R.I.P. LOUISE

It’s time to talk about it. No more Corey vs. Corey debates. No more procrastinating. No more delays, deferring, dillydallying and foot-dragging. This scrimshanker ain’t evading nor shirking no more. The proliferation of my grief has reached a point in which I must either plummet into a valley of despair or rise to the summit of my ambitions. And, dear, readers, I have chosen to plummet. Quitting is so much easier than giving things a second chance. You know that saying: “If you fall off a horse, you should get back in the saddle again.” That’s bullshit. Just ask Christopher Reeve. OK, that was vicious. But I’m hurt and I’m angry. And I never proclaimed that I was a good man. I’m a damnable, odious son of a bitch who is a master of malefaction and whose impenitence knows no end. And, like I’ve said before, I’m also a natural born quitter.

And what do I want to quit? I want to quit this dreadful marathon training. And why do I want to quit? Because, as I noted in my last post, I lost my running partner. Louise is dead. From the account I was told, apparently Louise was drunk as a fiddler, having a jag on, three sheets to the wind, under the sauce, crocked, cocked and blotto—enough, you get my point. Disoriented, confused and clothed only in a discarded garbage bag and a pink pillbox hat, Louise attempted to cross the West Side Highway during rush hour and, I’m sorry to say…this is so hard to recount, excuse me, I need a moment…

Well, that’s when Louise was mauled and killed by a mountain lion that had recently escaped from the Central Park Zoo. The damage and disfigurement was so extensive, identifying the body was difficult. Fortunately, I know that Louise is a hermaphrodite, possesses a vestigial tail and has a superfluous third leg (from a twin that never fully developed). After seeing the corpse’s third leg, useless tail and reproductive organs of both sexes, I told the coroner with a heavy heart (my heart weighs 18 oz., which is 6 oz. more than the average male) that, yes, indeed, this dead body was Louise. I then asked the coroner for a moment alone with my former running partner. When he left the room, I gathered myself together, stole Louise’s wallet and jewelry (unfortunately, I had to clip off one of her fingers to get her diamond ring) and got the hell out of there.

OK. I lied. Louise DIDN’T really die (I told you I was damnable and odious). At least not literally. But figuratively, she’s dead to me. And that’s because she has stopped being my running partner. Yes, it is sadly true. Louise has left me to go on Rumpsringa, that rite of passage for Amish youths. OK. I lied again. Louise DID leave, but not for Rumspringa. She left the Tiger for 7 weeks to work on the TV show TOP CHEF. It’s a 7-days-a-week/long hours commitment, and so she’s unable to run with me anymore. To say that I’m crushed would be an understatement. Upon first hearing the news from Louise, I caused a scene, bawled like a baby and tried to kill myself by swallowing my tongue. But since I was born without a tongue (Did I tell you that I’m a mute?), my suicide attempt was fruitless. Instead, I told Louise she could go to Hell (not that place where Satan lives; HELL is actually a clothing store on Bleecker Street where I figured Louise could pick up some nice threads for her new job) and ran home to make a second attempt at doing myself in by listening to “The Best of Bread” for 58 consecutive hours.

There is much more to tell of my tragedy and this travesty, but I’m writing this post on my laptop as I sit on a bench in Central Park and, oh my God!, there’s a mountain lion coming my way…

TO BE CONTINUED…

RUNNING
3-4 miles

DRINKING
1 Black Forest Chocolate Doppelbock (16 oz)
1 Black Forest Imperial Stout (16 oz)
1 Growler of Black Forest Choc. Doppelbock (64 oz)
½ bottle of Jose Reyes wine

SLEEPING
5.5 Hours

COREY VS. COREY

I am a wreck. Devastated. Demolished. Quashed. Bulldozed like a building in Williamsburg to make room for luxury apartments. I’m a month behind in my blog, I’m two weeks behind in my marathon training and I’m way behind in my child support payments. It just seems that no matter how hard I try to catch up, I remain off the pace. (OK, I don’t have kids, but if I did, my child support payments would most certainly be in arrears.). Every epic journey—from THE ODYSSEY to THE LORD OF THE RINGS to the POLICE ACADEMY saga—has that moment of crisis, that point of seemingly no return, that moment of truth where all seems lost, never to be regained again.

