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 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Turning from the Dark Side ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** < This is where I'll insert a cool new blog description. Someday. > |
| Having just posted the following in a group forum, I figured I may as well copy and paste it here for a real July 4th recap. My fiancee and I went to my parents' house for the obligatory July 4th cookout. It rained cats and dogs all day, so I sat in the house watching a Revolutionary War documentary on the Military Channel. I have a weird love-hate relationship with historical documentaries. This being no different, I was fascinated all while I watched it, and then spent the evening realizing how I had wasted my entire afternoon. Refusing to let the weather ruin my patriotic fervor, I did what any red-blooded American male would do: I had a water gun fight. It's amazing how people will still try to dodge the stream of water blasting from a $30 Super Soaker while rain drenches them from above. Five of us reveled in water gun warfare, but my sister and her friend (who are both 20) refused to partake and insisted we not spray them. Then, while it was still pouring and the clouds were beckoning for Noah to build his ark, the two of them came outside to play volleyball. Apparently a drenching via rain is vastly different than via a squirt gun. Needless to say we assaulted them with watery doom. They were spoiled sports. My fiancee Jodi shot my sister's friend in the face and made her cry. She called Jodi a "bleeping beep." I wiped aside a tear of joy and thanked God for bringing this amazing woman into my life. We all high fived and whooped it up as my sister and her friend ran back into the house. I suppose it was something like the New England minutemen ambushing the British redcoats on some rarely traveled backroad and driving them back across the Pond. Minus the water, the blubbering, and of course my oozing machismo. Then my brother and his fiancee came over to our place and played Nintendo Wii. That was pretty much my day. Sadly, fireworks played no part in it. |
| I've been browsing lots of blogs today, which is a pretty typical day for me. Not surprisingly everyone is writing about the Fourth of July. It seems to be everyone's opportunity to be political and/or patriotic. Some use it as an opportunity to complain about the ineptitude of our current leaders, and others use it as an opportunity to proclaim their devotion and respect for the country. Frankly, I don't see why we, they, or whoever couldn't write about that on any day. Is this the lone day of the year that we're supposed to give a damn? On the day we're supposed to be celebrating or remembering (or whatever) a particular historical event, why turn that into a debate of current affairs? Well, frankly all that political stuff is boring, regardless of its point of view. Yes, I'm a political animal too, but I also know that writing about it doesn't accomplish anything. I'm not going to change anyone's opinions, I'm not going to influence our "elected" officials, and I'm not going to inspire change in my fellow Americans. All I have that really accomplishes anything is my vote, and that amounts to exactly nothing. That's why "elected" is in quotes; choosing one guy from a group of rich, boring, ex-lawyers or throwing your vote away on some third party isn't an election, it's a choice of lesser evils. So I don't get into that whole political July 4th debate. I spent the day watching a Revolutionary War documentary on the Military channel. That is what July 4th is about: a bunch of rich colonial guys that got sick of being told what to do so they decided to form their own nation and secure their own political power. It's also about a new world of oppressed citizens who had enough gumption and determination to put their lives at stake and forge a new nation. On July 4, 1776 we were a fledgling nation, and today we are an established superpower. I don't see any point in trying to compare apples to oranges. |
I had a craving for a Long Island Iced Tea tonight. So equipped with Michael Wonch  's recipe for the perfect Long Island, Jodi and I walked across the street to the liquor store. Fortunately we live right across the street from Dunkin' Donuts, a pizza joint, and a package store. It's about as close to utopia as you can get.Mike will no doubt be ashamed of me when I run through our purchases. For starters I bought the cheap store brand gin. It was clear, as he insisted, so I figured it was good enough. Plus I'm a cheap son of a bitch. He also told me to get Malibu rum. That came in two flavors: coconut and banana. I can't stand either so I got a standard bottle of Barcadi. At least I didn't opt for the spiced Captain Morgan variety, but being that I'm a bona fide pirate I already a cupboard full of that anyway. Next I did follow his recommendation of Absolut Citron vodka. I hated spending that much, but I figured I had to get at least something right. Especially considering I ignored his suggestion of orange slices and just got Triple Sec. I didn't feel like going to the supermarket too. Finally, he insisted on white tequila, not gold. Do you have any idea how much white tequila costs? 100% agave isn't worth $50 for a half liter no matter how good it is. Hell, if I have buy that I'll just crack open a bottle of Twisted Tea. So sorry, Mike, but I had to get the ol' standby Jose Cuervo Gold. Finally I grabbed a pre-mixed jug of Chilli's Long Island Ice Tea. Since I'm inherently lazy, I figured a pre-made drink was worth a shot. It's a good thing I did too because when we got home I found only enough ice for one experiment. So currently I'm downing the pre-made crap while some more water freezes. It tastes like shit compared to a fresh-made Long Island, but I'm shockingly finding myself buzzed after only one glass. That never happens. Hell, I drank 8 strong margaritas at New Years and didn't feel a damn thing. Maybe I was supposed to dilute it with something. I guess I should have read the bottle first. This is only the second time I've ever been buzzed, and once again I hate it. I don't like this blurred monitor vision and swirling room bullshit. I also don't like that it takes me three attempts to spit out a coherent sentence for Jodi. In this state I don't even know if I'll try the real Long Island when some more ice freezes. Being mildly intoxicated isn't fun, it's just freakin' weird. There, that's my blog entry. It sucks I know, but I only wrote it while buzzed so I can read it later and see how stupid I was at the time. Maybe it will teach me a lesson. Alcohol is bad news, kids. |
