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Rated: GC · Book · Personal · #976788
The only blog that will put hair on your chest...
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Turning from the Dark Side

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April 26, 2007 at 3:20pm
April 26, 2007 at 3:20pm
#504306
 Invalid Item 
This item number is not valid.
#1253736 by Not Available.
April 26, 2007 at 9:37am
April 26, 2007 at 9:37am
#504260
Last night's episode of American Idol was a telethon of sorts, a charity show titled "Idol Gives Back" or something like that. They were raising money for various charity organizations, but especially for dealing with the HIV and malaria crises in Africa and the poverty here in the US.

Some of the footage from real African homes and communities was chilling. They showed a malaria clinic with 8 beds that has to somehow accommodate 100,000 patients, many of whom are infants and children. They mentioned that a child dies of malaria every thirty seconds, and they showed one such example of a baby that didn't make it to the clinic in time. It pulled at the proverbial heartstrings, as did the footage of the mothers dying from HIV and their sullen children watching from close by, many of whom had HIV as well. It was some of the most heart-wrenching television I've seen.

It's in our human nature, as it should be, to help those less fortunate. We cannot and should not sit back and watch other human beings live and die through these agonizing conditions. The morality and compassion instilled in most of us dictates that the affluent and healthy should not abandon the poor and stricken but rather lift them up as best we can. That, along with other unique characteristics, is what makes us human and separates us as a species.

And yet, as I watched in horror and sadness, I had a revelation. That cold, robotic piece of my brain processed the data and made a shocking computation that frankly I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit: maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

Suppose we solve the HIV and malaria crises in Africa. Suppose we eradicate poverty in our own country and others. Suppose we find a guaranteed cure for cancer. Suppose we end all wars. Suppose we curb obesity. I of course hope all these things happen. (I won't lie and say they carry equal weight with me though.) But what is the end result? I don't mean the immediate result, which is clearly a happier world community and a ground-shaking achievement of humanity, but the actual end result.

Solving all these "problems" means increasing our problem of overpopulation. How do we feed all these people? Where do we house them all? Where do they all work? What other pieces of our ecosystem must we eradicate in the name of progress? What creatures must we drive to extinction to feed the world? What waste will we dump into the water and pump into the air? What will we do to this piece of rock?

Nature has always found a way to regulate itself. It is a thing of beauty and also a thing of death. Either nature kills us or we kill ourselves. It is the natural progression of things. It is a necessity of our existence and the existence of all living things. We live and then we die. No one should die a suffering death, but without it we as a world community won't die fast enough. It is a system of balance, and what if we disrupt that balance?

The fact is we disrupt the balance everyday. In the name of progress we continually find ways to thwart nature, and I daresay we are slowly winning the battle, thereby losing a war which is really against ourselves. We must be, or overpopulation wouldn't be a problem. Nature does make counterstrokes though. That's why AIDS, malaria, cancer, and everything else exist. If we cure them, will they just mutate to something we can't cure? In all likelihood, yes. Or maybe the avian flu will mutate and create a worldwide plague, wiping out millions. Nature always finds a way.

Cancer, usually of the pancreatic variety, is a fact of life in my family. I know my father will likely die from it, and I know it will likely take my own life sooner that I hope, but I also know it is nature's way. Hoping for a cure is really just a selfish wish that nature devises something different, something that does not run in my family, to control its population.

I'm very lucky that I am not one of the "less fortunate" on this earth, and I contribute what I can to the cause of saving people, but at the same time a part of me realizes this is a case of compassion versus cold logic. We're governed by survival of the fittest, and we're trying to negate it. Eventually we will lose the war against Death, whether at Nature's hand or our own, and all we can really do is pick our battles.

*braces for hatemail*
April 25, 2007 at 12:00pm
April 25, 2007 at 12:00pm
#504110
I can't remember having any crushes when I was in school. Girls were annoying and pretentious and thumbed their noses at me. Well, except for the ugly ones, but they were, by virtue of that characteristic, uncrushable. I'd still say that's true of teenage girls. I probably would have felt that way about Jodi when she was that age too. As such, since I was clearly straight and yet also not interested in females, I guess I was a bit asexual during childhood and adolescence.

