Naked Eric

Naked Eric


Naked Eric. The story. The misused period. The use of the word “the”.

This is a blank page.  If you take away all of the words, it really looks blank.  I only say this because I feel guilty about wasting paper scribbling scrabbles on it.  I want to tell you about this page and its purpose.  The cool part about this goal is that it truly has no purpose.  I only seek to drizzle some smiles over this world that has come to resemble a poop crepe.  If I had a band or a clothing line I would call it “poop crepe”.  ::sidenote – my dog just farted and it smells really bad.  Poor dog.  Where’s my lighter?::  Poop crepe because (insert end of sentence here).

Naked Eric is me, just me.  It’s the name my parents gave me when they made me.  Naked is being used in a way that implies lacking shrouds of any type.  Your shroud is the pretty face genetics ripped into your flesh.  Mine disappeared the day I almost died in a car accident in New Jersey.  I couldn’t find it so I run naked like a retard child through this semi-adult life without the ability, capacity, or desire to hide truth from others and, in turn, the world itself.  Hence, “Naked Eric”.  I like diddling by myself with words and hummy tunes.  I think that it must be fun to be  writer.  Professionally it must be so very, oh so very super-duper!  I would like people to get a kick or a nut scrump from what I think about enough to drive several fingers into the requisite keys representing its component letters in order to make it appear on my screen until I CLICK “submit” and the thought went from my noggin to your noggin via several strange steps that merit better description than a wretched run-on sentence and words like wretched and redundancy and self loathing and verbal Fibonnaci sequencing and big words used just to sound smart, not to convey anything valuable or meritorious to be absorbed by the text block as a whole and munched by your comprehension.  The joy (or “yoy” in Espanish) of writing is that i can push a button with a letter on it and it pops up on my screen.  I just keep doing that.  It’s my only tip for aspiring writers.  Aspire, teddy.  It is a silly oopsie nomenclature when we find ourselves engaged in the same wondertastic convo in New York City with the proximate yuppie actor wannabe.  The yup says he is an aspiring actor.  It is not okay to call yourself a verb.  I think many people are aspiring.  Imagine:  Hey, I’m an aspiring Administrative Assistant.  She want to move up in the company, so in that case I guess it is more like an adjective.  Are YOU like an adjective?  See, one truly can’t say that they’re an aspiring anything.  I believe this because there is no contrasting voice.  Is there a non-aspiring actor?  Okay, one who “makes it” is a professional actor.  Others below them are amateur or “aspiring”.  Wait!  There it is.  Say you’re an amateur actor.  I fixed your problem with verbage you punk lily  so keep aspiring.  I have an amateur blog to desecrate!

I am in love with your pets and home they come over to visit.  I live in Jersey.  I am Eric.  This is my Naked Blog….


Fat People Shouldn’t Be Cops

How do they let this happen?

Thank you for the friendly emails.  I think that I agree with those who say that baseball should be more of a viscous sport.  So what if your arm hurts?  Fire the ball from a gun and save the arms.  Rev it up to 150 mph and give the batters tennis rackets.  What’s up with that word?  Raquet?  Rakkket?  Racquet? Fuck guys in suits…  I owe it to the female football reporters to say Double u Teee Efff.  Que The Fucqe?

How do you OWN a baseball team?  Imagine that.  If you happen to own a team, please write and we’ll do an interview on NE.  NE mean Naked Eric by the way, Chris.   I took the Metamucil and no it wasn’t funny.  Or funnie.  You’re a dique!

WOW the Red Sox just won the Al Pennant!  Quick, whip out your cell phone and unplug yourself from living the moment!  What is wrong with these people?  Snap a picture, send a text message, Crackberry a message to someone.  Doesn’t anyone fucking REMEMBER anything anymore?  By the way, take a walk.  Leave the phone at home.  Take a walk.  Remember the sky?  When was the last time you really looked at it an admired the clouds?  A storm?  I mean it.  I bet a lot of these future tumor-ridden cell phone addicts truly don’t gaze at the sky, a tree, fresh snow on a lawn.  I bet they have some important calls to make.  Geez, how did humans ever exist for so long without giving our elementary school children radioactive phones “just in case”.  Yeah, just in case my ass ends up your uncle.  Man, I’m telling you, fat people shouldn’t be cops.

I love toast and tits,