| I gave my notice on Wednesday. A generous three and a half weeks worth actually. I know they can never replace me, but at least three weeks give them plenty of time to pay homage to my greatness. I thought my supervisor was going to cry. Literally. He claims he's stressed over losing my knowledge, skills, and experience, but personally I think he knows the walking undead will strike again as soon as I vacate the building. My presence was the only thing keeping them in check. There's a first time for everything though, so I could be wrong. Part of me wants to set up a hidden webcam so I can watch daily as my analyst counterpart crashes and burns. He gets on my nerves now and again, more so since he discovered he actually has to work. When presented with an actual task to do, he acts like it impugns on his cutting-edge COBOL skills. (That would have been really funny if any of you were tech geeks.) As I try to instruct him in the plethora of things I do every day--things he should have also been doing since November 2005--he tells me in no uncertain terms that someone else can do it and he's not going to. He claims I've been coddling people. I wonder if he includes himself in that claim. A thought just occurred to me. What if people at work read this blog? They know I met Jodi via some "online writing site," but they don't know which one. I suppose they could have found me though. My sister's gay ex-boyfriend found this blog just by Googling my name. (And yes, Joe, you're gay, queerer than a three dollar bill actually, no matter what you claim. Constantly groping my ass and going on dates with guys is what tipped me off. Frankly I don't care what your sexual orientation is, but keep your hands off me.) Anyway, yes, coworkers could have found me. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time I hurt people's feelings. Wow, I'm rambling. Basically I have nothing to really write about, and I'm just trying to kill an hour of work so I can call it a week. Only three more weeks of this, folks. Then, starting July 16th, I'll presumably be so busy writing code (whilst sweating and scratching my testicles in the comfort of my own home) that I won't endure any of these mind-numbingly boring moments. That probably means you folks won't see me as much online during the day. It should make for some interesting blog entries on occasion though. |
No interesting anecdotes or guffaw-inducing entries out of me today. Just a little insight into my life the past few days. That in itself would likely be boring, so I'll throw in some made up details, and you guys can try to guess which are the following are true or false.  Last night our Little League season drew to a close. And so too did my coaching career. I'm finally hanging it up. I might help out with the all-star tournament team, but that's sort of an afterthought. I look at last night as the end of an era, and frankly I could not have picked a better way to end my eleventh and final year of coaching. We whooped up on our opponents with astonishing offense. We hit three over the fence homeruns in the game, including back-to-back solo homers in the first inning, a feat I had never seen in my eleven years of coaching. The same two kids, neither of which had hit a homerun all season, later hit the fence in the air with two more shots and one hit a ground rule double in another at bat. Between the two of them they combined for 9 hits, all but two being extra base hits, and they came literally inches from combining for 5 homeruns. Yet those two guys were just a fraction of our offense. It reminded me of our heydey when we won four straight championships with a record of 52-4, including the undefeated juggernaut of 2000 that likely would have won every game even if we played 100 games. And like those teams, last night was also a championship clinching game. With a record 12-2 we've taken down our 5th championship in 8 years. We also took two second place finishes in that same 8 year span and finished with a losing record only once. For a decade we were the flagship of the league, and it's only fitting that we retire with the Mill River White Sox atop the leader board. During last night's game, our ace pitcher and third hitter in the order told me he dreamed of the yeti. He dreamed he was lying in his bed in the dark and the yeti was watching him. I've received the job offer for my dream "work at home" job. With a 14% salary increase, similar benefits, enjoyable and rewarding work, and the added perk of working from home, I'd be a fool not to jump on it. We have to iron out a starting date, but all indications are I'll be shower-free starting July 9th. Tonight I fully intend to buy a bridge. I may very well station a troll under said bridge. Even more wool felt hat blanks have arrived at my abode, and I'm debating starting a pirate hat making eBay business. The yeti made a pass at Jodi. Something about jungle fever and sweet yeti lovin'. One of my recent orders for the wedding came in a big cardboard box, and when I opened it, I came face to face with a disproportionate pinkish monster. Fortunately the packagers had stuffed a styrofoam peanut in his mouth to keep him at bay. He now guards my office from plastic ninjas. Last night my brother ripped a fart in a store. Not to be outdone, I squatted low and let loose a monster that blew for like two minutes straight. Everyone in the store was staring at me and roaring with laughter. I was overcome with an overpowering sense of pride.Okay, everybody, who can pick out the fake ones? |
| I've unofficially been informed that I'll be receiving a job offer on Monday. It's not as much money as I first hoped, but it's still a 14% increase on my current salary, right at the mark Jodi and I decided I needed to get to make the change. It is in fact a work from home job, so I'd also be saving about $250 a month on gas. I have to admit I'm pretty excited about the work I'd be doing. I'd be back to programming, creating and tinkering with products used worldwide by real users. I'd actually be busy though, so you likely wouldn't see as many blog entries from me during the day. I dare not say more than that until the offer is official on Monday and I've made my decision. This is pretty much my dream job ever since I started college, and barring any deal-breaking details, my dream is coming to fruition. Assuming all goes well, next week I'll plot out how totally kick ass it's going to be. Basically come July I might be writing code in my underwear and will no longer have any need to bathe. |
