Monthly Archives: November 2006

Dr. Oh no.

I’m getting the feeling that my “cyrano” section wont be lighting up until I get a bit more exposure, and that will happen soon enough.

After of night of offering relationship advice to an old, married, and miserable friend (read: run, now, fast), I felt the urge to go and preach to the men of the world, and tell them to run for their lives.  But then common sense overtook me and I realized how ridiculous that sounded.  I ended it off with him plain and simple, here is what I said, verbatim,

“If you only take one thing out of everything I have talked to you about today, take this; Do not, under any circumstances, make children.  You may get a divorce, and you may get screwed like we all do, but at least you can still make a life for yourself, and you can save yourself the heartache of feeling like a shitty parent.  Trust me, there is no greater pain than realizing you are not good enough as a father, or husband to be given a decent shot at it.”

This was after learning that he and his wife lived in an apartment in her parents house.  I know a little bit about having in-laws live with you.  Try to imagine your relationship as a crystal clear, healthy lake, full of fish and wildlife.  A house full of others is basically like adding cyanide into the ecosystem.  Everything just dies, it doesn’t even stand a chance.

I explained that life is indeed horribly unfair.  And that no matter what he did, or how many sacrifices he made, in the end he would most likely be hung out to dry.  This guy knows a bit about sacrifice, he had to fight an entire contingent of angry jehovah witnesses to date the girl in the first place.  Bear in mind, these jehovahs were led by the girls father.  And I think I have it bad…

I think my advice was appropriate for the situtation, in this case.  But, I think it is a very poor idea, if you are a man, to ask me for relationship advice.  Especially if you are looking for positive reinforcement.

I am not afraid to be in a relationship, and be a bitter, cynical fucker like I am.  I have every right to be angry and resentful, despite satisfaction in other areas.  I can still be an idealist, and in many ways I am (anyone who knows the whole story should know just how much of an idealist I currently am).  My old friend said something to me tonight, that felt so poignant, and true.

He was telling me how he and his wife (then fiance) broke up in his junior year in college, for a year.  “It’s always when you are ready to forget them, that they call you back.”

So he was moving on, and she pulled him back in.  And now look, he looks stressed, tense, and frankly, unhappy. 

I realized that this may not be what he wanted to hear.  But I think he may have needed to hear it.

I wasn’t kidding.  I said, the next person I am with better be someone I will be truly spending the rest of my life with, and although I am still full of cynical venom, and in possession of a somewhat ‘wait and see’ attitude, I am more than willing to see it through, whether the end lie in a grave, or a tearful breakup.  Obviously, I would prefer a grave.  In either case.

I have already had one person lie to me when they said they wanted to spend the rest of their life with me, I’m not certain I could survive that twice.  That is something like killing a person, it is not death, but it is a partial murder.  The people who have to endure that level of rejection, and can carry on, I have much respect for.  I may have poked fun at it in the past, but once you have been invalidated to that degree, it tends to change your perception quite a bit.

It’s a funny thing.  I get accused of beginning the separationdivorce process, and deservedly so.  I did, but that is where logic failed me completely.  Like she had done to me years ago, I thought it was merely an extreme sign of my displeasure at our current circumstances.  I suppose I never really intended on following through.  I knew deep down, that if that really did happen, I would no longer be able to be the father I was then, and besides, I really just needed a breather from the madness.  I got that breather, and now I have all the air I can take in.

It made me realize, that all along, she really just needed an out, and I gave it to her.  Not only that, I gave her every penny I had and could have had. 

Lucky for me, I am hardly done collecting pennies.

The best way I can describe my experience is like this, and I used this analogy tonight,

” Imagine you are a stuntman, and you are on the roof of the nakatomi tower, getting ready to play hans gruber in the last scene in die hard.  You have practiced this a million times, and you are certain you know how it is supposed to go.  So the director yells action, and you slip off the watch, and fall forty stories down.  There was an air cushion every, single, time.  But this time, the last thing you see is the pavement rushing up to say hello, and the last thing you think, is ‘how could they do this to me, after all this time, they forgot?’  ”

And then splat, and in the next scene, some cinnamon blob is falling comfortably in the cushion you should have had.

I think my analogies shook him a bit.  I know they tend to get annoying, but sometimes it is only because they hit the spot so well.