So if we rule out that segment of my life and consider only the last decade or so, there's still only one notable crush, and that one rapidly turned into the love of my life and the woman I'm marrying this summer. (I refuse to count my obsession with Kate Beckinsale or any other scrumptious starlet on account of my dismal chances of parlaying that into a threesome with my bride to be.) Otherwise my "crushes" prior to Jodi have been little more than biproducts of loneliness and libido. Maybe that's what all crushes are though.

That leaves just Jodi. Just this one time I'll spare my readership twelve pages of Jodi adoration and praise. I don't think you could all stomach it.

There was one other crush. It was back in the day, which, as Dane Cook points out, was of course a Wednesday. I didn't mention it previously because it's somewhat embarrassing. Like the armies of young teens who find their dad's Playboys and ogle the centerfolds, my first crush came via subscription. My dad didn't get Playboy though, or he was exceedingly good at hiding it (something my grandfather was fortunately not so good at). But there was a "World Weekly News" lying around once. No, I didn't fall in love with the Bat Boy. I was most definitely straight afterall. I was looking for females, and mine came in the form of the Bigfoot layout on page 37.

I knew that hairy beauty was female the moment I laid eyes on her, regardless of what that crackpot photographer claimed. For starters, I have to assume any male with a name like Bigfoot would have enough lower body protrusion to poke through a layer of fur. (Unless of course Bigfoot is a mocking misnomer to belittle the poor guy's teensy sasquatch.) If you can see a dog's, you must be able to see a yeti's dangly bits. So, no dangly bits means female. And what a female she was.

She had wavy, light brown hair cascading down her shoulders... and her back... and her legs. She had piercing brown eyes and a unibrow that would make the Russian Women's Olympic team jealous. Those lucious lips were no doubt traineed for grooming bigfoots, and my ingrown toenail was throbbing for a grooming. There she was, in all her blurry, Photoshopped black and white glory, ready for me to club her over the head and drag her back to my cave. Some sexual fetishes are eccentric, embarrassing, or downright vile. You've all heard of things like pedophiles, necrophiliacs, and here I was discovering I'm a yetiphiliac, whose Latin roots roughly translate to "totally fucked up."

I became obsessed with finding my yeti. Fortunately my mother was a yeti expert, a product of watching the SciFi channel everyday, so she helped me along. My father threatened to disown me, but my mother understood my love for our missing links and happily explained how to communicate with sasquatch via hand signals, something she apparently learned from "The Blair Witch Project." Women can be wooed with flowers and chocolate, but sexy bigfoots just need some lewd hand gestures to have some jungle style loving.

I never did find her. I couldn't even find the photographer who snapped those candid shots of her. I've seen some papparazzi photos since, but it apparently takes a photographer's eye to spot her in the wild. Maybe it's just because I'm color blind. I'm convinced she's out there though, probably waiting for me.

Who knows, maybe she's my other soulmate. And maybe one day, perhaps as Jodi and I trek through the Himalayan Mountains on our honeymoon, we'll find her atop a snow-covered peak. And maybe Kate Beckinsale will drop from a helicopter and land on her feet in a skintight leather outfit. And maybe we'll all engage in wild yeti orgies. A guy can dream, can't he?
April 24, 2007 at 10:05am
April 24, 2007 at 10:05am
#503880
Yesterday I wrote an entry for Follow the Leader about naming my son Ernie IV. I was once reluctant to do it, but with age comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes respect for things you sometimes take for granted in your youth. My grandfather was, nay is, one of my heroes, and I'm now honored to carry the name and I'll be equally proud to pass it on. Each Ernie has been unique, and I would never want or expect my son to try to fill any Ernie shoes other than his own. The name itself is a legacy, and we can each add our own piece to it.

Shortly after writing that entry, I was chatting with on online friend, who in his immense boredom was doing random Google searches. He searched for my name and found this link at the top http://www.newenglandfilm.com/news/archives/2006/05/latino.htm. It's an interview with the man who made the short documentary about my grandfather. I've been reading the article over and over since we found it, hoping to gleam something from it that I hadn't heard before. It's as if I hope some piece of my grandfather can come alive through the words on the screen, as if my memories will return with more clarity, a sharpness that might make me see him, hear him, and feel him again.