| I'm practically shaking here. A thousand thoughts are running through my head, and I can't resolve any of them right now. That means I'm going to sit here stressing out until tomorrow at noon. At that time I'll have a whole slew of new things to stress about. I guess I'll fill you in. A couple weeks ago a former co-worker emailed me about a job opportunity with his new company. In September 2005 he left the job here when he was offered a job working at home for 20% more pay doing what he loves. We told him if any more of those opportunities sprang up to let us know. Well, recently he emailed to mention an opening for a Java Programmer. However, the job required relocating to Boston, which is something I would never consider. I told him I wasn't interested in moving but thanked him for the offer. About an hour ago he called me at work. He launched into the usual pleasantries, but I knew he had an agenda. I told him to quit beating around the bush. Apparently the job is still open, and he and his bosses have been discussing what a valuable asset I would be. They are now exploring making it another "work from home" position, and at his suggestion, they're interested in me. Tomorrow he and I are going to meet for lunch to talk about it in detail. I'm scared. It's really bad timing for a job change with the wedding approaching and a Florida trip planned for November. I really like it here, and we live comfortably, so it's not like I'm looking for a new job anyway. On the other hand, this is a work from home job for another 20-30K per year! On top of that, it would be back to programming instead of IT business analyst stuff, and programming is what I really love. If I can parlay this into a job offer, how could I possibly turn that down? I don't know what to do. I'm excited about an opportunity like this but I'm also concerned with the timing of it. So right now, because my knowledge is so limited at the moment, I'm totally freaking out. Logically I shouldn't even really think much on it until I have more details tomorrow at lunch. When I get the particulars I might not be interested at all, but I can't help obsessing over it now. That's part of my personality. Dammit, I'm ready to explode with excitement and anxiety all at once. I wish I could talk to someone to try to calm down. Unfortunately I don't dare tell anyone here at work. The only person I'd discuss leaving here with is the very same person that would be upset Mike didn't approach her first. I wish Jodi was here; she could calm me down. |
| And by "you all" I mean everyone on W.com, with the possible exception of myself. No one writes anything interesting anymore. No one has any interesting comments. No one does any interesting chatting, either via IM or Scroll. No one posts any interesting things in message forums. No one does anything interesting at all. You're all fucking boring, and I've had just about enough. Get off your dead asses and be entertaining again! Sheesh, you're all ruining Writing.com for me! Get with the picture, dumbasses! Now go do something interesting, you boring farts. Right NOW! |
| In case you're wondering, and I'm sure you are, the water war was a complete success. We came, we saw, we kicked ass. My brother and I orchestrated a stunning example of military genius. In fact, the fairer (and weaker) sex was humbled quite regularly by our prowess. From the very beginning my brother and I took on the larger female force and eradicated their puny efforts at every turn. We also enlisted my ten year old cousin, who I don't really like, equipped him with the least effective water gun in our arsenal, and sent him on kamikazi missions to distract our opponents. He actually played an integral role in our coup de grace, but more on that in a moment. The beginning skirmishes were waged in the driveway, amongst a variety of motor vehicles. We used the cars for cover, running a variety of maneuvers that left our drenched adversaries gasping for air again and again. The effectiveness of our campaign was in no small part due to our sharpshooting skills. The females used an impractical point and shoot method. We, on the other hand, fired unerroringly at the face. By spraying in their eyes and mouth, they couldn't react and return fire, effectively incapaciting them and leaving them ripe for repeated attacks. We clearly outclassed them, but as I said before, no quarter would be given. We enlisted my brother's friend for one especially effective campaign. He hid behind the bank with a bucket full of water balloons, unbeknownst to our hapless enemies. He fired water bomb mortar fire up over the bank and into their ranks. As he rained liquid death on them, they began seeking out our grenadier. We sent my cousin into their midst to keep them occupied, half hoping they would bury him beneath a wave of watery doom. My brother and I guarded the front line, providing cover fire for our grenadier. When one enemy finally sneaked through and took potshots at our grenadier, we moved in on her from both sides, drenching her head to toe, and saving our secret weapon. We chased her out of our camp to cries of "Rally to me! Rally to me! Save the grenadier!" Shortly after, the same female, who I have the misfortunate of knowing as my sister, returned with her high-powered waterarm and cornered me behind my van. Outgunned, I moved to retreat, but my brother appeared out of nowhere, throwing a water grenade with such force that she dropped her weapon to rub her bruised side. He ran off to land blows elsewhere, and I moved in for the kill. With three gallons of water in the pack strapped to my back, I sprayed her in the face relentlessly. She screamed for help and whined for me to stop, but I continued to giggle with glee as I delivered hydrogen dioxide. Her comrade tried to save her so I opened fire on her and kept them both incapacited from continuous headshots. When at last my water supply was gone, I returned to the munitions depot, leaving them both for dead. My idiot cousin then confiscated my high-powered artillery, leaving me with minimal firepower. Luckily we had a plan. I hid behind a vehicle with the cooler we had used to transport the water balloons. Two inches of water still sloshed around the bottom of the cooler, two inches of water armageddon. My brother lured the wenches to me, setting the trap, and I tossed the contents of the cooler into their ranks. The concussion of the blow sent their foolhardy leader collapsing into the side of a car. My brother escaped in the chaos, and I laughed triumphantly. I took off as they regrouped, but already they opened fire on me. I rounded a corner with two sights trained on my back. My brother appeared out of nowhere, tossing a water gun through the air. In mid stride I caught the weapon, spun around, and opened fire. We're so fucking badass. The coup de grace was contested on an open field of battle. Outnumbered five to three, we were never worried. We had a plan. Again we sent my cousin in first a la the "Flying V" of Mighty Ducks fame. Mostly it was just a distraction tactic. He split the force apart while we flanked them and rounded them back towards the house. "Kill the little ones first, they're weak!" I yelled as I sprayed the 8 year old girls in the face. I outran the heavy guns while taking out the young'uns. It soon became