Poor bastard.  I’ll take full responsibility when he ends up at the bachelor springs condos.  I got the cure for that affliction. 

For a guy who has never had any “gay” experience, I’ve sure taken it up the ass a lot.  I guess that’s why I’ve never been “curious”, I already know how much that shit hurts.

 

Ok, done ranting, please bookmark me, the link is on the side, at delicious.  It would actually help me quite a bit. 

Thank you for reading.

Dumbalicious.

Alright now, we shakin now,
Make it hot we bakin now,
Move that thing I’ll show you how,
Come on over, take it now,

Left side, hands on hips,
Right side, back on lips,
Feel that rhythm, feel the funk,
Hawk me baby like a punk,

Like BEP I got the phunk,
Found lil jon and stole the crunk,
One, two, feel this rhythm,
Punish bodies unforgiving,

(chorus)’Twist it right,
Twist it right,
Rock rock that body all damn night,’

‘Twist me right,
Twist me right,
I’ll rock your body all damn night,'(fin)

Put these words now to a rhythm,
Shake that, shake that,
Snake it baby, snake it baby, snake it baby like a cobra,
Like G.I. Joe I’ll work it ova,

Spin those hips baby one last time,
Make me wish you were still mine,
Make you dance until you sit,
Alone I show I can still rock it,

(repeat chorus)

And that, ladies and gentleman, was me writing a song for fergie.

Or any other pop queen who needs lyrics.

That took all of five minutes.

that rhymed.

(damn I’m good).

Shape-shifter.

I didn’t come out to see you,
I only came out for beer,
I didn’t mean to find this corner,
And watch you closely sitting here,

What do you mean I’m not your type,
Popped collar and spikey hair not cutting it tonight?
What do you mean I’m not your type,
Emo hair, tight jeans and ink not enough tonight?
What do you mean I’m not your type,
Punk rock attitude, and facial piercings leaving something lacking?
What do you mean, I’m not your type,
Polo shirt and abercrombie deserves a smacking,

Am I too plain for you my dear?
No holes or metal in my ears,
Cause me pain to impress you,
When I’d rather just undress you,
The only ink I need flows from my pen,
No meaningless symbols to just pretend,

I’d rather fit into your jeans honey,
Than fit into your scene honey,
I can talk the talk baby,
But I wont walk the walk baby,

Pass me over with disdain,
Too plain, too plain,
But I sneak in sometimes like ninja do,
Past those defenses right on through,
While others fight with a frontal visual assault,
I find your wall and vault,

What’s the matter baby,
Didn’t see me at the show last week?
What’s the matter baby,
Am I not part of your scene?
What’s the matter baby,
Afraid you let a phony in?
Just relax baby,
There’s never a place for the chameleon,

Not this time though, not tonight,
Passed me over,
Out of sight,
Those guys over there are more your type,

It’s ok baby, everything is just fine,
Take comfort in the promise,
You can’t pass over father time,
He’ll knock you down I promise,

Out of sight,
Out of time,
Let it go, let it go, let it go,
That girl was never mine.

Boob-watch.

Lets be brilliant for a moment.

Ok, I’m a no talent big titted walking barbie doll.  And I, am a white trash rapper?  rocker?  mayonnaise sandwich eating jackanape?  We both like to screw like rabbits, and generally, be seen with pieces of ass that we are screwing.  Also, we are in a line of work that basically requires us to behave in this moronic fashion so as to keep the interest in us alive.  So we have established that we enjoying screwing each other, hm, whatever shall we do about this?  Oh, oh, I got it, I got it!

Lets declare undying love for each other, and not only get married once, but lets wipe our diarrhea stained feet all over the institution of marriage several times over by traveling to different scenic locales, where we can destroy the concept of a lifetime commitment in varied states and territories!  See, it isn’t bad enough that the concept of marriage in america is a complete joke, lets spread our distasteful fickle idea of a commitment ceremony to other areas, so young people in these places can see just how little this all means!

Madonna, Brad, Angelina, they enjoy fighting for lost causes, and plucking poor colored children from their poverty stricken homes, but pam, no, she fights for higher causes!

