Skateboard Punk YOLO Teens

I’ve had it with skateboard punk yolo teens. Sure, they seem pretty harmless and adorable, but they are a menace. Up and down my neighborhood and in the park, they “street-ride” their “street-boards” and do moves called “street kick-lifts” or “180 degree street-spins.” I’ve had enough.  They have finally caused me to take action — and that action is documenting some of the altercations I have had with these hooligans.

I’ll never forget this day. This was one of my first interactions with these rapscallions. I would not have been as upset if it weren’t for the Spaghetti-O spillage. UNCALLED FOR.

Again with the crotch. Why do they always aim for my precious crotch?  Also, I gave them the benefit of the doubt because they were freestyle rap battle singing and they were outside of my favorite restaurant, PF Chang’s.  As far as my rap-singing skills? I assure you they are, and were, top-notch. Perhaps these skateboard punk yolo teens were intimated by my “flow.”  And then this happened:

And this:

Hurt me, but don’t mess with my spice garden.  These were the first times I was called “Ratchet,” but they certainly were not the last. To this day, I still do not know what the word means.

They were not confrontational, but this was just bizarre.  Junk in my trunk?  I don’t get it.  I’ll admit, at first I was confused as to what kind of b-holes would torment me like this, but I let it go.  I got over it.  At times, I even tried to relate to them:

Things heated up a bit after this incident.  People aren’t supposed to spit in another person’s face.  I was trying to actually be supportive, but that proved futile.  Then these instances happened, often when I began going to the park for my various activities:

See what I mean?  At times they seemed to be rather harmless, but other times seemed to have a blood-lust for me. Or a urine-lust.  On a couple occasions, I tried to match them through the art of #swag:

I was so proud of myself for standing my ground and, through the timeless art of swag, back them off.  These moments were few and far between.  I was pretty sure they were on pot most of the time:

Most of the time, these skateboard punk teens were JUST PLAIN MEAN.  They seemed to have no problem taking my possessions or ruining them time and time again:

I hated being a “snitch” or “bitch ass” as many of them called me, but I had to inform the police at some point:

And then I was able to get away with a few small victories or, at the very least, outsmart the ruffians:

The joke WAS on them. The joke was all over them. The joke was practically IN them.  In retrospect, this may have angered the bitter punks to the point of no return.

I can’t explain this one.  I think I may have ingested one too many meditation peyote buttons and had a fever dream.

In fairness, these skateboard punk yolo teens have made me a local celebrity, especially at the park.  No lie, I’ve been able to pick up a few chicks because of their antics.  Numerous slacks have been ruined.  My genitals have been badly bruised.  I have cried enough tears to fill the fountain at the park one-third of the way.  And yet, reminiscing about these skateboard punk yolo teens has somehow endeared them to me.

I think I’ll grab my harmonica and head on over to the park. Fingers crossed!

A Letter to My Ex

A Letter to My Ex

Dearest Tammy Jr,

So I came home from a long day of work at the fanny-pack factory to a pretty empty house.  All of your stuff is gone.  Even the expensive video game system I bought you for your birthday last year.  As I’m writing this, I’m still in a state of shock.  I mean, I thought maybe you were kidnapped, but I haven’t heard anything about paying a ransom or contacting the kidnapper about a ransom or any other stuff I saw in that Mel Gibson movie “Ransom.”  Also, I noticed that you logged in to several social media sites recently and talked about how you’re “happy to be out of a toxic relationship.”  You also mentioned how you’re “definitely not kidnapped.”  So I guess that’s it.  I guess you broke up with me.

This comes as quite a shock to me, especially since I thought we would be together forever.  Ever since the day we met at that yard sale, trying to buy the same vintage “Exercycle,” we have been inseparable.  Except for when we would break up for weeks at a time.  We were definitely “separable” then.  I should have seen this coming, I guess.  I should have known something was up when I found that cobra in my drawer the other day.  I thought maybe it slithered out of the toilet, opened my chest of drawers with its snake-like nose and nestled among my underpants, socks, and adult magazines.  Now I’m starting to suspect foul play.

Why don’t you want to be with me?  Is it because I always open the bag inside of the cereal box all weird?  Is it because I lock myself in the bathroom for hours after you beat me at Chinese checkers?  Is it the face I make when I eat buffalo wings or make love?  I’m searching for answers here. Is it because I always smell like hot dogs?  Or is it because I often pass wind when we do sex?  That only happened a few dozen times, Tammy Jr.  Please don’t do this to me.