apparent they would overwhelm us with numbers and sheer firepower. At least that's what everyone though; they underestimated our cunning. I gave the signal, and we initiated Operation Death by Water. My brother fired one final volley, sending their forces into a temporary retreat. He then headed back to the munitions depot to refuel his "empty gun." With my cousin overwhelmed by the young girls, I was on my own to face their hard hitters. But that's just the way I wanted it. I battled for a bit, giving my brother time to crank the war machine into place, but then I let myself I succumb. I retreated to the stone wall, where we would make our last stand. They soon overtook me and opened fire. Ever the warrior, I took shot after shot, most in the back of the head, but I stayed on my feet as long as my brother needed. Finally I saw him appear on the horizon, atop the wall. I collapsed to the ground, knowing we had won. I remained conscious only long enough to see him the squeeze the nozzle and rain a deluge onto our unsuspecting victims. The hose had finally arrived, and he weilded it with deadly accuracy. The trap had been sprung. I had sacrificed myself for the team, and boy did I do it in style. I heard their screams heard my brother yell in triumph. The war belonged to the us once again. |
| Jodi's sister and two-year-old nephew are coming to visit this weekend, along with her sister's new boyfriend, who is incidentally infinitely better than her old one (probably because he has a little geek in him). As such Jodi has arranged a water gun fight for Saturday. She picked up a pre-packaged assortment of squirt guns at WalMart, so little Luke (I refuse to call him "Lukie" on account of it being retarded and totally pussy) can have his first squirt gun squirmish. The rest of us will be participating as well, along with my brother, sister, and brother's fiancee. What Jodi doesn't understand is that winning isn't everything, it's the only thing. And yes, that pertains to water gun wars. Notice I said wars and not something wussy like "squirt gun play time." Having a two-year-old in the mix doesn't change that all. In fact, it just makes it easier to win because he'll be easy pickings. That kid has to learn how to take of himself. The world is a dangerous, drenching place, and he has to learn that. So no cutesy squirt gun, teeheehee, thin-streamed nonsense for me. I'm going to war, and there shall be no quarter given. I've amassed my arsenal, and my only regret is that I couldn't find bigger guns. Even so, I'll run through the list so you guys can all fawn over my oozing water gun machismo. First I have the Gremlin, a forearm sized beastly green thing that shoots a 30 ft stream with a single pump. That puppy is being hung from my belt and is not my primary weapon. It's reserved for when I'm out of ammo with the rest of the arsenal. I'll toss them aside and draw out the Gremlin for my last ditch effort. At 40 ounces of water and a 30-40 ft range, this monster is my last resort. That should tell you right there what they are all in for. Hanging beside the Gremlin is the Super Soaker Secret Shot. Blasting up to 35ft and holding almost twice as much water, the Secret Shot is my primary handgun, my last bit of heavy artillery before I resort to the Gremlin. It's also a stealth weapon. Raise your hands in mock surrender, and whammo! fire a burst of water via the hidden nozzle! I think I'll have to fake surrender just to try this baby out. Suckers! Strapped to my back will be a plastic backpack full of water and pumped for maximum power. A hose runs from the backpack to a hand gun that will be holstered at my side, providing me a weapon with 190oz of good ol' H20 ammo! With this insane amount of ammo, this is my gaitlin gun of sorts, my water machine gun as it were. From mid to close range I can drench someone head to toe in liquid death and still have enough left to quench my thirst from all that hard annihilation work. The name of this bad boy escapes me at the moment, but I bet it's something that totally kicks ass. Hanging off a beltstrap is my close range body armor. When I have to shed my long range artillery and go to the reserve of ammo on my back, I'll strap this baby on my arm and move in for the kill. It is the Transformers Super Soaker, so named because it slides over my entire firearm and ends in a monstrosity of plastic, water-shooting fist that wraps around my hand. It shoots several different streams at different angles, all that seemingly come shooting out of my mechanized arm and hand. To cap it off, you can pull a lever and viola! it transforms! Whirling plastic shoots out from a hidden compartment and forms a circular shield over my arm to block enemy fire! Oh fuck yeah! Go ahead, you pansies, just {i]try to shoot me! And to top it all off, it has a freakin' Autobot logo on it. It's nearly orgasmic. My secret weapon comes in the form of the Artic Blast. Though as large as the Secret Shot and Gremlin, this baby looks fairly innocent. It's a standard issue blue and white gun with pump action, but it contains a horrible secret! This puppy loads not only with water but also with ice! Thanks to a special opening you can drop full-sized ice cubes in there, and suddenly you're soaking your opponents with frigid ice water! Boo-yah! When those suckers are gasping for air from the frozen death leaking down their spines, I'll be laughing my ass off and moving in for the kill. My primary weapon, the coup de grace of my drenching arsenal, is the Tiger Shark. This bad boy is good ol' fashioned water gun ass kickery. It's a two-handed assault rifle of a water gun. With a strap I can throw over my shoulder, I can lug this beast around and refill with ease and speed. Plus I can swing it over my shoulder and go to my secondary weapons without giving up the goods. A battery operated sensor detects the power levels, and the indicator lights will tell you when the gun is pumped for maximum soakage. It has three firing levels, ranging from a long range sniper rifle stream to a quarter inch thick stream of watery doom. The most powerful stream saps the pressure and is best used at close range, but it's guaranteed to turn those saps into simpering puddles. The thin stream on the other hand is like having a laser sighted water cannon at upwards of 40 ft. Either way, it means H20 hell for these wimps. I have only one thing left to get to complete my arsenal, a pouch full of water balloons. At close range I can pelt my weakling adversaries with well flung water grenades like a monkey flinging his poo. Thrown with enough force these babies will not only drench but also bruise and maybe even bleed. That would be freakin' awesome! |
| MySpace is finally good for something. The search is over. http://www.myspace.com/kingyeti |
