Boogers: I Totally Saw You Do That! (Re-proofed while high Edit)

There are sensations that demand response. Itches that call for a scratch. Tightness that require a quick adjustment. The body fills the day with these impulses.

However, circumstance requires control of such pressures.

When my testicles feel like they should be shifted a bit over to the left in those tight jeans in my creative writing seminar with five other students and one very bitchy grad student instructor who hates typos, I can't very well put my hands down my denims to deftly readjust the family jewels: the girl sitting across from me is going to see me grabbing my junk.

That girl is cute and she can see me. She can see me doing that.

By the very same virtue, when homie in my econ class reaches into his right nostril with his index finger, grubs up a big green booger, and sticks it into his mouth and chews on it, I can see that. I can see you doing that, dude! I totally saw that!

After about the age of five (nine if you went to a Montesorri school) you figure out that other people have the ability to observe what you're doing. Just because you're hiding under a table and you can't see your kindergarten teacher, doesn't mean she can't see you masturbating. She sees you and she is going to have to have a very awkward conversation with mommy when she comes to pick you (me) up.

I don't care how craftily you do it. Maybe you try to play it off like you're scratching your nose. . .

BUSTED.



I understand: you wanted to reposition your nostril. You weren't going to get a big brown nugget of dried up mucus.

Dude, BUSTED. You are so BUSTED.

Don't even try to play it off all stealth and shit like you had an a little something on your filtrum you had to get, then proceed to roll it all around in your fingers and THEN throw it in your mouth.

Man, c'mon, you are not only double busted, you have insulted my intelligence. And that is something I have writ-fuckin-large.

Very intelligent.

Have you noticed it's really only guys who do this sort of thing?

I mean chicks never stoop to that and they are fucking having menstrual rot fall out their vages for days on end. I mean, really rude behavior, but you so rarely see them getting in their noses.

Listen. I understand the necessity to grab a lil' boogie. That need is medical. Dried nasal mucus and negatively affects your health. It can block the natural flow of air, leading to breathing problems, like sleep apnea, and collect disease causing bacteria within your sinus. I don't know if that's true. But it does make you feel better.

However, there is NO medical rational to put that little snot snack on your mouth. None. Do you think that one is going to taste any different from the last eight thousands you've yummied down on? Or is it going to be like the very first one you ever chomped on at the age of three? Yeah, it's going to be just like that one.

I understand that drive to pick something off your body and then stick it back in. I get that; your body has produced protein, chains of amino acids, fats, juices, that will go otherwise go to waste unless you re-ingest it. That big brown scab: if it falls off in the swimming pool, you are not going to be able to recoup the loss of the work your body did. That's a shame. You had better scrape that sucker off before it gets lost and chew it up, maintaining bodily homeostatis.

I CANNOT advocate the ingestion of every bodily product and byproduct. That morsel you just plucked from your nose? It died fighting infection in your body. White blood cells died on top of that bacterial infection and now you are sitting six feet away from me licking it down at 9:45 in the morning. I mean, do you think I'm blind? Do you think I'm a damn chimpanzee that would condone chomping on God knows what? No, I am a man. I may not be real man yet, but I am not a damn dirty ape like you.

I don't even particularly mind if the compulsion to just get in there and get it overtakes you. It has to be done. I don't even mind if you want to roll it around in your fingers and go "Jeez, look at the size of that one. . " and then wipe it under your desk for the next asshole who sits there. I take that back. I do mind. But sir, you cross that line when you go "Ahh, I am breathing so much better with that out of the way. Oh, what we have here? Hehehe! Lunch time!"

Because if you do that again, I'm going to violate my probation.

I'm not on probation.

The Way Nature Meant it: Why The Shower Is Truly Golden

If I had a Twitter my posts would be something like this:

The sink in my apartment is so low and so close to my toilet, that when I take a leak, I splash the hotness all over it.