OK, my training for a measly marathon is NOT an epic journey, but like the U.S. economy and a balloon vendor, I’m prone to inflation. Much the same as when I’m discussing my sexual conquests, size of my manhood and the number of times I’ve been arrested for loitering, I tend to exaggerate and amplify—in this case, I’m speaking of embellishing the drama in my life. Yes, my Internet extended family, I plead guilty to that. When the most interesting thing going on in my life is finding out that pomegranate-blackberry is the upcoming flavor in my Jelly of the Month Club, I HAVE to add a little flair to my blog. So my transgression is I try to add a little panache to my posts. Sue me. Actually, please don’t—I’m REALLY behind in those child support payments…

Anyway, the reason for my despondence is… Damn it! I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry. Grown men shouldn’t cry. Midgets are allowed to cry, ’cause even though they’re men, they’re not really “grown,” so it’s OK for dwarfs to let the tears flow. But normal-sized guys shouldn’t weep. It’s not a manly thing to do, and it’s also offensive to midgets, because crying is one of the few things that little people can do that we normal-sized people can’t. It’s one of the benefits of being a little person. That, and they’re very rich and have hidden treasure chests. Oh, wait, that’s a leprechaun. My bad. Anyway, just like the pervert at the peep show, excuse me while I grab some Kleenex. I haven’t felt this bad since The Spin Doctors broke up. I apologize. It’s just that… it’s just that…

I lost my running partner. Louise is gone. I…I… I can’t talk about it now. It’s too soon. So, like I do with all of my problems and difficulties, I’m going to ignore the issue and focus all of my energy and efforts on something unconstructive, inconsequential and beside the point. That’s right, folks: I’m going to rate the Two Coreys and decide who is the better of the two: Corey Feldman or Corey Haim.

• Both share the same first name of Corey.
ADVANTAGE: EVEN
• Feldman shaved his head and killed Jason with a machete in FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE FINAL CHAPTER. In SILVER BULLET, Haim played a paraplegic who kills a werewolf and has Gary Busey for an uncle.

ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman fought GREMLINS and acted with Sloth in THE GOONIES (in which Feldman wore a PURPLE RAIN T-shirt throughout). Haim co-starred with Burt (ROCKY’s Uncle Paulie) Young in the short-lived TV series ROOMIES.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman starred as Ricky, “the hottest water instructor around” in the lamentable MEATBALLS 4. Haim starred as Griffin, “a rollerblader in the not-so-distant future of LA” who fights a rollerblading white supremacist youth gang in PRAYER OF THE ROLLERBOYS.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman played DONATELLO in TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES I & III. Haim has never played a pizza-eating, crimefighting, talking reptile who knows kung fu.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman divorced his parents when he was a kid. Haim did not.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman released the atrocious album FORMER CHILD ACTOR. Haim released the atrocious album YOU GIVE ME EVERYTHING. Feldman’s band is called TRUTH MOVEMENT. That ISN’T a joke.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman was “close friends” as a kid with Michael Jackson (and even dressed like him), but says even though Jackson supposedly showed him nude photos, the two never got it on. Haim was “close friends” with (and was even engaged to) CHARLES IN CHARGE’S Nicole Eggert. Even though the two didn’t marry, the two DID get it on.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman got married on THE SURREAL LIFE, in which he dressed up as Louie the XIV. The ceremony was officiated by M.C. Hammer (an ordained minister). Motley Crue’s Vince Neil and WEBSTER himself, Emmanuel Lewis, were in attendance. Haim is still single, has never married, but did blow up to 300 pounds at one point in his life.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN

Last one, and we’re all tied up at four apiece. Isn’t this exciting? So, who will be my favorite Corey? Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please…

• Feldman is allegedly sober, drug free and has gotten his life in order. Haim is allegedly a mess, NOT drug free and reportedly showed up “disoriented” on the set of LOST BOYS 2.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM!!!!