| Funny things happen with the laundry. Clothes that once fit, no longer do. Socks disappear. Stains appear for no apparent reason. Clothes come out smelling stale and musty. Some people would try to explain these phenomenon with ludicrous, unsubstantiated theories like weight gain, dryer shrinkage. absentmindedness, and pens in pockets. The whole idea of it is laughable. However, there is a perfectly sound explanation for these laundry room mishaps. Today, during one of my many trips to the office restroom, I had a revelation. I find I do my best thinking in the stall, and today was no different. I discovered an irrefutable clue that provides a scientific explanation for all the laundry room mysteries. And that explanation is... wait for it... gremlins. Now please pay close attention because I'm about to get very technical. Reaching this conclusion involves a great deal of scientific method and cold, hard logic. When hoisting my pants back up after a particularly pleasant dump, I realized they fit exactly the same as they did last time I wore them. The realization was mind-blowing. Why? Because wonder of wonders my belt does not fit the same way. You see, for some inexplicable reason I am suddenly wearing my belt in the very last hole, which effectively means my waist has shrunk. Therefore, the logical mind would deduce that my pants should be equally large, but they are not. In fact, they are just a smidgeon snug. Had this been an experiment, we could clearly consider my belt to be the control because it is the only clothing object that does not go in the washer or dryer. Therefore, we must deduce that my waist has shrunk. Ergo, my pants must also have shrunk. Concordantly, my pants must have shrunk somewhere during their stay in the laundry room. Therefore, it follows that gremlins have shrunk my pants in a concerted effort to conceal my obvious weight loss, thus maintaining my low self-esteem so as not to foil their plans of world domination. Who else but gremlins would be behind such a heinous plot to trick me into thinking I haven't lost weight? And where else would gremlins hide besides the washer and dryer? Through process of elimination we arrive at the following tautology: gremlins are using washers and dryers in a nefarious plot to confound mankind. Then we have the ink stains on the clothes in the washer and/or dryer. Twice in the past month Jodi and I have been the unfortunate victims of this heinous deed. Pens were found in my work pants. I can prove these pens were placed there by gremlins. I'll leave the exercise of proving gremlins are responsible for missing socks to the reader. The mathematical proof can be derived from a similar line of infallible logic. |
| Jodi and I went to see Spiderman 3 this past weekend. It was a major letdown, mostly because The Green Goblin was a pussy, the shittiest villian ever, Sandman, had a large role, and Venom, the greatest spidey baddie of all time, lasted for about 15 minutes. But that's not what this very short entry is about. We're waiting in line to buy tickets and we hear this real asshole of guy bitching at his kids right behind us. He's demanding his six year old rugrat make a choice between Spiderman 3 and Shrek 3. Clearly the kid had to decide, but demanding in condescending Hitler-esque fashion was getting this "dad" anywhere. Along comes a theatre employee selling paper stars. You know the routine. You buy the paper star for a buck, write your name on it, it gets hung on the wall with a ton of other stars, and the dollar goes to fight childhood cancer. After I took one, the employee approaches the guy behind us in line. "Would you like to donate a dollar to fight childhood cancer, sir?" This greasy bastard wrinkles his nose and shakes his head at his kids. "Ah Christ," he says, like this is easily the most annoying thing that's ever happened to him. He starts reaching into his wallet. "Yeah, yeah, fine, whatever." He follows that with an indignant sigh, as if he's been irretrievably inconvenienced. The theater guy says, "You don't have to, sir." The asshole throws his hands up in the air and waves the dollar bill around. "Oh yeah, right! Childhood cancer! Like I'm not gonna!" He's clearly suffered the biggest guilt trip of his miserable existence. The employee gives his kid the star and walks away. He looks at his two kids, who are somewhere between 6 and 12. "Like I wasn't gonna, right?" And in a mock whiny voice, "Wanna donate to the Dead Puppy Society too?" Had a gunman magically appeared and shot that guy and his two kids down I wouldn't have even blinked. The last thing we need in this world are "humans" like that wasting our air and raising mini assholes. |
| Jodi and I have to choose our wedding song. Thus far we've only come across one (which I shan't reveal) that we both liked and both thought was appropriate. However, since I generally loathe country music, I am reluctant to choose a country song, even if I do kind of like it. That's not to say we're ruling out country altogether, more like just ruling out real traditional country and being reluctant about fringe country. So what we're looking for is suggestions. My readers should know our relationship well enough by now to know what's lyrically appropriate or close to it. And based on all those shitty surveys we've filled out, you should know what kind of music we like too. So please give us some suggestions. There are no doubt lots of songs we're overlooking at the moment. Of course there is a reward involved. You can suggest as many songs as you like, and if we use your song I'll award you a merit badge at the very least. Depending on how much we like the song, it's entirely possible that I'll award you a 1 month premium membership or 3 month upgraded membership. The only caveat is copying and pasting a huge list of wedding songs will earn you nothing, even if we choose one off the list. We can google wedding songs ourselves and sift through the plethora of cliche, meaningless, and often horribly inappropriate songs. You only get rewarded if we choose your suggestion and you at least took some time to cull the list for us. And if you suggest really bad songs I'll probably mock and chastise you. |