But I do not have a Twitter; I have a literary blog and instead I am going to discuss pissing in my shower.


Civilization and the technology that it furnishes has led to many great advances: decreased infant mortality, longer and healthier lives, really fucking fast cars, houses that hypothetically warm at the flick of a switch, and bicycles.

The same tools that enable us to lead modern lives also constrain us. The cinderblock walls of my home disconnects me from the nature that existed outside. The rug in my room necessitates that I do not take a piss on it. Man can no longer relieve himself in the midst of the wild grass, for his neighbor would call to him, "Hey buddy, the fuck are you doing, stop shitting on my grass! I am calling the cops on you, you pervy fuck!"

This dissonance between the lives we led, harmonizing with the cycles of the year and the softness of the Indian Toilet Paper plant have ceased, breeding discontent, ennui and frustration.

Luckily, the modern home brings modern humanity a facsimile of the freedom we had without the restrictions of our softwood floors that would suck up a tinkle like a tampon in an elephant. And down comforters can never really be cleaned; don't piss on that. I mean, I fucking tried to clean that thing, and all that happened was that it became aromatic of mildew.

The shower-bathtub combination provides us with the amenity that returns us to our natural state. A perfectly unfettered, unleashing of body water.

One needn't even wear clothes, truly reconciled to the time before Original Sin. Indeed one would be a fool to wear clothes in the shower, unless of course Blue Moon occurrence you have puked all over yourself.

In the shower, you need not worry where the stream goes at all. Sure your arc may goatop your roommates bottle of St. Ives Apricot Facial Scrub or dear mother's loofa, but that's what the shower is for. The water will clean it off. No need to get mad at me, ma.

In there, it's just the open air, without any hands, letting it all go, without even the need for a shake off.

The technology of the tub enables the return to a purer time.

Oh, yeeeah.

I wish things were always so simple.

But the truth is the bathtub may backfire. The water does not always drain. The uncareful urinator may find himself ankle-deep in his own dross and dreck. When the landlord comes to snake the tub, he may complain. "Who the fuck has been pissing in the shower!"

At wish point, I will remind him of the inherent human right, stipulated in the lease, that his must facilitate such behaviors.

I have never had a full security deposit returned to me.

In such instances of clogging, one must act ever so quickly, making sure to get to it before it gets to you, and in the case the bather forgets that his roommates have neglected once again to remove their hairs from drain for the third time this week, he will stand amid his own stagnation.

And your roommates will come to you and say, "Max, how did our toothbrushes fall into the shower?"

And you will say, "Flossing is better for your teeth anyway."

Let no man deprive you of the euphoria of the unbounded water making the way nature meant it to be . .

An Examination of Google Analytics: A Look at the Underbelly of the Internet

Google is an amazing tool. Not only does it direct some people to my blog, it also its serves its purpose to let me see why visitors came.

Upon a thorough examination, the reasons for the stumbles are not purely wholesome nor intentional. Many people are not looking for a good laugh, but practical help. While the number one hit for my blog i thankfully "max rampage" the number two is a distressed advice inquiry: "popping pimples." Yes, a lot of middle-schoolers are desperate for advice to the point that they scroll through streams of pages to find mine hopping that I hold the key. Other practical advice inquiries include 'how to clean a butt plug' and 'how to clean human shit off your body.'





Sorry, kids, take my advice and you're fucked up 'shit' creek, which incidentally happens to be a word that sends half as many people to Max Rampage as the word 'pimple.'

The term "Phantom shit" makes my blog appear as number four on Google. 'Drunk anal ass fuck" does not summon my tales on page one, but someone with a gourmand's certainly craving for it dug deep and found my site. Google this and notice on the bottom of the search page that Google writes a note saying that they removed a listing because of a child pornography complaint.

Too bad for those middle-schoolers on all counts.

But lucky for several more people is "clean house with butt plug." I'm number one for that term, but just what is the poor soul thinking? A butt plug is not a suitable implement to sterilize the kitchen.