I’m not going to beg you, but let me remind you that you’ll never get a whiff of these thighs again.  Let that sink in.  You think you’ll be better without me? Fine, but good luck finding someone with shoulders as hairy as mine.  Okay, maybe you will find someone with very hairy shoulders, but will he also be a complete coward like I am?  Yeah, right.  Hey, remember that time we got mugged while on vacation in Detroit and I pushed you towards the mugger and ran away?  Well, I don’t know how many times I need to apologize to you for that.  I was wrong, but I guess it’s too late for apologies.

I’m not trying to guilt trip you here, but I’m going to go sit on the washing machine and eat macaroni & cheese…with a boot…off of a Bart Simpson dartboard.  Or maybe I’ll watch “The Notebook” and take a long bath like you used to do.  Earlier, I tried to see if you were at our favorite restaurant, but I had to leave because I was getting tears in my burrito.  This is what you’ve done to me.  I hope you’re happy with yourself.

I want my pajama pants back, Tammy Jr.  And, by the way, you will NEVER have eyebrows as luxurious as Dave Navarro, no matter how much you wish you did.  I’m sorry, that was mean.

I love you.



P.S. Please erase all of the “sexual texts” and “penis photos” that I shared with you.  I do not want those to get out into the public.  Not that I’m embarrassed, I just don’t want to make anyone jealous.

One Step Ahead

Not to brag, but I always knew it wasn’t butter.  I had this deep belief that it was not butter.  That’s just the kind of guy I am, I guess.  When I was told to “Just Do It,” the joke was on them — I already was doing it.  I had been “just doing it” for years.  I knew what every kiss began with.  I never needed to be told that.  I knew that she was born with “it” — well, maybe she was.

I was obeying my thirst before I heard I was supposed to.  I’m the kind of guy who innately knows to obey thirst.  I knew when it came to picker-uppers, which one was the “quicker” of the bunch.  I knew it was made for a woman, even though it was strong enough for me, a man.  That’s just how these things work.  Sure, sometimes I felt like a nut, but sometimes I most certainly did not.  I lived in the moment.  I never bet that I couldn’t eat just one.  I knew the horrible odds of placing this bet.  I knew what the best part of waking up was without being told.  I’ve “thought” outside of numerous “buns.”

I won’t even tell you what I did for that damn bar, but it was never about the bar!  Not to gloat, but I always knew I was in good hands and I knew it would keep going and going and going.  And while it did melt in my mouth quite often, it did, in fact, also melt in my hands.  And I never, EVER, left home without it.  No one needed to tell me.  I am the best a man can get.  Because I’m worth it.  Like a rock.

Honestly, I always knew where the beef was.  It was right here all along.

The Mouse-ghoul

The Mouse-ghoul

Beware the coming of the Mouse-ghoul.  He stabs at your soul with each passing minute; questioning your motives – for he knows how much you love cheese.  The Mouse-ghoul knows how much you yearn for the cheese, thinking about it many, many times per week.  Never let the Mouse-ghoul’s knowledge of your cheese-love take you off course.  Steady your senses, especially your sense of taste.  Cheese loves to be tasted.  That’s the problem.  And the Mouse-ghoul knows this.  The Mouse-ghoul knows you love to taste cheese.

Beware the Mouse-ghoul’s passionate embrace, deep within your mind’s girth. He hugs your insatiable desire for a variety of cheeses and never lets go.  The Mouse-ghoul’s touch turns heroes to mere coward assholes.  It turns the most ruthless warlord into nothing more than my Uncle Scott.  He wants you to succumb to your love of the cheese.  Do not underestimate the Mouse-ghoul’s prowess for making you want to eat cheese.  Beware, I say unto ye.

Beware the lure of the Mouse-ghoul’s body, especially his weird nipples.  They look like they’re tired and not symmetrical at all.  Do not gaze into them, for the Mouse-ghoul will surely sense it and all will be lost.  Do not chuckle at how ridiculous the Mouse-ghoul’s nipples appear, for they hold secret wisdom…secret wisdom of the cheese.

Beware the screech of the Mouse-ghoul.  Do not be enchanted by his song. It will only strengthen the Mouse-ghoul’s hold over your need for a bunch of cheese.  Do not let the Mouse-ghoul slow-dance with your mind’s brain.  Do not let it get real romantic-like, tickling your eardrums with the sweet tune of cheese-promises.  Do not let the Mouse-ghoul try to touch your mind’s brain’s butt.  Beware the Mouse-ghoul’s grope, for deep in the forest of your mind he skips, bounding from cheese-thought to cheese-thought, his Mouse-ghoul toes pointed with cockiness, much like his nipples.