| Oh wow, The Pregnancy of Melissa is fashionably late! 's leading entry talks about the pregnancy. There's a real shocker, huh? Well, I suppose I could write about that time I got uterus contractions too, but I'd rather save that tale for later. So I could write out the mundane details of my day like Mel did. (I can get away with pointing that out because Mel's a friend, and because I'm an asshole.) I won't do that though because I refuse to bore myself, let alone my readers. Did you ever see that episode of the Simpsons where Homer starts a chiropractic business? Basically he just rolls people around on an aluminum trash can. The venture of course met with disaster, though I can't remember how exactly because by then the show had already jumped the shark and I wasn't really paying attention. But you get the point. Well, no, I didn't actually have a point. I'm blaming that on you, Mel. I get back spasms more frequently than I'd like, which is to say once in a while. Imagine a charley horse in your calf. That's what my muscle spasms are like except they reside in my lower back. They involve a great deal of grunting and my best impression of someone who just consumed copious amounts of strychnine. I shrug it off in a matter of minutes though and never even think of paying some pseudo-doctor to "fix" it. That's because I'm one tough SOB. Sometimes during the spasms I even grunt accessively and fake contortions just to seem tougher. That's something else real men do. As a general rule I avoid doctors. They've never really helped me. The last time I saw a doctor I had a broken sternum and he literally punched me in the chest because he didn't believe the X-ray. Then I spent the night in the hospital after they told me there was nothing they could do. It cost me $15,000 for them to assign me to bed rest. Surgeries notwithstanding, what can they really do to help us anyway besides write us prescriptions? I avoid those too. Most of my family pops Lexapro like they're Smarties, whereas I, by far the most fucked up, refuse to deal with stess via a tiny white pill. I'm no doubt genetically predisposed to cancer as it is; the last thing I need to do is pump more unnatural substances into my body. The doctors give the same old spiel every time, and I get sick of hearing it. Do they really think I'm so stupid that I don't know how to make myself healthy? I've chosen to be as I am. I don't go there because I need a lecture on health; I go there because I'm sick or because I'm mandated to by work or something. So why can't they address the issue at hand and let me go? Bastards. Maybe they're just trying to justify the porsche they have parked out front. I don't go to doctors unless I have to, and even then only under extreme duress. I certainly won't ever go to a "midwife" either. I didn't know such a thing existed anymore. Weren't midwives the old biddies that delivered babes back in the day when our idea of medical science involved bleeding people? I'd rather not really on the village healer to birth our baby. Sorry, but I think civilization has graduated from that. Seriously, midwives? Are you going to give birth at a pagan ritual or something? |
| Being the oldest has its advantages. Sure, it has its disadvantages too, namely a heightened sense of responsibility and dealing with incessant "you're old enough to know better," but you can't beat some of the perks. Being oldest meant I always got to make up the games my siblings and I would play. Sure they could resist, but I was big enough and old enough to coerce them. It also meant our games could usually lead to throwing my brother through the air or powerbombing him into a cardboard box. I'd let him get some good punches in, but eventually I'd have to take it to him steel cage style. I think I watched too much pro wrestling when I was a kid. I use to make my brother and sister play Jeopardy. I'd write up a bunch of questions, make a board on the wall of the kitchen, and force them to sit on stools through a round of Jeopardy. The questions were geared such that my brother would always win. My sister was the youngest and the only daughter, and was (and is) therefore the favorite, so making her feel like an intellectual inferior was pretty much a staple on the old play itinerary. After every question, whether they got the answer right or not, I'd give a detailed explanation of the correct answer, mostly because I regretted having to host instead of mopping the floor with them. One of our "games" still makes both of them cringe in fear. We called it Shipwreck, though there was never technically any shipwrecks. Basically we'd climb onto my brother's bed, festoon it with sheets and ornamentation, and we'd pretend to be seafaring explorers. We'd all be enjoying ourselves, feeling the imaginary wind in our faces and the scent of salt water in our nostrils, and then I would say it. "I think there's going to be a storm." Either my brother or sister or both would try to bolt at that moment. They'd start to hop off the bed, and I'm drag them back. "No!" I'd yell. "If you go in the water, the sharks will get you." They'd start moaning then, lamenting their fate. I'd start shaking the bed, tearing the sheets down, and tossing our mock cargo all over the room. The wind would howl, and the rain would pelt us. Eventually we could take no more of it, and I'd make a suggestion. "I think we should go below to get out the storm. Down into the cargo hold." At this point my older brotherhood really came in handy. Without it I might not have been able to shove my struggling siblings under the bed. I'd push them under, in no particular order, and then squeeze under alongside them. Now my brother's bed was against the wall, so with the wall on one side and me on the other, they were trapped under the bed, in the cargo hold. Even before we started playing "shipwreck" I'd cram more "cargo" at the ends of the bed, ie the stem the and stern, thus plugging any escape route... er... hull damage. Then the real fun would begin. The vicious storm would usually last several days, meaning we'd be crammed into that cargo hold with no room to move for more than was physically comfortable. When I invented this game, I think I had just learned about the slave ships that transported Africans to the New World and tried to imagine those conditions. I would narrate our experience in the cargo hold, explaining how conditions worsened with each passing day. My brother and sister would stare at the wall and mumble to themselves because they knew I wouldn't listen. I'd explain how we wouldn't be able to bathe or properly dispose of our waste. We'd have to defecate and urinate on ourselves, and we'd be sweating profusely from the heat and close quarters. The stench would become unbearable and make one of us sick, and that was invariably me. I'd pretend to vomit, thus increasing the stench and making matters even worse. Soon we'd all start becoming sick. I'd make my siblings' vomit noises for them, since they usually refused. And then I'd start farting. Only the farting was very real, not some imagined or narrated historical reenactment. We usually played this game in the summer on the second story of the house, so we'd already be sweaty and sticky beneath that bed. Add fart odor to the body odor, and suddenly the part about being sick wasn't too far-fetched. That's pretty much where the game would end. We'd just lay under the bed, stewing in sweat, farts, and my lecturing and posturing, until finally they'd start screaming for our parents to make me let them out. What a couple of wimps. Ironically in the biography I'm reading now, Edward "Blackbeard" Teach apparently did something similar to his crew. More proof that I'm a totally badass pirate. |