Perhaps this poor retentive chap fantasizes about living in an immaculate house and the joys of little anal simulation in his freetime? Actually,I think this guy wants a butt plug that will allow him to clean the house with the anal animator in place. I'm in good company when I show up on pages like this with advertisements about 'butt plug mariners' and 'an extra long butt plug."



Two hits down from Max Rampage for this topic is a site selling 'the world's most comfortable butt plug' full of testimonials swearing just how ergonomic the product is with several satisfied customers explaining they can wear it for hours on end, free to walk around with it and even "use it at the office." One would-be customer asks "Can it be worn when you're going through security at an airport?"



And I thought I was depraved just passing some gas next to my seat companion.


More interesting and less perverted inquiries include "living a private life" where my experience with unfortunate handshakes is listing number two on Google.

While "readporn," probably the result of typographical (and thinking error as the genre is called erotica; for it is never possible to read porn. The act of textual interpretation makes the reading of pornography impossible for pornography categorically leaves nothing to the imagination) makes my blog hit number five. While number one hit for this inquiry is readporn.com.





One of my personal fav's is "hellen keller's trail and errors." The trails blazed by my deaf and blind eponym would indeed lead to some mistakes. "Bluuh turhn lef' theeeare." Which is essentially what Google does to the unwitting individual who asks "what is the white clump that came out of my pimple?" and spends three minutes on my page.




I am glad I have been to serve humanity although I let down many early teens, anal enthusiasts, and perverted pornography petitioners, because for the sole gentlemen who searched for 'how to fit morning wood in toilet' I was of great service.

Though I am happy to help my fellow man, the company I feel sorriest for is my own, curious to see if I would be on page one for 'body shitting I stumbled upon upon theshithole.com, where the byline is "our shit just keeps flowing" and makes Two Girls One Cup, Two Girls One Finger, and Four Girls One Finger Painting, look like child's play. For the love of all that is holy, I am thankfully not on this page. God bless you Google, without you, how would that acne encrusted 15-year old ever find Max Rampage and how could I have ever found Esmerald the Scat Cook? Don't go to the the theshithole.com, Mom.

My First Experience in a post-Obama America (in Denmark)

After leaving the Moose just short of 5 a.m. I thought my number was finally up.

I was already a bit on edge as the hour approached. At the dive bar, a Danish twat avoided a round of good ol' drunk as fuck fisticuffs. I had asked this impertinent fucker to step outside with me a few times. He declined to test his mettle on the street. I believe that my appearance has unnerved him. It was not due to my lavish hair and glowing moon skin, but the dark bandana I wore across my lower face, concealing my identity.

"Why are you wearing that? Take that off," he said.

"No, I'm not taking it off," I said.

"Yes, take it off!"

"It's smoky in here," I said. "I wear it to filter the smoke-- "

"It's a bar; get over it!"

"Hey! You and me, we're going outside," I said.

"I don't want to go outside."

I glared at him through my favorite veiled visage. The synergetic bandana, brining together two very important influences: my support of communitarian anarchy and my virulent hatred of secondhand smoke, the kind of hatred only a pot-smoking asthmatic who has successfully quit smoking cigarettes upwards of thirteen times can feel.

After thirty minutes of this, my beddy-bye called to me. "Rampage, have you seen my car keys? Can you help me find them? and also "Come sleep, come sleep, Rampage, I miss your touch . ."

It was time to go. But not before I had my first experience in a post-Barack America in Denmark.

As I began to cross the first Seven-Eleven after Rådhuspladsen, a dark man bolted towards me, arms wildly flailing forward, and gaining speed.

"Wait, wait!" he called.

I looked around and saw no one else on the street.

Damn, this is it. This is finally it: I am getting mugged.

, Hillary!

I took a deep breath.

I am getting mugged or this man urgently needs directions at five in the morning.