It's wishful thinking really. I have my memories and the memories shared by others, and I even have the documentary on DVD, a full 30 minutes of my grandfather in all his almost uncensored glory. But none of it is entirely real. He was real, and his existence in the context of memories and DVD is real, but I can't interact with a memory, I can't pass a piece of firewood to a video, I can't grumble about a story being a pain in the ass. Memories and documentaries are snapshots, short clips of who he was at that particular moment, but they're not the essence of the man, they're not all that he was.

I still miss him. I'm sure I always will. Some days are worse than others though, and today is one such day. I regret that he won't be there for the wedding this summer. I regret that Jodi never got to meet him. Our stories will never do the man justice, and though she knows I miss him, I wish I could really make her understand why. Without knowing him personally though, it's just a bunch of tears and words. Nothing can truly bring him to life enough for her to know him. I'm lucky enough to have a 30 minute DVD, something most people don't have to remember their loved ones, but it's not enough, nothing is.
April 23, 2007 at 11:19am
April 23, 2007 at 11:19am
#503653
Or more accurately, the fourth, as in Ernie IV. That will be our son's name, assuming we have one.

Sometimes I wish I was Ernie Jr. instead of Ernie III, because 1) I wouldn't feel obligated to create an Ernie IV, 2) I wouldn't have to deal with naysayers who complain about fathers naming their sons after them, and 3) our firstborn's name wouldn't be predetermined. On the other hand, III is better than junior because 1) roman numerals are way cooler than "junior", 2) I get to pass on a legacy that makes me proud, and 3) I won't have to worry that our firstborn will end up with some eccentric name or bizarre spelling that parents use these days in some attempt to be cool, confuse everyone, or scar their children. (Not sure what I mean by that last part? Consider Jodi's coworker whose infant daughter was just named Kaeleigh, pronounced KAY-lee. Seriously, what does that accomplish except announcing to the world that you're a pretentious nutjob? If you want more examples, just check out Melissa is fashionably late! 's blog.)

I hate the name Ernie (Ernest), I truly do, and when taken all together, my whole name is even worse. It sounds pompous and dorky, which is fitting I guess, but I still hate it. But since I'm the personification of dichotomy it should come as no surprise that I'm proud to carry the name also. One of my favorite photographs was taken of my grandfather, my father, and myself, three generations of Ernie. It hangs above the mantle, or more accurately that space above the TV that I pretend is a mantle. Unfortunately four generations of Ernie won't exist in a single photo any time soon now that my grandfather has left us.

So that is the predetermined name of our firstborn son. Jodi doesn't seem to mind, except that there's no point thinking of baby names. For that reason she said I don't even get veto power on our other kid(s)'s names. That's a scary thought, because I'll be damned if any son of mine has some girly or wacko, hippie name. She already threw out "Liam" as a possibility, mostly just to taunt me. I'd sooner name our son Leroy than something as girly as Liam. She also mentioned Bartholomew, or Bart for short. That's entirely too similar to Bert, which would make my childhood misery of "Hey, Ernie, where's Bert?" into a cold, hard reality.

Thinking up baby names means thinking of babies, which is even scarier than having a son named Gaylord or Shiloh. I want kids, I really, really do, but it's the babies I could do without. Unfortunately Jodi is just a little thing, so I don't think we can keep the little rugrat stuffed in her womb until he's 4 or 5. Besides, I think that would make sex exceedingly uncomfortable. And almost pedophilic.

I just can't relate to babies or young toddlers. I can't do "baby talk." I have a hard enough time understanding someone who mumbles. I sure as hell can't decipher a bunch of nonsensical cooes and murmurs. One time in Maine I thought Jodi's nephew Luke was calling me "uncle" and I was a little excited. I repeated it and tried to have a conversation with him. We were interrupted by his mother coming into the room because she knew he actually "said" motorcycle and wanted his toy motorcycle. How the hell you get "motorcycle" from "uncle" is a mystery to me. When Jodi talks to him on the phone, he asks "Where's Oiny?" I would tell him, "Listen, kid, how many times do I have to tell you, no one with that name lives here. You might try Lord of the Rings or something."

I think I could get used to all that baby stuff though. Except for changing diapers, which is never going to happen. But the finances, oh God the finances! Jodi is ready to have babies yesterday, but I'm holding out until I win the lottery first, which is kind of difficult to do since I never play it.