There you have it, folks! COREY HAIM is now officially my favorite of the Two Coreys. And what does that mean? Jack shit. But it was a nice diversion and kept me from thinking about losing Louise. My running partner. My little buddy. My soused sidekick. My colleague in crapulence (that doesn’t mean shitting our pants; I’m referring to a gross excess in drinking). Great, now I’m crying again. I’m just a boo-hooing, blubbery, sobbing sad sack. Like the flat-chested girl stuffing her bra said to her best friend, “Could you please pass me a tissue?”

Monday, July 7 to Sunday, July 27 (Hey, I’m trying to catch up here)

RUNNING
23-25 miles/week

DRINKING
7-8 beers a night/5-6 days a week

SLEEPING
20 hours/day (I got hit in the head by a leaping sting ray and was in a coma for two weeks. OK, that’s bullshit, but I DID get hit by a leaping sting ray, although it didn’t put me into a coma. It just rendered me impotent. Now I spend all of my time re-reading THE SUN ALSO RISES and responding to Viagra spam e-mails. Man, I’ve got shitty luck.)

SLEEPING (FOR REAL)
5 hrs./night

BRETTBACK MOUNTAIN

It’s hard for me to concentrate on my marathon training these days. That’s my latest excuse for falling behind in my posts. You see, I’m a die-hard Green Bay Packers fan. In fact, once, when my Dad and I got into a knife fight at a nudie bar (he’s a Chicago Bears fan), he stabbed me in my left ventricle and I ACTUALLY bled green and gold (the Packers’ colors). I also bled red as well (and lost 5 pints of blood). Pops stabbed me in the back, too, but that wasn’t with a knife; that was figuratively—I caught him having sex with my fiancée. Needless to say, I didn’t end up marrying Carol. My Dad did. Now, Carol is my stepmom, which is kind of weird. And did I mention that Carol was carrying my baby at the time? So now, three years later, my son is also my stepbrother. That’s kind of weird, too. And did I mention that Carol’s my stepsister? And that… Well, let’s just not go there.

So there’s a Wisconsin civil war going on in Green Bay now, with QB Brett Favre and the Packers feuding over the possibility of Brett coming out of retirement. I love Brett. I love the Packers. Who do I choose? Who CAN I chose? This decision is tougher than Sophie’s Choice. And there’s more on the line. But I’m gonna have to go with Brett here. The man is my idol. I have his jersey, action figures, posters, address (I hired a private eye to get it, but the restraining order prevents me from any further attempts at trying to invade the Favres’ home). I even once dated a girl just because she looked like Brett (although kissing a chick with beard stubble is weird). And when I save up enough money, I plan on having plastic surgery so I look exactly like Brett.

Unfortunately, though, I’m still paying off the bills from my last facial plastic surgery from 12 years ago. You see, my former idol was that kid from JERRY MAGUIRE, and unwisely, after seeing and falling in love with that film (JERRY MAGUIRE had me at the opening credits), I had my face reconfigured so I looked like Jonathan Lipnicki (come on, that kid stole the movie!). But there’s something strange about having a six-year-old’s head on a 21 year old’s body. I haven’t really been a force on the dating scene since then.

Anyway, I’m straying off the subject and, once again, babbling like a brook. I guess I’ll talk more about Brett in future posts, so I’ll just leave it at this for now: I love the Packers, but I love Brett more. Just like the way Jake Gyllenhaal felt about Heath Ledger in BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, I wish I knew how to quit Brett. But I can’t. And I don’t mean quit Brett in a gay cowboy sort of way (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I mean it in a scary, taking-things-too-far, devout, extremist football fan way (and there’s probably SOMETHING wrong with that).