Not only does she engage in useless bleeding heart animal loving campaigns, (stop wearing fur!  ok pam, as soon as you put back all that plastic surgery and botox that took years and countless animals to perfect so you can look like a fucking wax figurine, then we’ll talk about my super comfy chinchilla coat), no, she has now moved on to loftier goals.

These days, she is way too preoccupied with pulling out her artificially tightened pee hole that tommy lee no doubt stretched so far that it could be served in plainviews very own regal kosher deli, and letting out a steady stream of uric disregard for the once proud and meaningful sacrament of marriage, to appear in ads that some asian country will take issue with.

We need to put an end to this.  There needs to be a new method for couples to commit to each other, because it is becoming increasingly clear that this one is not cutting it.

It does not need to be completely overhauled, maybe just add a little tentativeness to it.  Lets see,

“For as long as you both shall live”

No, no good,

“For as long as I am not on tour.”

Ok, getting better,

“For as long we both agree this wasn’t a ridiculous mistake”

I think we have a winner.

 

I’m not saying people shouldn’t be together, but there should be a test of some sort, something that makes marriage incredibly difficult to escape, that way, quite simply, people will think that much harder before telling a lie so large.  Be together, be happy, live, but only get married if you really mean it, because otherwise it becomes what it currently is today, a fucking joke.

If every murder victim came back to life like a video game, then killing someone wouldn’t mean quite as much anymore would it?

By that same token, if you could just “break up” with your spouse, getting married kinda means dick then doesn’t it?

So thank you pam, for being one of the long line of celebrities to reflect the current state of our diseased culture.  Truly, your morals are as poor as your “acting” in barbed wire.  It was a comic book film for fucks sake, all you had to do was look good and deliver a few one-liners and you managed to screw that up royally, what the hell made you think you could figure out matrimony after that first disaster?

pam, kid, til death do you part, now do us entertainment loving folks a favor and drop dead already.

 

(now go ahead and post your critique, o anonymous leaver of comments that doesn’t seem to grasp that my unhappiness about getting a divorce has nothing to do with whether I am happy now or not.  marriage is exactly what it is, you want it to be something else?  fine, then go and do whatever that is and stop saying I fucking do)

 

Tobas doesn’t write your life tonight,

tonight,

Tobas pwns your life.

Time Bomb.

::Lesson for the day::

This is an important lesson I learned early on in my sexual education, I just thought I would share it with the rest of you.

 

In my seventeenth year, I was still a virgin.  I had several opportunites, but had either been too scared to go through with it, or the timing had been off.  At any rate, I found myself one spring day, with a rare opportunity to solve this problem of mine.  I had started seeing a girl by the name of Mary Beth.  We were of the same age, but she was way more experienced than I was, and she proved this to me by one day deciding to give me head without any prompting on my part.  I was floored by this, as I was used to the typical wheedling/selling that most guys had to do at that age to get a blowjob. 

“Only for a second…C’mon…Oh god, I’m so horny, your mouth would feel so good on it…” and so on.  And of course, the whole time there would be a subtle pressure being exerted by your discretely placed hand behind her neck.  It was not as if she went right for it everytime we would fool around, but more often than not, she was the one doing the unzipping.

So one day, we are in her room, looking at a collage she had made.  Pictures of her friends are splattered all over this posterboard, and she is telling me who is who and such.  After a few minutes of this, we start fooling around and of course, before long my pants are down, and she is looking at me from between my jeans, and she moans, “oh god, I want you to fuck me.”  Both heads practically exploded at once.  But then she was kissing me again, and we both took a break, looking at her collage again.

All I wanted was to continue, but I could tell she felt like taking her time, and I knew I wasn’t about to ruin my chance to finally get laid by being pushy.  She began to slowly stroke me, and talked about her picture with her best guy friend, who looked slightly retarded to me.  Now, I had no idea this was her “best” guy friend, I found this out a bit too late.

She went back down to continue where we had left off, when I decided to state my observation, sounding innocent to my ears.  She immediately looked up, and stated her observation, “you’re an asshole”.

She got up, and threw something small and plastic in my face.  I sat there, my raging hard on still dripping with her saliva, holding a condom.  It was then that I realized she had stopped before to get a condom so we could fuck.  And I just thought she needed to pee and look at her pictures some more.

Needless to say, I did not get laid, and wound up apologizing profusely to no avail.