We live in a two bedroom apartment, and one of those bedrooms is our office/scrapbooking room. The office half is my haven, my escape from the world, my little piece of sanity (or pleasurable insanity) and I'm not ready to give that up just yet. I'm not ready to turn into my father and come home from work to plop on the couch and watch Walker: Texas Ranger. I need my office for the sake of my sanity. Without it I'd be bored to death. And the world cannot handle a bored PC, as we all well know.

So having a baby means buying a house. That terrifies me. Real estate is more expensive here than anywhere in the county and most of the state. A house and babies will bury me in debt, and I'm still trying to climb out of some credit card debt already. I'm scared shitless about the whole prospect of getting a house and providing for another human. Jodi's ready to start popping out Mini Me's as soon as the rings are on our fingers, and I don't want to make her wait too long, but I don't know how the hell I'm going to pull it off.
April 20, 2007 at 8:46pm
April 20, 2007 at 8:46pm
#503051
NOTE: If you're a friend of mine (or Jodi's), please read this in its entirety, since part of it pertains to you.

Well the first batch of wedding invitations are being mailed out tomorrow. Unfortunately we had to get all the obligatory familial connections on the guest list first. I have a large family, and most of them suck, but they had to be invited, especially the ones who are likely to give a big gift. I also had to invite the immediate family, and some of those I would have rather not invited at all. Last year I had a falling out with my father's oldest sister and youngest brother, but apparently my family wants to make nice, so they're on the list, along with their annoying rugrats.

The thing is I have to feed all these people and supply wedding favors for them, so we had to watch the burgeoning guest list before it spiraled out of control. (A studly Sith lord does not have the budget one might expect.) Shockingly, despite my father's ever-growing list of family I barely know, we've managed to keep the list pretty reasonable. In fact, it has some wiggle room, especially considering we have some family we know are almost certainly not going to make it. That means we get to invite more friends.

I debated inviting a few people from work. I'm definitely friends with some of them, mostly in my own IT department, but then there others I dislike, so it would be hard drawing the line and could create some animosity in the workplace. I do enough of that here without involving coworkers. Plus I'm not too sure I want my coworkers knowing I'm having a pirate wedding. They might think I'm utterly awesome and start fawning over me at the office. I deserve it and all, but it wouldn't be right.

Besides, some of my best friends the coolest people are right here on Writing.com. So here's the deal. Jodi and I would love to extend an invitation to all of you... well, those of you who aren't reading right now because you loathe me and want to see what I'll say next. Unfortunately we can't really do that. However, there is room for more invites. So, if you really and truly would like to hang out with us as we express our love to one another and be a part of the most kickass wedding ever, and if you think you could actually make it, please let us know. Leave a comment, send either of us an email or IM, or whatever.

Obviously if we get a barrage of W.com'ers saying they could and would come to our wedding, we can't accommodate everyone, but we would invite as many as we could, giving preference of course to those we chat with the most via IM, email, or whatever. We'd especially love to see all you kickass people we met at Convention and those pals we unfortunately haven't gotten to meet yet! If you'd love to come but are afraid of imposing or some such nonsense, please let us know. Chances are you're someone we'd love to see at the wedding. I know it involves travel, so most of our online buds can't make it, but if you think you could, drop us a line. (And if you know you can't make it but wish you could, tell us that too; it's good to feel loved. *Bigsmile*)

I'm counting on our friends both online and off to make this wedding the party of a lifetime. And I swear, there won't even be any poo flinging! I won't rule farting out though once we're all staggering around. If you're on the fence about inquiring for an invite, just remember this: free rum (and pretty much every other form of alcohol)! Maybe we could even convince Sophy to come, so she could make the second best greatest margaritas ever! *Bigsmile*

Just think, we could turn it into our own sort of mini-convention... pirate-themed of course! *Bigsmile*
April 9, 2007 at 7:39pm
April 9, 2007 at 7:39pm
#500645
I never cared much for margaritas until the 2006 Writing.com Convention. At that glorious event, which was an eye opener in more ways than one, I discovered the bliss that is the margarita. Granted the Long Island Iced Tea will forever be enshrined at the top of my very exclusive list of "stuff I'd drink to get shit-faced," but the margarita came in a close second, edging out the Tequila Sunrise. My margarita de-virginization came at the hands of Sophy , who prepared margaritas slushy style as per her poem:

 How to Make the Perfect Margarita  (18+)
My recipe for friendship ... (Round 2 SLAM)
#865761 by Sophy


Not only did she make killer margaritas, but they were, as she so aptly put it, perfect. Oddly enough I've had other margaritas since and found that I prefer them on the rocks. In addition to being more manly, no frozen ones could compare to Sophy's. In fact, even the "on the rocks" margaritas didn't quite measure up. Sophy preached lime-aid, not some quick and easy margarita mix. After having the rest, I was inclined to agree with the best. Until now!

