Right as we figured out where the bullets were originating from, the shooters started running and we were suddenly faced with about 100 kids running vehemently in our direction. Everything happened really fast, and all of a sudden stuff was flying at us from every direction and we realized that we were surrounded. Kids emerged from every adjacent corner and burning hot oil was poured on top of our tank. Baskets of rotten cabbage and tomatoes smashed on the top of my periscope and I couldn’t see a thing. Rocks the size of a Biggest Loser prospect made awful noises parachuting from above and the mob was swiftly closing in on us.

The rotten tomatoes on my periscope started dripping and I was able to regain sight on what’s in front of me. I saw dozens of kids, barefoot, dirty and probably all under the age of 12. They were laughing, smiling and yelling at the same time. They were oblivious and naïve, not aware of how fucked up this situation is, in comparison to a normal childhood.
And there he was, little ugly kid in the corner, probably 11 years old with buds of a young mustache and olive-colored skin, hurling stones with sweet mischief, partaking in these shenanigans enthusiastically.

What struck me most about that little kiddo was his shirt. This Refugee Camp resident that probably didn’t even had a home – not to mention shoes, water, electricity or even a warm meal – was proudly sporting a yellow Nike shirt, with the famous “Swoosh” smudged across his petite chest.  And make no mistake about it, this shirt was new and clean, by no means one of those Buffalo Bills Superbowl Champions t-shirts that were never worn and shipped to 3rd World Countries in exchange for $2 and a bag of apricots. This shirt was legit, and he wore it intentionally, proud as a Castro Street resider.

What happened next is loosely described here in the comments section and besides the laughs we had after blinding ourselves with tear gas, everything ended safely; no child was hurt and we returned to base in one piece. We spent the next day cleaning and rejuvenating our tank in the scorching heat while inside my head I couldn’t let go of that kid in the yellow Nike shirt. I was contemplating how this poverty-stricken youngster who fights for his dinners and chases tanks every day desires a Nike shirt. How the hell did they get to him, too? And if a Copywriter sitting somewhere (in Portland Oregon, I later found) can make a Nike commercial that gets all the way to a Refugee Camp in the West Bank and affects its inhabitants, then maybe one day I’ll be able to do the same, and reach those kids with a different message. Perhaps something about peace, possibly something about love – who knows.

However knowing that Peace and Love will probably never be as cool as a new Nike pair, I resumed my cleaning duties, scrubbing a mammoth stain of oil from the top of my tank’s cannon and started planning my future USA adventures.

I was discharged from the army in 04’ without completing all 3 of my contingents for a meaningful service. It’s almost 2010 now, and I’ve yet to create something really meaningful in Advertising as well. But I’ll never forget that little kid in the yellow Nike t-shirt, and every now and then, I’ll try my hardest to use my power to assure that his future kids will lead a safe life somewhere, laughing at their old man’s stories while drinking a cold beer I was paid to advertise.

Written by Frankelstache

July 13, 2009 at 3:46 pm