| Three of the greatest men in the history of the world all in one video... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQM2VYaWzSs&mode=related&search= |
| I was driving home from work the other day, and I had to pick my nose. I had one of those nasty boogers that somehow conform to the natural curvature of your nostril, lodging itself just out of reach. It's too large to move your head or maybe even breath without noticing it, and you have this sinking feeling that if you wrinkle your nose, that monster will half protrude from your nostril, making you the laughing stock of children everywhere. The truth is though it's wedged high in the nostril, beyond where the entrance of your nostril curves slightly inward. You have to dig to reach it, usually with just your fingernail, and when you do finally get there, a tug on it feels like you're tearing out nose hairs. It always has a deathgrip on at least one hair, but you can't just leave it there. It's too big to ignore, and you're paranoid it's just going to fall out and land in your bowl of spaghetti. Well, since I was driving I had neither a readily available tissue nor a pencil to jab up there and jar it loose, so I just kept digging away, scratching and tugging until the nostril threatened to bleed. At last it pulled away beneath my fingernail, and I unleashed a triumphant grunt. And then I realized I had nothing to do with it. I did what any logical person would do: I reached under my driver's seat and wiped it off where no one would see it. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. That got me to thinking. What if someone had been driving with me, what would I have done? Simple, I would have tried to flick it off or rub it off furiously when the passenger wasn't looking. Something about scraping a booger off your finger and onto some unseen surface seems taboo when in the presence of others. But when you're sitting there with a nasty, sticky glob of snot on your fingertip, you do what has to be done. You just hope no one sees you. I've been caught doing it before, but I still try to get away with it. I have to. How far are we willing to go when no one's watching? What are we really capable of? Certain basic needs or desires tend to be inhibited in the presence of others, but what social standards are we willing to ignore if the coast is clear? Suppose you need to shave your nether region, but the only shaver you have is the electric one with which you shave facial hair. Would you shave your cheeks with the same razor you shave your pubes with if no one knew about it? I do. All the time. I don't even bother emptying out the clippings first. Who cares? Nobody knows I'm doing it. Suppose you had all your friends over for dinner, your favorite dinner. Let's say lobster for arguments sake, because most people love lobster. Who wouldn't love a big bug that you boil to death right? You go to the trash to toss out your paper plate, because you were too lazy to wash real plates, and you notice one of your ingrate friends chucked a half a lobster tail in the garbage. It's soaked in butter and mostly clean. Sure it landed on that tampon, but you can wipe the blood off. No one's watching. You'd eat it, wouldn't you? I would. Just the other day my damn brother threw his pizza crust away, and they were sitting right there on top of the trash. I looked over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, and then I pulled off the stray cat hair and enjoyed the buffet. You're washing your car, vacuuming it out and everything. I say you, because I personally would never do this. You reach under the driver's seat, careful to avoid all the boogers you've wiped there, and yank out a pile of trash. Amidst the clutter is a near fresh Girl Scout Thin Mint cookie. No one's around. You'd eat it, wouldn't you? I can't imagine anyone not at least trying a bite. You're in a dark theater, and Jessica Alba (or some hunky guy for the lady readers) is getting it on with some guy on the big screen. Would you touch yourself a little? If Pee Wee Herman can do it blatantly, you can discreetly caress through your pants if no one's watching. Maybe your partner will even notice and give you some play. Or dump your perv ass. But would you do it? You're visiting some friends and somehow find yourself in their bedroom alone. I don't know about you, but the only logical recourse here is to look for their sex toys. Part of you knows you'd never be able to look at them again without giggling (or vomiting depending on their physical attractiveness), but you're still wondering. Yes, been there, done that one too. Though I actually did that one in the presence of others and showed my finds to everyone. It was my brother's bedroom. He and his fiancee flipped out like a couple of psychos. They had some gall yelling at me like that. Suppose you drop a family heirloom or prized possession in a public toilet. You look around and see neither a person watching nor any utensil for fishing it out. You can't flush yet because you'll lose your item. Do you reach in amidst a quagmire of urine-soaked turd nuggets to fetch it out? I've never done this one myself, but I can assure you that one of the "Follow the Leader" judges has. Suppose you're a testosterone-pumping man's man, and you're home alone. Do you use this opportunity to watch "Desperate Housewives," "Oprah," or "Charmed?" Nah, that's just silly.What are you willing to do when no one's watching? (This is a rhetorical question, so please don't bombard me with a bunch of boring lameass answers like "I'm a closet knitter." In fact, don't answer at all, just think about how much that booger freakin' hurt.) |