I brought my bike to a slow stop, not wanting to be a Klansman. This man did not look like Mike Tyson or 50 Cent, but resembled more Apu, Jay Chandrasekhar, and Gandhi. Regardless, around these types, cautiousness before clean conscience.

As he came even closer, I realized I would be the next sucker to fall victim to the oldest trick in the game. 'Excuse me sir, where is Coral Gables Terrace?" BAM! Iron bar to the noggin and wallet gone!

"Excuse me, sir," the man said.

Veerapan: The Most Prolific (Sandalwood) Thief in the World

"Yep?" I said, bracing against my bicycle, a metal barricade between me and my foe.

"Could you, please, tell me where Nørreport Station is ?"

He pronounced the station name dreadfully, neglecting the crucial glottal stops.

"Yeah, sure, just cross the square, go left a block, turn right at the light, go for another two blocks, you can't miss it."

An immigrant. A brand-spanking-new immigrant here to take advantage of the welfare system.

Then in my finest Dansk I pronounced the name for his unlearned ears.

"Just a left, followed by a right?"

"Yeah, basically, yeah, that's right. Just pass that stoplight and hook that right."

"It's not very far away."

"A few blocks."

"It will take me only five minutes?"

"Fifteen on foot," I said.

"Oh, but I have a bicycle," he said and gestured to the bicycle splayed out on the sidewalk.

"Yeah, five minutes." I nodded.

Keeping my wits about myself, I rode home.

No doubt, that bike was stolen.

If I had to look at this ugly chick, I'd let her scratch my eyes out.

The Yearning for Fantasy Fulfillment: My Vote for McCain and Palin

During the last day many people have contacted me and have asked: "Max, how are you, friend?" And they have also asked, "Why are you voting for John McCain and Sarah Palin?"

First off, I am doing well, but need to clean my room.

Second, I feel like it is my duty to explain my vote as an influential American and political pundit.

I am a single value voter and the one thing I care about one thing more than anything else in this crucial election that will steer the course of this nation between next four to eight years to possibly forty to fifty years is abortion.

John McCain is not categorically against terminating foetuses; his running mate, American darling Sarah Palin, is.

This is also a matter of experience. Barack Obama does not have a lot of it, only a mere four years in the Senate. John McCain has more than fifty years of service in the government, some of which he serviced secretly, and yes, you can trust my sources.

McCain has so much experience, I think he is going to die in office. There is a one to four chance he is going to croak while in the White House. Look at that guy: he walks around like he has destroyed his spine from rolling at waaay too many raves, has skin cancer craters all over his face from too much time soaking up those hedonistic rays in Phuket and Ko Phangan, and has had his body subjected to Mengele-ian experimentations at the hands of the North Vietnamese.

Rest assured, he's going to kick the can way over the hill, leaving this country in the hands of one S. Palin.

She will pilot the path of this nation strongly against smishshormtions. Even our dear GW is not unequivocally against them. And who better to take the right away from a woman than a woman? Yes, you got me there, maybe a dolphin or a chimpanzee would be more apt, but neither of those are born on American soil so they are not eligible. Alas.

Right now maybe you are asking "Why? Why do you care so strongly about the right to life when you have never cared about another living, nor dead, creature in your current existence?"

Once again, the answer is simple.

I have always wanted to be a doctor, but sadly my criminal and my mental health record both make me ineligible to practice medicine. That and I am incapable of thinking scientifically. My dreams of being a doctor have been dashed by a cruel and taxing system of checks and balances, Calculus and Organic Chemistry, similar to the system of safeguards Palin will oversee when she is the Chief Commander of the Senate. And when she attains Commander in Chief, I will be able to, in the words of George W Bush be as an OB/GYN "able to practice their, their love, with women all across the country."