So, what did I take out of all of this?

1.  Stay the fuck away from girls with “best” guy friends.

2. If you absolutely must be with one of these ticking time bombs, don’t talk shit about the guy, at least not until you blow your nut stupid.

 

Chris Rock had it right.  If her best friend has a penis, then it’s the proverbial dick in a glass case.

Break in case of emergency.?

Fuzzy Bunny Slippers.

1997 was a seminal year for Tobas it seems, many very strange things happened to me in that spring, summer and fall that had not happened before, or since.  So, now it is time once more, for another, Tobas True Hollywood story!

 

Tobas circa 1997.

 

Staying in the city meant of course, after work, partying in the city.  So most nights we would head out to someplace, and listen to some melodic electronic music.  On the weekends things were a bit different.  Anyone who has partied as a manhantannite knows, fridays and saturdays are primarily B+T.  For those of you who drive into, or take the LIRR into the city, they are talking about you, bridge and tunnel folks.  You bring your popped collars and cheesy attitudes, and people who just want to chill and have a good time, can’t.  Nevertheless, we began to attend Twilo, which is now Pascha I believe, regularly on friday nights.  Knowing who we knew at the time, it was a simple matter to bypass VIP area security and seat ourselves in the small section with the beautiful/blatant drug using people to the right of the DJ booth.

It turns out, there were to be wilhemina agency parties there on fridays for the entire summer, and better yet, they were costume themed, with most of the models wearing angel wings on their backs and not much else.  The second friday we went, and we decided to fit in as best we could.  My boss went as an altar boy, a few other folks went as clergy, and I went as a priest, white collar and all.  With my chin length blonde-streaked hair, it was nothing what I ever looked like,or will probably look like again.  At any rate, a guy named bobby who was with us suggested as we were leaving that my costume would look quite dramatic with a bit of mascara, I shrugged, and said, what the hell, and the next thing I know my eyes were lined.  I took one quick look in the mirror before I left, and surprised myself by how good I actually looked.

We walked in and took our usual seats, but I noticed I was being stared at quite a bit more than usual.  I scooted into a corner sipping on an amaretto sour, and saw nick the meth fairy skipping towards me. 

Now nick was an interesting character.  One would think by his name, that he was a drug dealer.  After all, he was the meth fairy, because he, well, always had meth.  In truth, he was more of a drug donater.  He stayed strictly within the confines of the ropes and when asked, produced a small bump of meth on the first knuckle of his right hand, which would then be sniffed up by the grateful VIP party-goer.  Why the meth “fairy”?  Well, for starters he wore little cherub wings on his back, and sometimes carried a little prop wand, and, were he any more obvious about his sexual preference, he would have required johnny storms fantastic four outfit.

(I wish to remind the reader at this time, that all of this is disturbingly true, down to the little ridiculous glowing wand I just described, and I found it as ridiculous as most of you would I am sure)

Moving on, nick came over and sat down very close to me, putting his lips as close to my ear as they could go without actually tasting cartilage, and whispered in his falsetto tone, “I’ve been a very, very bad boy, care to hear my confession?”  Being buzzed and indifferent, I merely shrugged my shoulders, noticing some people were watching us intently.  He went on to describe a lurid fantasy involving him, myself, party drugs, and possibly several gallons of lubrication.  I laughed and he floated away to get someone else high.  I looked around and noticed someone approaching me once again, but this time it was one of the wilhemina models, and she was gorgeous and dark skinned.  She took her seat next to mine and informed me that nick had been telling folks that he needed to give confession, and thats what I was there for.  She found it funny, and confessed that she found me attractive as well.  Judging from her pupils, nick had given her something as well.  She went on to mock confess to me about things she did the night before, and how she stomped a mans testicles the week before (she actually did that for extra money on the side, but that is a story for another time).  Subsequently, we ended up dating, but that also is another story.

At any rate, it began a trend of sorts, with me going to my corner, then being supplied with a steady stream of amaretto sours, and listening to people tell me all sorts of filthy, sexy, and sometimes nauseating things.

