Well Hello again!

Hi friends. this space has gone unused for quite some time due to a string of bad luck, incidents and prior general lazyness Im here to apologize for that and come back and dust off the ol cob webs. Below is a fictional tale. Its serious. Definitely most serious thing Ive ever written. Dont worry. the Hillarity will ensue again. *authors note* Im typing on a computer without: t, g, ’, and "

With that being said, Im back guys. Back on your screens and soon your hearts and heads and possible anuses(ani?) Ahem, I digress. Enjoy and hopefully theres more where this came from. Or more like my star wars poop blo. People enerally enjoy poop humor more. I do.

Cheers: Will Kahn


Charlie Wade was a boxer. Charlie Wade was an inmate. Charlie Wade was, to put it bluntly, a little crazy.

Charlie Wade was a member of a small suburban town known as Goshen, New York. Everyone pretty much knows everyone else. His humble abode is a nice but small little house on West Main Street. Not your average house though, and that’s because Charlie Wade isn’t your average guy. He surrounded himself in white: White clothes, white tennis balls, white walls, and a white house. He painted his yard white. He even painted his blacktop driveway white. His life consisted of working out and going about what, to the average person, seems like everyday activities. These asinine everyday activities didn’t suppress the harsh memories floating around inside of Charlie’s mind on a daily basis, however. And every time he closed his eyes he saw the battered face of the man he brutally murdered. And he had to deal with it.

Charlie Wade grew up in the mean streets of Georgia with five brothers and sisters. The youngest of the Wade children, he was constantly chided for being the youngest and therefore, littlest. On top of the constant abuse from his siblings were the daily beatings from his father. That was of course, until he reached the ripe age of 18. Dealing with this abuse from siblings and classmates, Charlie Wade made it his mission to get the hell out of his broken household and whip himself into shape. Serious shape. He found a small place next to a gym and started lifting weights. Something was still missing though. He felt a fire inside of him that just lifting weights and working out couldn’t extinguish. That is, until he met Ken. Ken Mackel was the greatest boxing coach in Georgia and as soon as he laid eyes on the young Charlie he knew he had found his protégé, a potential heavyweight champion even. Ken took young Wade under his wing and within months he was in he ring.

For a little while, boxing extinguished the fire that burned bright inside of him. He fought, and won every fight for five years before that fateful day. He stepped in the ring against his greatest challenge yet, the best amateur fighter in the land, Alan Milloff. Alan hadn’t lost a fight either. It was Charlie Wade’s first real fight and the one that would change his life.
The fire inside young Charlie Wade burned brighter than it ever had that fateful night. He was on top of his game. Left, hook, right hook, It didn’t matter. He was landing everything with ease and by the end of the second round; Alan Miloff was staring face to face with the man that would end his undefeated streak, and eventually the man that would end his life.

The bell rang and Charlie Wade’s arm was about to be joyously hoisted in the air, a sign of victory. But that fire inside of Mr. Wade burned and raged on. He stood over the battered body of his opponent and punched, and punched and punched. His trusted friend and trainer Ken tried to stop him, as did all involved. But he wasn’t going to stop and could hear nothing except the white noise of the rage finally bubbling over inside of his head.

Alan Miloff was carried out of that arena in a body bag that night. Charlie Wade was carried out in handcuffs. He was tried and convicted of murder and spent the next 24 years of his young life in a Georgia State penitentiary.

Since that day, every time he saw red, the red of his boxing gloves, the red of the blood that he had shed and that of his rage, he went into one of his "spells". He became a bit of a recluse, stewing in his thoughts and his past. And he worked out the only thing to keep his mind off his horrendous past of being incarcerated and, quite frankly, being a murderer.

Charlie Wade went on with his life though, if you could call it that. He lifted his painted white barbells, squeezed his tennis balls (also painted white) and swept his painted white dirt until he could no longer see white. And he’d paint it again. He acquired the name "the dirt sweeper" among the townsfolk who, despite the fact they didn’t know him, passed judgment on him quite easily. Charlie Wade was alone and broken. He had no family anymore and even if he did would he want to see them? He was out of jail but he was still in his own personal hell. His own prison. Alone with his memories, his rage, his hatred for his family and father, and his demons.

Headline. Boxing match comes to Middletown fair grounds: a gala event. The town was turned upside down. It’s quite the rarity to see an event of his magnitude in a neighboring town of tiny little Goshen. The whole community was excited. Network affiliates from New York City were coming. Abuzz is the only word to describe the mood surrounding the event. Tickets sold out instantly the fight was surely going to be a sight.