Beware the coming of the Mouse-ghoul.

Seminar Idea — SKYROCKET

Sky Rocket



    I am planning a self-help seminar thoughtfully entitled “Sky Rocket: Propelling the New You to New Heights.” I’ll be releasing tour dates as soon as a few minor details have been ironed out. Mainly, who will fund this project and where the seminars will be located.


    In the meantime, here are a few tidbits, or, as I like to call them, “Important Life Lesson Bits” that you can expect to learn at my seminar, as well as some assorted wisdom that will help you to “skyrocket” to the you that you have always been trying to be. Confusing? So was “The Da Vinci Code,” and everybody hopped on that bandwagon’s dick faster than you can say “Short chapters make me feel smarter.” So shut up, sit back, and enjoy the ride — the ride to Inner Peace Town and Personal Freedomville.


First stop: Baltimore. Just kidding, that would be awful.


SKYROCKET SEMINAR EXAMPLE TIP #1: You are as good as you’ll ever be.

    This may sound confusing, but it isn’t. You are just dumber than you think. What I mean by “You are as good as you’ll ever be” is that you shouldn’t stress yourself out over whether or not you can achieve more than you currently are. Trust me, you can’t. If you could, you wouldn’t be interested in this seminar. You need me to show you how to use your limited talents to your advantage. Yeah, it’s tough love, but love that isn’t tough is soft. And soft love is for pussies.

SKYROCKET SEMINAR EXAMPLE TIP #2: Never listen to your first instinct.

    Look where trusting yourself has gotten you. Mediocrity – Population: YOU. You are reading example tips from a seminar that is not even a thing yet. You need help. My help. And fast. Trust, instead, MY instincts. They are honed after years of experience dealing with this kind of shit. I’ll bet you’re thinking that it is unprofessional to curse in an advertisement for my seminar. There you go again, listening to your inner voice. STOP THAT. Listen to my inner voice, which is saying “Quiet down, peasant. An intelligent person’s inner voice is speaking right now.”

SKYROCKET SEMINAR EXAMPLE TIP #3: Do unto others as they do to you.

    This may be counterintuitive, but it is an important secret to my success. If you do unto others as you would “have them” do unto you, you are merely setting yourself up to be stepped on, like a doormat. Instead, I will teach you how to cover new ground, like a doormat. In a fantasy world, I would “have others” give me money upon meeting them, but does that mean I should give them my money when I meet them? Fuck no. That would be a ridiculous and expensive mantra. Instead, if someone hurts your feelings, you should get revenge. People can’t go around treating you any old way they want. My seminar will show you exactly how to stand up for yourself…even when you are sitting down. Where else can you learn that?

Please don’t answer that.

Feel free to contact me if you are interested in my seminar, especially if you are interested in financing it. Remember: You can do anything I put your mind to. You need me. You need my help. And I can give you my help…for a small fee. With your new found sense of self, you will be able to achieve things you never thought possible. Or maybe you did think it was possible, but were too lazy and stupid to take the first step. I can help you take that first step.


 SKYROCKET: Propelling the New You to New Heights! — A Dan K. Charnley Seminar


dumpster nap: part one

imageI woke up in a dumpster this morning.  And I know EXACTLY how I got there.  I got there by choice, not by coincidence – because that would be weird.  No, I ended up in a dumpster by sheer rational judgment on my part.  I’d like to say I was reenacting the alley scene from “The Never-ending Story” and I was really committing to it, but that would be a lie.  And I only lie in my journal…to myself.

 In actuality, I was running from potential muggers and decided to “lay low” in a dumpster for awhile and wait it out.  I’ll never know if the “muggers” were actual muggers or just run-of-the-mill punks looking to scare me for personal gain and/or street cred.  That’s short for “credibility” if you didn’t know, which I didn’t know until my research on street cred – consisting of watching the poignant Jay-Z film “Streets Is Watching.”

So there I am in that dumpster, hyperventilating in terror…I mean courage! I was hyperventilating in courage!  See, the thing is – I don’t know my own strength, so I was really doing these hooligans a favor by taking a quick siesta on top of some garbage.

 Who knows what may have happened if they were, in fact, “muggers” planning to “mug” me?  I’ll tell you who knows what would have happened. Me.  I know. Now I’m not going to bore you with what I would have done to them if confronted, but needless to say, I would have kicked their fucking asses…literally. The tailbone is a very sensitive area and incredibly painful if kicked just right, which I would have done.