One particular friday, we noticed the crowd was decidedly less B+T, and decidedly cooler.  It so happens that Sasha and Digweed were spinning that night as well.  The music was absolutely godly, and I had several different types of intoxicating substances flowing through my bloodstream.  I sat for short periods, listening while hopping up and down in my seat.  At some point, I began to relax a little, and I just sat there, sipping and grooving, feeling quite lovely.  It was then that I saw the largest, pinkest transvestite I had ever seen approaching my little corner.  She sat down next to me, and whispered in a surprising baritone, ” I heard you hear confession, ‘father’ “.  I nodded in the affirmative, and she got a bit closer.

“Well, I have to confess, that I heard about you from some friends of mine, and I had to come and see for myself, and the moment I saw you from over there (she pointed by the bar), I knew I wanted to take you into the bathroom and suck your fucking cock.”

Bear in mind, this was certainly not the first time I had heard something like this whispered in my ear.  But this was the first time something that looked like it escaped from fraggle rock had whispered that in my ear.  I looked at her glittering eyes and said in the most serious voice I could muster, ” I am so sorry my child, but you know we of the priesthood are celibate folk”.

She laughed and whispered back, ” well ok honey, but if you change your mind I’ll be over there.”  She got up and left, and my friend andy immediately took her place.  He whispered in an awed tone, ” Hey, do you know who that was?”  I had no clue, and shook my head.  He continued sounding a little exasperated, ” That was Lady Bunny!  Holy shit, what did she say to you?”

I whispered back softly, ” She wanted, to suck my dick.”  He gaped at me, and answered one word at a time.  ” No, fucking, way”.  I nodded and mouthed, ” Yes, fucking, way”.  He didn’t answer that, and instead laughed and ran over to another group of people to the left of me and began talking frantically.  Eventually, the story turned into me having to wipe off pink mascara from my scrotum, but I suppose that is what happens to stories over time, they become exaggerated, and take on a life of their own.

It seems that Lady Bunny is (was?) somewhat of a celebrity amongst the tranny crowd.  Not exactly hollywood I suppose, but it was amusing.

 

I am really not doing much to quell the notion some people have that I am in the closet am I?

Hah.

To the left…

Ah Beyonce, I do not mean to pick on you my dear, for you are only singing a song that was most likely written by other hands, but you have crystallized something so clearly, that I could not resist.

“You must not know about me
You must not know about me
I could have another you in a minute
matter fact he’ll be here in a minute – baby”

 

Another you, In a minute.

Imagine that.

I remember, in grade school, the fire marshalls would come in and speak to us of fire safety, and they would drill us, and explain techniques for us to use when there was heavy smoke, or if we went on fire, stop, drop and roll! 

But the one thing I remember most of all, was when they asked us what we should take with us when a fire broke out.  Some answered toys, some their pets, I said perhaps my favorite book lying on the nightstand. 

Wrong.  All wrong.

They explained, as much as those things might seem important, nothing was as important as us getting out, because mommy and daddy could always buy a new toy, or book, or even a new kyle the kitty if need be.  But the one thing they could never buy, was a new you.  You could not be replaced, ever.  A wave of realization swept over our class as we looked around, momentarily of one mind.  Nothing we had, could ever mean as much as we could.

 “I can have another you by tomorrow
So don’t you ever for a second get to thinking you’re irreplaceable”

 

So, let us fast forward a decade or so, and look at the current state of committed relationships.  I think, should the fire marshalls be called in again, we would find the modern woman carrying out stacks of shoes, several dresses, and perhaps that fine set of china aunt hilda gave them as a wedding gift.  Meanwhile, being very careful to not trip over the prone body of her poor unconcious husband/boyfriend/fiance, as she balanced the precious valuables on her way out the emergency exit.

Perhaps I am being a bit cynical here, and mayhaps a tad bitter once again.  I could be wrong, it could just be that she is speaking about a certain type of male.  Maybe she references the thugged out, pseudo-suave characters that her fanbase enjoys dating and marrying.  The unfolding brim hat wearing, stocking underneath, baggy clothed, spinning neck chain, boo-tay loving, love professing, cat-calling, “ma” loving, multiple baby momma types.  Yes, that could be it.

Or perhaps not. 