There was one person who wasn’t excited His name was Charlie Wade. Even thinking about boxing brought back the visions of the chipped bone in his boxing gloves and the events of that horrifying night. And he thought of his father and how the root of his aggression that manifested that night was really the abuse he took from him.

Fight night. Charlie Wade is watching it on his black and white 12inch television set that he acquired while on a routine garbage picking excursion. Sitting by himself in his white room, white house.

Thoughts of angst and disgust creep through his brain. "Why am I doing this to myself? " He mutters in his thick southern drawl. The fight begins and, despite his better judgment he watches it from start to finish, wading in his own emotional stew. The local television station broadcasting the event signs off. White noise is that entire sill exists on the television screen. Charlie Wade looks blankly at the image of his own face staring back at him from the television set. He thinks of his father who beat him. The thinks of the man he took out that aggression on and finally killed as a direct result of his pent up anger and hatred. He takes out a picture of his father from his beaten in, old, painted white wallet and spits on it.

White noise in Charlie Wade’s head, a familiar white noise. A shotgun rings out. Charlie Wade hits the deck. Blood red mixed with stark white. Knock out.

R.I.P. Scrubs

This is a comment left on the Scrubs message board that embodies what I think of the series. I've taken creative liberties with it. I'm awesome so it's probably better than what the original post was. If you want to see who/where the original post came from just google Scrubs and go to the ABC page and read the message board and find it.

Imagine you had a friend –

a dear good friend for the last eight years. A friend who had a beer with you on your couch and told you stories; funny and sad. Again and again. Who picked you up even after your girlfriend dumped you, or distracted you from your worries, or made you and that new exciting girl you had just met giggle about his jokes. Whenever you needed, whenever you wanted, he’d been there.

Eight years. Enough time for me to go through a lot of what life has to offer. Almost eight years of studies, endless papers to write, boring hours in the class or the library or just bored on the net.

And all this time, I had this friend. A friend that only existed for a little over 20 minute periods: Scrubs IS that friend. So many enjoyable hours, so many laughs! And all those sad moments. Moments that made you cry cathartically. Moments that made you laugh hysterically. This show will hold a special place in my heart. As the show ends, my life is also in a transitional period. I’m working for MLB, I'm another year older...I still have a beer belly...you get it.

So this friend is leaving. I always knew that it couldn’t last and that he would have to eventually tell me his last story. And so the memory remains.

I thank you, Bill Lawrence, and your crew, and all the actors. Thank you for creating this friend!

I have found that with memories, not unlike photography, each phase of life seems to have its own colors. My life will definitely be Scrubs-colored and, as I will watch the show on DVD or the net, in the years to come, my memories will surge back. Memories of the time, the place and the all that was going on as each Scrubs episode resonated with at least something going on in my life at the time....And the music.

More importantly, I'll never forget that friend with the 20-23 minute life span.

Goodbye Scrubs! Take care!

Poop

That's right. It's come down to this. I'm blogging about feces. WAIT! WAIT! Don't bail on me yet. Stop believing I'm some form of intellectual and realize that I'm just a 25 year old infant and poop still facsinates me. Focus!

So anyways, I'm a bit of a drinker. For those of you who know me I've probably mentioned this several times. With that being said, if you harbor the same "taste for booze" that I'm accustomed to you'll agree with this statement...We've all been there: Picture this scenario....

You wake up in the morning smelling of booze, the minghag you drunkedly swapped spit with the night before and about 50 dollars worth of dominoes. Your bowels are brewing up something stinky. You know the train you've boarded and it can't be stopped. Throughout the day you are just waiting for updates from your anus like I personally hang on every twitter post made by Miley Cyrus. You don't know what's coming but it could be anything. Admit it, we've all been there. So on days like these I like to harken back to my "nerdity" (not actually a word but pretty awesome) and bank on the Star Wars movies in order to appropriately name and describe my bowel movements throughout the day. So, here's my take on all this dung ambiguioty...





First poop: The Phantom Menace
-You have no idea when it's coming but you do know that it will live up to it's "menace" moniker. And when it does hit, not only is the uncertainty phantom-esque, but it's usually a quick little shit. Plop plop done. It's like opening a bottle of wine but upside down, brown, and not tasty (although if consumed, it's ability to make one drunk is probablly pretty damn good. I'd say 60% alcohol by volume). It's one and done.