Not so long ago I discovered the Jose Cuervo brand of pre-made margaritas, a tequila-esque 1.75 liter bottle of simple heaven. It's shaped like the Jose Cuervo Gold jug but already comes mixed with lime juice and Triple Sec! Simply pour it in a glass, add some ice, and viola! alcoholic ecstacy! And, I'm afraid to admit, that yes, it is even better than Sophy's "perfect" margaritas.

I'm sorry, Sophy, but it's just not working anymore. I'm not feeling it. It's me, not you... actually no, it's the freakin' Jose Cuervo Margaritas!

This infomercial has been brought to you by the number 10 and the color Jose Cuervo Gold.
April 5, 2007 at 11:56am
April 5, 2007 at 11:56am
#499738
Earlier this week we had our first Little League get together. My father and I have both decided it's our last year of coaching. He's got 15 or so years in, and this will be my eleventh. This is the first time in more than a decade that we're not excited about the new season. It's time for a break, and I'm actually eager for it to be over, especially this year with all the wedding planning.

On Tuesday though I got a reminder why I've enjoyed coaching so much. One of our twelve-year-old players, one of the kids for whom we're sticking it out this year, had apparently just had a cast taken off his arm. I asked him why he needed the cast.

"Because I was attacked by ninjas," he said.

I think I cried a tear of joy. Then I told him he needed to hire some pirates.
April 4, 2007 at 6:03pm
April 4, 2007 at 6:03pm
#499583
I've had just about all I can take of MySpace. What a total piece of shit website. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, MySpace is the cesspool of the Internet. I only created a MySpace profile in the first place because Jodi loves it and wanted me to have one. Well, after I finish typing this, I'm off for one final trip to that cyber hellhole so I can delete my profile.

I thought I could deal with MySpace, ignore the dumb shit that goes on and fix the mess MySpace does to the computers, just to make Jodi happy. I never actually liked the site myself. I'd only check in once a week (or less) and discover nothing but a mailbox full of messages and friend requests from phony profiles trying to sell naked pictures and worse.

And for those of you who love MySpace but aren't exactly computer savvy, let me just inform you right now that MySpace is a spyware and virus feeding ground. It was created by dipshits who clearly know nothing about programming or security, but they know how to create a fad. So of course porn and virus mongers infest MySpace. When the website is actually working and isn't "down for maintenance" or whatever lame excuse they use when they're trying to get rid of viruses or recapture the site from a hacker, you're susceptible to untold parasites, both human and binary. If you don't want to royally fuck up your computer, don't go to MySpace.

I'm a computer guy and I've lived on the wild side before when it comes to computer viruses, so I figured I'd just deal with the repercussions. Well, after reinstalling windows twice in less than a month, I've had just about all I can take. The Windows XP machines are still kicking but are no doubt running slower due to MySpace spyware that I'm constantly uninstalling. The Windows ME machine though just can't handle whatever crap they're sticking on my PC.

So no more MySpace profile for me, and it's forbidden on the Windows ME machine. In fact, after today, I'm limiting it to one of the three computers in the house. I'd ban it altogether if Jodi didn't enjoy it so much.

No more profile for me. So if I disappear from your friends list (those of you on here), you'll know why. I highly recommend you do the same. The idiots running MySpace need to be held accountable for the shoddy, insecure, albeit free service they're offering. Though in reality, there's no such thing as a free lunch, and that shithole of a site proves it. My real online home is Writing.com, not the Internet's slum. Besides, if I really want a cool online profile, I could get to work on www.problematiccontent.com, which is fully customizable and way cooler.
March 28, 2007 at 9:46am
March 28, 2007 at 9:46am
#498088
I'm only responding to this leading entry to warn you all to never ever watch "The Breakfast Club." It is easily in the top 5 of all time most atrocious films, if you can even call it that. I won't even eat breakfast because it makes me think of that abomination. The truth of it is I've never even watched the debacle to completion because the gag reflex is simply too much to bare.