| Last week I found out my uncle has a blood disorder that if untreated would damage his vital organs and kill him. It's a genetic disorder, and therefore I could have it. The only treatment is the removal of a pint of blood twice a week. Having learned more about it since, it's probably not a big deal, just a hassle and a commitment to the doctor's office. It doesn't show itself until the 4th or 5th decade of life, so I don't even have to worry about it yet. However, I didn't know all that when I first found out, so naturally, as is typical Ernie behavior, I freaked out and started playing out the scenarios in my head if I had the disease too. Ironically the whole failing organs and slow death never registered as the real problem. All I could think about was being able to work, because if I couldn't work who would support Jodi? How would we be able to have kids, one of her most important dreams? Would it even be responsible to have kids? Would she have to slave away to support us? How would this affect her? So I made a decision: I wouldn't take the treatments. My logic was that hopefully it would claim my life early, giving her time to find someone else to make her happy and bring children into her life. Yes, she would mourn me, but ultimately her life would be happier if I went quick, much better than weighing her down like some kind of invalid. My death didn't scare me, but keeping her from happiness terrified me. That answers the question as best I can. I'm not a dad so I can't give the cliche answer of "I'd die for my kids, blah blah blah." I'm sure if and when I have kids, I'll give the same response any decent parent gives, but for now I can only say I truly would die for Jodi. In most cases. Dying for someone isn't the part that scares me; it's the pain that terrifies me. Asking if I'd be tortured for someone else is an entirely different question. In the movies you see someone resisting torture rather than naming their friends or loved ones. I don't think I could pull that one off. I have a very low threshold for pain, most of which is psychological. No matter who my torturer is going after, I'd eventually give them up. It's just a matter of degree. The more important the loved one, the longer and more horrifying torture I could endure. First off, we're only talking about a very few select people here, namely Jodi, my parents, and my siblings. I'd hand over anyone else to the proverbial lions over a papercut. Hell, I'd give up my aunts and uncles if they pulled off a bandaid too roughly. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get the point. I wouldn't even risk my life for them if it involved more risk than moving all in with quads. I'm a son of a bitch like that, but if you're all being really honest with yourselves, I doubt very much if you wouldn't do the same. If I'm wrong, then wow, good for you. I think you're an idiot, but good for you. For my parents and siblings I could endure some burning, scratching, whipping, beating, teeth pulling, and maybe even rectal probing. I could go as far as chopping off fingers and maybe even limbs for Jodi. My eyes and genitalia are off limits though. If someone goes for those, I'm calling for mercy right there. Sorry, honey, but even you won't last if someone decides to castrate me with a steak knife. I saw a form of torture on the History Channel's "True Carribean Pirates" that involved hoisting a prone man by his genitalia. Yeah, if someone does that to me, fear and pain conquer all and I'm going to look out for number one. I'm curious what kind of torture a parent would endure for his child. Not surprisingly, the leading entry on this topic and its responses have mentioned dying for a son/daughter. I get that, seeing as how every decent parent agrees on that point, but what kind of torture would they be willing to endure? How about literally being skinned alive and then being doused in sugar and dumped into a vat of starving rats? How about live disection? How about a welding torch taken to every inch of your body? How far could you go? Without being a parent, I cannot begin to imagine that threshold. |
| Basically he's McStupid, and not because he doesn't know how to make Mereditz happy, but because he's with her in the first place. On second thought they're made for each other, aren't they? They're practically male and female copies of the same unattractive, squinty-eyed, irrational nitwits. Where else could you find two such socially backward and emotionally crippled people but on ABC primetime? The not-so-funny details of "Grey's Anatomy" begins with the title, a contrived play on words that would make the reader think we might learn something about Mereditz Grey's anatomy. Fortunately though, we don't. Normally I'm all for shedding light, even of the dimmed variety, on leading lady anatomy, but in this case I'd rather browse www.uglypeople.com for porn. Granted Meretardith has sex with pretty much anything that moves, but praise the Lord we never see more than her bare shoulders. I have no interest in anorexic, cadaver porn. Though in some sort of trainwreck fashion, I do wonder if she does that absurd eye squinting thing during sex. For God's sake woman, you work in a hospital! Get a pair of glasses! Oh, did I mention they all work in a hospital? That's probably a good thing, because the meds for VD are readily available. If you watched "Grey's Anatomy" out of context, for a minute you'd have to make sure you didn't accidentally pop "Debbie Does the Hospital" into the VCR. Just as you're about to yank the VCR plug out of the wall, all the characters will start crying, usually during sex, and you'll instead think your wet dream just turned into a nightmare in a pyschiatrist's office. I had no idea doctors, and especially surgeons, are the horniest people on the face of the earth. This hospital apparently still uses the original elevator installed in 1911 because it takes roughly 20% of the episode to travel a single floor. That's a good thing though because it allows McDipShit and McBitchy (substitute any character names here) plenty of time to discuss relationships instead of actually working. The show really pulls at your heartstrings, appeals to your compassionate side. Sometimes you want to tell the bleeding patients in the ER to just shut the fuck up so Merebitch can find herself. The poor girl is pulled in every direction at once; she sure as hell doesn't need the guy with the flagpole lodged in his abdomen upsetting her further. You just want to hug her and tell her everything will work out. But then you remember she probably has syphyllis and hugging her would roughly be the equivalent of hugging a porcupine. In addition to infidelity being part of the hippocratic oath, Grey's Anatomy features a whole slew of gorgeous people whose bones you want to jump. *snicker* I had you going for a minute there, didn't I? In actuality the leading lady makes Callista Flockhart look like a Playboy model, McDreamy could more accurately be named McGreasy, and the token Asian role was filled by arguably the ugliest woman in televison. She's so hideous I find myself more attracted to Bobby Li when he's impersonating her on MadTV. The only attractive female is dumber than a box of rocks and more emotional than Richard Simmons. And she wears too many clothes. Oh I could write volumes on the virtues of "Grey's Anatomy," but frankly my soul isn't worth it. As it is, I already have to wash my eyes with battery acid after imagining Meredouche naked. If a bunch of promiscuous doctors who can't hold their liquor and who spend more time crying than healing people is your idea of a good time, by all means check out "Grey's Anatomy." Personally, I'd rather papercut my testicles than watch that show. |
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Tooo rich...Love the tale....Would make a great comic for a local newspaper!!