Brett is like the father I never had. Well, as you know, I DID have a father, but he stabbed me with a knife once and then stole my fiancée and turned her into my stepmom, and now I go to therapy three times a week because I have a serious oedipal complex. Brett would never do those things to me. And if he did, well, I’d be OK with that. Because having Brett Favre as my father would be the coolest thing on earth, and I would let him stick a knife in my heart and bang my girlfriend any day of the week. Did I mention that my REAL father is also my uncle…

Monday, June 30 – Sunday, July 6

RUNNING
24 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs./night

COCKAIGNE ADDICT

Sorry that it has been two weeks since I last posted, but I have a good excuse: I was in rehab. No, you suspicious little bastards, I wasn’t in rehab for being an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or a sex addict (I only wish). No, I was rehabbing my knee, which I unfortunately injured during a Pilates class in which I was extremely intoxicated. From what I understand, this is a Pilates first. I was also kicked out of the class for indecent exposure (my fifth time). And, from what I understand, this is also a Pilates first.

Still, there’s no excuse for not posting on this blog for two weeks. My knee was actually better by the next day, and I didn’t miss any running. Well, I guess there IS a good excuse: Someone cut off my thumbs. Yeah, I may not be a beer, drug or sex addict, but I am a gambling one (and the beer dependency is debatable). I owed $2,000 for betting on the Packers last weekend, and since the NFL season doesn’t begin until next September, that meant the Packers weren’t even playing a game, so I was destined to lose. And I originally DID have the 2 grand to pay my bookie—I’m not stupid—but I filled up my gas tank 30 times over the weekend in a cross-country trip from NY to California (I own a Humvee), and so I spent $1,500 in gas. (Note to self: NO MORE cross-country road trips). I spent the other $500 buying the first photos of Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt’s twins, which turned out to be fakes. (Actually, they were baby pictures of Chang & Ang, the famous Siamese twins).

So, since I didn’t have the dough, my bookie cut off my thumbs POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE-style, and I was unable to type for the last two weeks. (When I type, I’m ALL THUMBS—yuk, yuk). Luckily, however, I came across a dead hitchhiker on the side of the road yesterday. The dude had two healthy digits, so I clipped them off with some wire cutters and got them reattached to my hands at the hospital. I also sliced off the guy’s right arm just in case I might need it in the future.

Anyway, besides being a gambling addict, I’m also a COCKAIGNE addict as well. Now, don’t go thinking dirty here. Cockaigne (kah-KAYN, noun) has nothing to with either sex or drugs (unless you want it to be). And I AIN’T talking about an addiction to a certain male organ, either. “Cockaigne” is an imaginary land of ease and luxury, and when I’m scurrying throughout the city, training for the marathon, I often find myself creating a fantasy world in which everything in my life is perfect and rosy. I conjure up a “cockaigne” and escape from the pain, exhaustion and the occasional vicious, explosive case of the trots. (Note to self: Bring a back-up pair of underwear on EVERY run.)

Since this post is becoming protracted, I won’t tell you all of the things in my perfect cockaigne, but I will give you my top three:

1) A buck-naked Liza Minnelli singing “New York, New York” with me in a martini-glass-shaped hot tub filled with champagne, hot sauce and drowned midgets.

2) A pet feline named Stevens, so that when people come to my home, I can tell them, “This is my Cat Stevens.”

3) A different ending to THE CRYING GAME, in which Jaye Davidson is NOT a dude but a gal. (Note to self: Never pleasure yourself to a chick in a movie until you’re ABSOLUTELY sure that said chick doesn’t have a schlong.)

In the interest of saving time, I’ll sum up my activities of Tuesday, June 24th until Sunday, June 29th by stating my average run, beer intake and sleep. I promise to get up-to-date soon. Although, I have another $2,000 in my pocket, and I have a feeling the Packers are going to win this weekend…

June 24 – June 29

RUNNING
17 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs/night

POOP & POETRY

Not much time to write
Please excuse my brevity
This haiku must do

Sorry for this shitty post, but I’m trying to catch up. The best I can offer you is this weak-ass haiku and a picture of a midget vampire.

So, on Monday, June 23rd, I ran with Team Tiger. Like the porn star said in the scheisse video, “Here’s the poop”:



RUNNING
5 Miles

DRINKING
5 beers at the Tiger (approx. 68 oz.)
2 train beers (24 oz.)
2 home beers (12 oz.)