People talk about the star-studded cast. Huh, are you kidding me? Molly Ringwald? Her last bit of work was a cameo in "Another Teen Movie." Yeah, she's clearly an amazing actress. The thing is she was supposed to be the "princess" if I remember correctly. Since when is the stereotypical princess a total dog? I literally shit my pants every time I see her, and then I'm tempted to smear the crap in my eyes so she'll disappear. I've seen more attractive, toothless crack whores.

Then we got Emilio Estevez or however you spell his stage name. His crowning achievements are "Young Guns" and "The Might Ducks." What a cinematic genius!

How about Anthony Michael Hall? Besides "National Lampoon's Vacation," what has he done? He was in a TNT original playing Bill Gates and the USA original series "The Dead Zone." Give this man his Oscar!

I don't even remember the other characters except to know they were craptacular 80's child actors. By sheer definition that means they must have heroin addictions and stints as amateur porn stars. The whole cast of that shitty movie is the reason E! True Hollywood Story even exists. It's not a film, it's a train wreck. At least they get to make random appearances on VH1 shows that no one watches. Waitaminute, I take that back, they're not even "high" enough on the celebrity ladder to appear on "The Surreal Life."

The whole movie takes place in a cafeteria or something. They all sit around talking and talking and... well, that's basically it. That an entire movie could take place in a single scene amazes me. I guess we can blame "The Breakfast Club" for setting a precendent for such cinematic wonders as "The Phonebooth."

Is any part of this movie not designed to make us fall asleep or not designed to sterilize the nation with closeups of Molly Ringwald? Is there a single redeeming factor? Let's watch and find out... Okay, they're talking now. Arguing a little bit. Uh oh, here comes the principal! Okay, some more talking. Oh, more talking. Ooh, there's some masterfully crafted high schooler dialogue. And finally, some talking. Yeah, that was pretty much the gist of it. Thanks for filling us in on the angst of high school through a plethora of stereotypes, unbelievable dialogue, and hours of the dog-faced gremlin Molly Ringwald. My life is now complete.
March 28, 2007 at 7:46am
March 28, 2007 at 7:46am
#498070
I just have to plug someone else's masterpiece today. This is seriously one of the best items I've ever found on writing.com. I just wish I had thought of it first.

 Invalid Item 
This item number is not valid.
#1199989 by Not Available.
March 26, 2007 at 10:35am
March 26, 2007 at 10:35am
#497687
As a judge in "Invalid Item I'm only selectively responding to the leading entries. Basically I'm choosing the ones that require the least amount of effort on my part. This one here is a prime example because I don't really have to write anything, I just have to quote Billy Joel lyrics:

When you look into my eyes
And you see the crazy gypsy in my soul
It always comes as a surprise
When I feel my withered roots begin to grow
Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
That's all right, my love, 'cause you're my home

When you touch my weary head
And you tell me everything will be all right
You say, "Use my body for your bed
And my love will keep you warm throughout the night"
Well I'll never be a stranger and I'll never be alone
Whenever we're together, that's my home

Home can be the Pennsylvania Turnpike
Indiana's early morning dew
High up in the hills of California
Home is just another word for you

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
That's all right, my love, 'cause you're my home

If I travel all my life
And I never get to stop and settle down
Long as I have you by my side
There's a roof above and good walls all around
You're my castle, you're my cabin and my instant pleasure dome
I need you in my house 'cause you're my home

You're my home.


The aforementioned lyrics apply to Jodi of course. And maybe my plastic ninjas.
March 25, 2007 at 8:38pm
March 25, 2007 at 8:38pm
#497585
Ah shit, it's my turn for the leading entry for "Invalid Item. All day I've been pondering what I should write. I have a plethora of topics at hand, all blog-worthy but not a one of them long enough or coherent enough for a leading entry. Fortunately though I'm a judge this time, so it really doesn't matter how half-assed my entry is. In fact, throwing as much non-coordinating crap on the same page as possible is sure to give the peons contestants some response fodder. Excluding of course those few contestants who insist on completely ignoring the leading entries and instead write something they would have written anyway and then tying it back to the leading entry via some contrived, dubious, and possibly even obscure reference. (I'll inform you right now that you lose 50% of your points from me right off the top if you do that.)