Second Poop: Attack of the Clones
-This one also comes by suprise but after the night described above, you know you're not getting out easy. This one lives appropriately up to it's name. It's much like the menace.

Third Poop: Revenge of the Sith
-The third poop is notoriously worse. You know you've consumed some sort of food throughout the day at this point so not only do you have whiskey, cheap beer and fast food pizza churning in your bowels, you've now added any number of shit inducing foods to the stomach. And let's face it, after a night like that, you aren't ordering anything good. The chicken ceasar salad? Fuck that! Give me 5 big taste taco's, seven layer nacho's, a 48 ounce mountain dew and a guaranteed hot shit. Here comes the Sith, And your fucked.

Fourth Poop: A New Hope
-The fourth poop can't be described as easily. It could be fierce or it could be light. Hence it's name. If it's light you think to yourself, "Maybe it's over and done with". If it's heavy and hot and you leave blood streaks on your toilet paper you think, "hey, it can't get any worse than that one." But, it's a toss up. You always hope for the best. And you always pray it's the last.

Fifth Poop: The Empire Strikes Back
-Any and all false hopes you've let hang over from the fourth poop are completely gone. You're fucked and the empire HAS struck again. If you reach this ill fated stage you're doomed to a shit that, to the non-drinker/non-hot sauce lover/anyone without a gastrointestinal disease would seem worse than any torture the USA could have given you, being a terrorist, under the Bush Administration.

Sixth Poop: Return of the Jedi
-At this point in your day all you can do is hope that good does prevail. Even if it's filled with muppets and convoluted plot lines, you're just not in a good place. It has to be the last...it just has to...right?

Good luck people.

Don't Fruit the Beer!

How come every time I walk into a beer store or my favorite local watering hole I'm constantly inundated with lime flavored beer and it’s assorted propaganda? Off the top of my head I can think of four recently released beers that tout the “flavored with lime” or “island beer” slogan. Boy, I hearken back to the day when there was ONE type of beer with lime in it. I irreverently call it “piss” (or “urine” to those of us who can’t handle mildly offensive words). Said beer is better known to the general populace as, “Corona”.


Corona is a beer brewed so ineffectively that it’s not just recommended but CUSTOMARY to infuse this beer-flavored water with a lime immediately after opening, and for sure before consuming. Now I’m not trying to put anyone down (actually I am, just not to your face) but, this trendy accomplice to “piss” beer is usually consumed by Mexicans who, probably associate the taste with their experiences in the “old country” when they actually HAD to drink THEIR OWN PEE in order to get drunk (editors note: I bet sometimes they drank other people’s pee at what was lovingly referred to as “pee parties” but I digress) and people who are too lazy to attempt procuring a good beer.


This strategy by the beer companies is either brilliant or brilliantly stupid. The theory behind Landshark, which is Budweiser’s attempt at creating a historically terrible beverage is that Dana Distributors used to own the rights to Mexican pee (Corona) but they recently lost it to Manhattan Distributors, who distribute Coors products. Dana, in order to make up for the outlandish profits they accrued through vastly overpricing Corona, created Landshark. In lieu of spending any time or money creating a new and FLAVORFUL brew and overpricing it they decided to take a vat of regular Bud Heavy (as opposed to Bud Lite) and dump lime juice in it. You may say I’m generalizing but I do have proof (generally speaking). At my local pub we decided it’d be fun to take two red cups. In one would be Landshark. In another a Bud draft flavored with limejuice. The Sunday afternoon crazy’s were more than happy to be our guinea pigs. It’s not often that they’d turn down the opportunity to scam free booze. The results were just (yea sarcasm!) what we expected. Everyone THOUGHT they could tell the difference but everyone was fuckin’ wrong.


In summation, PLEASE stop putting fruit in beer. Instead, maybe spend some time actually creating new flavors or start brewing ancient great ones. I hope this trend goes the way of Clear Pepsi but that can only happen if the suits at the Beer companies lose money on this lime-induced venture. We can all help by not buying this beer. It always starts at home.

...Now someone pass me a Guinness.

Welcome

Welcome Everyone to the new and improved PROSE AND KAHN'S!

This blog will be updated much more frequently than the old one. All of the old posts still reside over at http://imeanwhynot.blogspot.com. Also, as you can see to the right of you, there's links for the Greatest Hits and some other shnazzy jams. 

With that being said you can look forward to about 1-3 blogs per month as well as an eventual site overhaul to make it more appealing to the eye and less standard. Including the other 1-3 substantial posts, eventually I'll post small observations and stuff. 

It feels good to be back people!