Accordingly, when Palin makes abortion illegal, I will be able to become a practicing doctor: Max Rampage, Back Alley Abortionist, Esq. Hopeless and un-expectant mothers-that -were-never-meant-to-be will come to me and say, "Rampage, do me up, coat hanger style" and my dreams of being a physician will come to life; it won't be fun and games anymore like finding my ferret's temperature by sticking a thermometer or Phil's toothbrush in his rectum. No, this will be real medicine, where I will administer powerful anesthesiolgy in the form of Bengay and Anbesol; use the latest equipment, wooden and plastic coat hangers; and set up a state of the art facility, a blue tarpaulin rich with the smell of zygotic discardation deep within the woods of a city park. As the economy falls to tatters with ill-informed and incompetent John McCain, I can only imagine demand for my careful and semi-sterile services will skyrocket as my prices will be rockbottom. Rest assured,ladies they'll be cheap, veeery cheap.

With great delight, I cast my vote for John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Oldies but Goodies

I posted three of my writings on my Rampage blog that were previously on Facebook for your reading enjoyment, maaan. I realized after Facebook banned me (and then subsequently reactivated my account) that I gotta diversify my blogs, ninja.

The Wonders of the Road: Experiences in Driving

Sociologists have long known that stoned drivers are safer than their sober counterparts on the road. Researchers demonstrated potheads make better drivers because their paranoia makes them more cautious and the sights of the road are so interesting to them they are forced to slow down to appreciate their surroundings, making impacts far less explosive.

The first time I drove high was just days after getting my car, a now nearly totaled '94 jeep Grand Cherokee. That introductory evening that I slowed down to enjoy the scenery I had smoked two bowls from my Dr. Vaporizer and hallucinated that I was that little green lizard from Bust-A-Move or Puzzle Bobble.

Lights appeared under my eyelids. Color coded signals dictated what kind of dance move I should perform. Standing in my kitchen, I followed those blinking dance lights and stepped wildly, minutely drooling, giggling, and thinking about what masturbating would be like later that night.

The trance ended abruptly when a foreign phone rang and told me I had to be at Sunrise Springs in ten minutes, a decent 30 miles away.

I hopped into my new chariot, Longmire in tow, and was on the highway south minutes later. I reached my cruising speed and relaxed, wondering if not being able to feel my hands would be a detriment to my reaction time.

Suddenly, other cars started to overtake me at ridiculously high speeds. I wondered where those demons could be off to and felt offended that they dare go faster than I. I revved my engine and looked to my spedometer. It displayed: 35 mph. I was in second gear in a 75 mph zone.

Panic set in as I realized I was a cooked goose. I made vulnerable pray for any vicious highway patrolman who knew not the pleasures of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and sexy mex, and knew only of sister killing stoners compelled to masturbate in the same hotel room as their parents.

I forced my foot down, but everything past the knee disappeared in an abyss of tetrahydrocannabinol. I was high. The meaning of nails are toe covers. I shot a furtive glance at Longmire, who let out a yelp, as he saw the car was actually decelerating.

"I can't go any faster!" I said.

"I know, man!" Longmire said as he firmly grasped my shoulder and pointed at the speedometer. "But you have got to try!"

I willed my leg down. The car gained momentum as the little red hand gradually climbed upward to 40 mph, then 45, then 50 mile mph. Longmire held my shoulder and gaped in compassionate disbelief as we sped up incrementally. Finally we were up to speed and I set my cruise control at 55.

"Damn, dude," he sighed. "That was a close one." I muttered that my dashboard looked like a plane's.


I remembered this experience as I was cruising down St. Mike's on Saturday on my way to a post Bat Mitzvah luncheon with the Brownsteins-Klevans. I had just smoked a personal spliff and the day looked wonderful. I passed the Smith's and the McDonald's. There was construction on the road and the guy in that old Mercedes looked like he was higher than I. The sky was without a cloud. The green of trees looked vibrant, clear.

And I remembered just what I would say to Officer Lozano when he pulled me over.

"Officer. . . Doesn't this dashboard look like it belongs on a plane, man?"