“So since I’m not your everything
How about I’ll be nothing
Nothing at all to you
Baby I wont shead a tear for you
I won’t lose a wink of sleep
Cause the truth of the matter is
Replacing you is so easy”

It seems that the fictional “dog” of the song was rolling a different girl around in the “whip”.  Oh yes, this is certainly despicable behavior, but based on that last sentiment, I would have to say that homeslice did himself a favor.  Dropping someone so quickly basically means that they probably did not mean all that much to you in the first place.  You can argue moving on until you are blue in the face, but quite simply, if you truly cared for someone, even if they hurt you so badly, it would be a bitch to lose them. 

But this is the modern attitude.  People have become accessories.  Like gucci bags and blinged out earrings.  You are only as desirable as the next style dictates.  Perseverance is a thing of the past.  You get difficult, make a mistake, or do anything that may be construed as less than desirable, and the answer becomes very simple for todays Beyonce loving modern woman, “to the left, to the left”.  It may just be a foolish song, but art is often a reflection of society, and in this case, I feel it hits the bullseye.

Commitment goes only as far as is convenient.

Why am I picking only on the women here?  Aren’t guys guilty of the same nonsense?

Of course they are!  But since I have a penis, I find myself a bit partial to the male side of things. 

 

“Everything you own in a box to the left.”

Save yourselves the trouble gentlemen, don’t fucking unpack.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

?

Whoops.

So let us portray for moment, a hypothetical guy, with his hypothetical girlfriend.

Let us say, he is hypothetically inserting his fingers into her f’agina, and he decides on a whim, to taste his fingers afterwards, because his hypothetical girlfriend is so sexy and delicious he cannot resist.  He sucks his fingers with gusto, exhaling heavily as he does so, savoring her sweet and…coppery…flavor?

Let us say, he looks down at his fingers, and he notices they are looking rather maroon colored, and it does not seem to be a trick of the light.

Images from Anne Rice novels fly through hypothetical boyfriends head, as he slowly realizes he has just had a full on taste of moon blood.  He thinks he might gag for a moment, but then decides to lick his lips instead. 

Purely hypothetical of course, I mean, who would actually do that…huh? (nervous laughter).

Updates.

Ok, quick updates.

Celebrity interviews coming very soon, the first two are going to be with Tara Mackey, and then Joey (the drummer) from the band “The Sleeping”, they are currently on the Nintendo Wii tour with Hawthorne Heights, they are on the label Victory Records, check out their stuff at www.myspace.com/thesleeping.

Ok, on to Tobas news,

My girlfriends mother seems to like me now! yay! Her guy friend thinks I’m a homer-sexual, boooo! I was invited over for Thanksgiving! yay! I’ll be all the way in Amityville and probably wont make it, boooo!

On the medical front, I recently started taking ciprofloxin to try and help my chronic prostatitis. Apparently, these things make you feel like shit and drive you crazy. Aside from making you want to put lead in your skull, they make you confused and irrational, and I’m bad enough with that stuff without any help. The weird aches and burning urethra dont help things either. The worst part is, it doesn’t even feel like a UTI, its fine when you have to pee, which is pretty damn often, but just sitting there, its incredibly annoying. I didn’t know any of this shit until I started reading stories from other guys who suffer from this shit, they just dont tell you those things even if you look up the side effects, which is pretty fucked up.

To hell with hippaa, does anyone really give a shit about my enlarged prostate? I didn’t think so.

Anyway, as soon as I get the last of todays meds out of my system, it’s back to saw palmetto for me.

More interesting stuff coming soon.

Stay tuned.

Counting.

Numbers, numbers everywhere, affecting me but they don’t care,
Let us count them, so much fun,
Goin higher ’til we’re done,

Twenty-two plus Twenty-two is forty-four they say,
And forty-four can make your day,
Thirty-eight is special, when talking to the devil,
But Forty-five will blast a hole to hell,

Fifty keeps repeating himself, and it’s not his birthday,
Hundred rounds in just a minute,
Make more holes so I can breathe faster,
Make more holes so I can bleed faster,

These numbers keep getting more fucked up,
More dangerous as we get higher,
And I keep missing the gauge,
Is it twelve, is it sixteen?

Sing it to me Thom, where does it go?
Everything, in its right place,
That barrel goes in the right place
Three-fifty seven and it only goes higher,

Inside out the top of my head,
With little room for error,
Only nine millimeters or so,
Don’t miss, don’t miss.