Damnit Derek, I'm a coal miner, not a professional film or television actor.

D-Rock approached me earlier in the week with a demand. He frequently makes demands of people, since he lacks what most people consider to be the basic social graces. He informed me that his birthday is saturday (tomorrow). Naturally I assumed he was begging for gifts. But what he wanted was for my blog post on friday (today) to be about him. Narcissistic, I know.

Initially I was going to write about his mom. But I figured we all know about his overweight, promiscuous mother and I wouldn't want to belabor the point. If you're unfamiliar with the "lovely" Mama Rock, just go down to Miracle Mile pretty much any time of day. I can't really describe her, but you'll know her when you see her. At least that's what Potter Stewart said.

So I guess I have to talk about the "man" himself. What can I say about D-Rock that hasn't already been said in various police reports (mostly indecent exposure and loitering around middle schools, if you're curious). I suppose I'll start with a picture:

Please try to stifle your laughter long enough to finish reading. Here's the quick and dirty background. D-Rock was born in the bed of a Chevy S10 stuck in a ditch sometime in 1983. He was born the same way he'd spend most of his life: unwanted, unloved and unnoticed. Seriously. His mom was way to high to tell she gave birth. He spent the first twelve years of his life taking care of himself: scrounging through garbage cans for cheese stuck to pizza boxes and crusts of bread loaves. Around the age of 12 he strangled a well-to-do young man named Rockington Worchester Smythe and stole his life. By this route, he was able to get into high school.

D-Rock's "education," if you can call it that, is a testament to the joke that we call public schooling. He passed his classes by selling home made meth to most of his teachers and sleeping with the others. Most of the ones he slept with were creepy old men. None of the other students liked him - a trend which would continue throughout his life. He was a champion varsity wrestler, only because his poor hygiene caused the other wrestlers to concede so they wouldn't have to touch him. He was also on the debate team, where he excelled at screaming profanities and throwing straplers at his opponents. He also loved pottery.

When senior year rolled around, the school didn't want to give him a diploma. They figured he was actually dumber now than when he entered. But stronger than their respect for a quality education was their hatred of D-Rock. They graduated him only so he would stop hanging around the school. Ironically, he spent the next 2 years wandering the campus asking for money. As a desparate measure, the administrators submitted an application for him to the University of Arizona. They wrote glowing letters of reference in an attempt to get their lives back. He wasn't going to get in, but let me say that a crazy meth-addicted wrestler strapped with dynamite has a way of convincing anybody to see his way.

At the UA, he majored in communication. He was famous for going to frat parties and screaming, "Hey Frat Boys, I'm ready for you" or "I'm so drunk, I don't know if I could resist any frat boys who come after me." He was also a groupy for the Extreme Frisbee team, much to their chagrin. Through a series of lies and manipulations, D-rock eventually became an RA. His hall was one of the most well behaved, so his hall director loved him. The reason for the good behavior? Nobody wanted to leave their rooms for fear of running into him. Most of his residents claim to have "an unofficial major in awkward conversation with a minor in breath holding to avoid stink." He constantly offered them drugs and alcohol, but he murdered the one student who acceptedhis offer.

Somehow, he graduated. By "somehow" I mean "by kidnapping Peter Likins' family." After graduation, he married a woman named Jackie. I'm not going to describe her in detail, but I'll say she married him to win a bet. She stayed with him because he's a master of hypnosis. They live in an apartment with their 832 cats. He counts and re-names them every night. The apartment is the definition of filth and squalor. The government would quarantine the place, but most agents are too afraid. And the Haz-Mat suits melt as soon as they get within 50 ft of the place.

At some point, D-Rock decided to enter medical school. When asked why, he said, "I want to touch the girlies." Gross. On his application, he claimed to have cured polio and that his farts were a vasodilator. During his interviews, he cried in the admissions office for 4 straight hours. They let him in, figuring they could deal with him later. And this is where I met him.

If I had to describe D-Rock in one word it would be "vomitrocious." He's honestly the most disgusting human being on the planet. You can't tell from the picture, but his facial hair is enough to make a nun cry. It's this nappy, patchy black mess that is oly good because it serves to obscure his already gnarled face. Imagine a black cat that ran through a fire so that half of its hair burned off in random patches. But it has to be a grease fire, because D-Rock is greasier than Darrel Curtis. I always imagine his fleas and lice using his face as a Slip n' Slide. I can't look directly at it without feeling queasy. I have to look at the rat's nest he calls hair so I only get a peripheral blast of his "beard."

Beyond his obvious physcial nastiness you can find his horrendous behavior. It all started when I watched him eat an oreo. I'm getting the jibblies just thinking about it. He twisted it in half and licked the cream center like a 90 year old man licking his mother. Watching that filthy tongue of his..oh god...I just threw up. And he makes this disgusting smacking noise when he eats. Shiver. It probably comes as a result of him eating with his mouth open (again, no basic social graces). It's like watching a diseased cow eat peanut butter.

It got even worse yesterday. Somebody brought in bagels with cream cheese. D-Rock loves him the cream cheese. I had to sit there and watch him jam his big, gross sausage finger into the cream cheese and scoop out a blob the size of a large mouse. He crammed the goo into his maw and the smacking began. It was one of the worst things I've ever seen, and I had to disect a human. So there he was, smacking away with a mouth full of white ooze. Like mother like son, I suppose. I never wanted to gouge out my eyes and rip off my ears so bad in my life. The best analogy I can come up with is a bulldog getting into a jar of mayonnaise. That almost begins to describe how gross it was.

So, that's D-Rock. Unwanted and disgusting. But he makes a good joke every once in a while. And helaughs at mine, so i keep him around. Toss him a dog treat every once in a while. But if I ever see him eat something white and creamy again, I swear he's dead.

Happy Birthday, D-Rock!