SLEEP
4 hours

7/01/08
BANANAS & VASELINE

Since I’m SO far behind in my posts, I’m gonna keep this short, like Verne Troyer, who (and this is TRUE) is rumored to have a Paris Hilton-like sex tape coming out soon. The question is: Is he hung like a Lilliputian? Or is this Tom Thumb’s 11th finger of Shaq-sized proportions? One thing’s for sure, that dude definitely has a more active sex life than I do. But the two of us do share something in common: My nickname is Mini-Me as well. It’s a “belittling” sobriquet that women call me, usually after they see me with my pants off.

But that isn’t the crux of my coitus problems; it’s simply bad luck. Take for example two Fridays ago (when last I chronicled my training regimen). Since I had no date (payday was the following week, so I had no hooker money), I was going to leave straight from the office for a run. But I had to change, which meant I needed to be aware of Alexis. You see, I work in a MALE Room. No, I don’t mean the mailroom of some corporation. I mean that my office is virtually all DUDES. The lone woman is Irene, who is 86, and lost both of her eyes 43 years ago when she drunkenly fell on a meat fork during an Army-Navy football tailgating party. She’s a nice lady, but refuses to wear dark glasses—or glass eyes. Trust me, it’s freaky. I can see her brain. (At office parties, when Irene gets drunk, she sticks martini olives in her empty sockets.)

Anyway, a month ago, my dream came true: Lindsay Lohan’s little sister Ali announced that she would be starring in a new reality TV show, LIVING LOHAN, which would shatter the myths about her infamous family. But my other dream came true as well: A hot young chick named Alexis started working as the new secretary. I haven’t been this happy since I found out my Mom and Dad aren’t my real parents. (I was raised by wolves, and always had a lingering doubt about our biological connection. We don’t look ANYthing alike, I have much more body hair then them and my gestation period is a great deal longer.)

So I was hitting Ike Turner-hard on Alexis for the last four weeks, and I believe she was becoming responsive. She only pressed two sexual harassment charges against me (compared to Irene’s three). But, unfortunately, like the Mets last September, I think that I blew it. See, I do two embarrassing things to prep for my runs. One, I eat a banana, which provides me with a nice boost of energy, some complex carbohydrates and meets my phallic fruit requirement for the day. And two, I…uh, use Vaseline on my…uh…nipples.

Yes, go ahead, snicker, you bastards. Chortle at my expense. Scoff at my shame. But I tell you this, my friends: If you DON’T do that for long runs, a little thing called friction occurs, and then your nipples BLEED. I’ve seen dudes running where it looks like two ketchup packets exploded underneath their T-shirt. So, do you want to lactate blood, or do you want to suck it up and lube your teats? I ain’t no saphead. I grease up my mamilla like there’s no tomorrow.

So, it was quitting time on Friday. I had my trusty banana and Vaseline in my backpack, and I went to change into my running gear in the file room. (I refuse to use the men’s bathroom in my building. It’s worse than the water closet in TRAINSPOTTING.) I proceeded to strip down to my skivvies and broke out my petrolatum, and that’s when my banana falls out of my backpack (insert your own joke here)—and Alexis entered.

How does one explain to a hot chick you recently met why you’re half-naked in the file room with a jar of Vaseline and a banana? If you know, please tell me, because I was at a loss for words. It probably didn’t help that I was putting a condom on the banana, either.

So, basically, I blew my chance with Alexis, my day was ruined, and I decided not to run after all. But at least I was larded up and had a priapic fruit in my pocket. However, I was so depressed and worn out from a week of excess running and drinking that I crashed hard in the sleeping department over the weekend. I guess I needed more bananas. I could have used the energy. Just thank goodness I didn’t need more Vaseline.

JUNE 20-22 WEEKEND (FRIDAY to MONDAY morning)

RUNNING
5 miles
2 hours of basketball

DRINKING
6 Lagunitas IPAs (72 oz.)
1 Ommegang Abbey (22 oz)
4 Captain Lawrence Pale Ales (64 oz)
1 Oskar Blues Gordon Double IPA (12 oz)
2 Other Beers That I Can’t Friggin’ Remember (12 oz)

SLEEP
19 hours