Back to the dumpster nap…

Now, I didn’t just fall asleep immediately in there, as I was still trembling with bravery.  I guess a combination of several dangerous dumpster fumes actually caused me to “pass out.” This, coupled with the fact that I had recently eaten a plate of delicious ribs put me in a state of euphoria and I gently eased into a coma-like slumber.  Strangely enough, I awoke this morning feeling fresher than usual…just like that trash, or that so-called “Prince” of Bel-Air.


If, by chance or pure luck, you have never woken up in a dumpster before, let me assure you of this: It is not as bad as it sounds.  First off, trash is incredibly comfortable to sleep on.  I have never had a more relaxing snooze than on top of a pile of people’s used and discarded items.  Perhaps it’s the squishiness of the banana peels under my feet, or the firm massage of a computer monitor under my spine.  One thing is for sure: It’s better than the pull-out sofa bed at my mom’s house.  That thing is the pits…

Part 2 Coming Soon!


false modesty

N. The act of pretending to have a low opinion of oneself and one’s abilities or achievements in order to appear humble, whilst still boasting.

Do you know what’s more annoying than self-centered egomaniacs talking about how great they are? The same douche bag pretending that he doesn’t think he’s great. And I am that douche bag. See, when you can’t just boldly brag about yourself or something that you did, you need to find a way to make sure others know how cool and successful you are without seeming like you are showing off.

My advice? Pretend like your accomplishments are not a big deal (which they totally are). Only highly intelligent people will be able to tell what you are doing, but let’s get serious: Highly intelligent people probably don’t hang around you. My guess is that they are intimated by you and your successes. You don’t need these brainiacs around anyway, dragging you down to their level.

The best method for displaying false modesty is to cleverly bring up an achievement, then later belittle it. Not only will you look incredibly awesome for the part you were bragging about, but you will look even more successful for appearing like said achievement is not a big deal (which it totally is).


YOU: That hot chick over there just handed me her phone number, and I didn’t even ask.

YOUR LOSER FRIEND: That is totally fucking cool! It’s no wonder I want to hang around you all of the time.

YOU: No big deal. I mean, I don’t even think I’m that attractive. Maybe it’s my new cologne. It costs $250 a bottle.

Y.L.F.: I could never afford such expensive cologne. Man, you are successful.

YOU: Naaaaa. I’m just a regular guy. It’s just me being me, ya know?

Y.L.F.: Wow. You are also very humble.

And that’s how it usually goes, at least in my circles. The only thing to be careful about is appearing too humble. Then some of your jealous friends may think that they can accomplish what you have accomplished. This is a ridiculous notion, of course. If given the opportunity, urinate on this person in his/her sleep, to show your dominance. If possible, record this act and threaten to put it on YouTube unless your friend “tones it down.” This works nearly every time.


clip_image002I don’t care for Sporks much.  Never have.  NEVER WILL.  Although I am only guessing that I never will…perhaps I will…one day.  But not on this day, what some scientists might call “today.” Maybe on a different day, possibly tomorrow, I will care about Sporks.


Now let me reiterate, I find Sporks off-putting and an overrated means of transporting food to one’s mouth.   And do you know what that means?


No?!?  Well, I do!  I know exactly what that means.  And that’s all that matters…especially to me…


…if you really stop and think about it.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.


But while you’re stopped, “thinking” about “it,” and you happen to see a hotdog truck, get me a hotdog or two…AND THEN I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT I MEAN WHEN IT COMES TO SPORKS, when you get back from picking up a couple of delicious hotdogs. 


Side note: My apologies for the use of all capital letters there.  My caps lock was mistakenly held down during that one sentence a couple sentences back…hahaha…what an amusing mishap! I guess I’m just too lazy to go back and change that ALL CAPS sentence to a properly capitalized sentence, even though I’m willing to type this new sentence out…  STUPID SPORKS!  Go figure!


In many ways (two to be exact), Sporks are like koala bears.  They are cute indeed, but possibly incredibly deadly!


VERY INCREDIBLY DEADLY.  AND they are not that cute either, if you ask me.  Or even if you ask someone else to ask me…I will tell that person to tell you the same thing.  Like I was saying, after I said koala bears are cute, koala bears are ugly.  And so are Sporks. 


Ugly on the inside.  Got that, tough guy?  And it’s this Spork self-absorption that really tans my hide.  It’s also the self-tanner. But I rarely use it on my hide. For that, I use specially formulated hide gel.


By the way, twice I was molested by a Spork while I was applying my hide gel. I probably should have mentioned that earlier, before I said all that other stuff.