Alas, that's just not my style, so I needed some inspiration. I did what any sane person would have done: I logged onto YouTube. For you poor saps still on dialup, I've been there, and I feel your pain. I offer my sincerest condolences and remind you that life sucks and then you die. But for those of you with orgasmic broadband connectivity, let's get this party started with a bang. This holiday classic is sure to get your creative juices flowing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BPb0po2jzfg

Yeah, so I lied--that really didn't inspire me at all. It did kick total ass though, so I just had to include it.

So because I'm uninspired today and pretty much too lazy and/or apathetic to crank away on ideas until midnight, how about I just provide a revelation I had today? In a nutshell, Olive Garden sucks so much ass. And not even hot ass, but dirty, scanky, street corner ass. At least that's my assumption. Some of you would certainly have a better idea what scanky ass tastes like.

Quite frankly I was shocked to make this discovery. I had heard so many good things about the Olive Garden. But after today I completely understand Sean Connery's hatred for Italians in "The Untouchables." (*Left* awesome movie reference inserted for the douchebags who don't want to really respond to my entry) It's easily the worst restaurant ever. Unless of course you're a pseudo-Italian or a hippie, not that their opinions matter anyway.

We walked in, amidst a crowd of snooty looking people, and requested a table for six. We were told we'd have a twenty minute wait. I quickly scanned the "bar," because I'll often go sit at the bar while I wait for my table. The "bar" though was a trendy patio style layout with hordes of wine racks and nothing else. It was like walking into a shitty indy film or a snooty wine tasting. I felt like I should take my Atlanta Braves cap off and randomly spout words like palette and... ah hell, I don't even know what other kinds of words prolific winos use. You know what winos are? Alcoholics with a penthouse.

I waited outside, because the stuffiness inside was... well, stuffy. Instead I sat on a metal bench listening to some wench complain to a tattooed friend about a third friend smoking too much. They were both smoking during the conversation of course. I can't blame Olive Garden for the trashy clientèle though.

Forty minutes passed and we still weren't seated. By this time we had decided to play games with the other patrons. Whenever snooty people walked by, my brother would loudly proclaim, "Mother, are you sure you don't want to defecate before we eat?" Much hilarity ensued, and that was actually the highlight of the trip to this forsaken, Italian hellhole. And then there was the pasty pale waitress that kept walking past to have a smoke. I told them all if we got Mrs. Edward Scissorhands for our waitress I was leaving. About that time we decided to find out why our wait was twice as long as earlier quoted.

The cold-hearted bitch that served as hostess, the same bitch who in all seriousness kept jacking up the bathroom temperatures to 90 degrees (this from a waiter in the bathroom), accused Jodi of trying to wait in the car or not paying attention when they called for us. Meanwhile that little device that vibrates when your table is ready had never gone off, and we had never left the lobby. Had I heard this exchange I would have wandered outside with the device and smashed it in the parking lot. No no no, I would have peed on it and then returned it! Yeah, definitely urination! But alas, I missed the bitchiness.

So then realizing they completely forgot about us, the servers miraculously found a table for us within a couple minutes. However, it was a table seated for 4, crammed in between two other tables. They wedged a couple more chairs in there and never bothered to set any more places for the two extra people. Assholes.

Our Cassanova waiter, who sported a fake accent and managed to flirt with every woman in the room despite being the gayest man alive, began to take our orders. I scanned the menu and saw a bunch of Italian shit. I guess I should have expected that coming in, but... oh wait! I did expect it! In fact, I thought I made it clear this was going to suck monkey balls. Sometimes it sucks being right all the time.

I ordered shrimp scampi, sans tomatoes, and planned to fill up on salad and the world famous breadsticks I had heard so much about just in case. The breadsticks are bread in the shape of a stick. That pretty much sums them up in all their glory. I've had more interesting bowel movements. Questionably more appetizing ones too. We requested a bowl of marinara sauce to drown compliment the breadsticks. The salad wasn't bad though, and by "not bad" I mean dry and relatively tasteless. And then came the scampi, which deserves its own paragraph.

Last I checked, alfredo sauce is the sticky, thick stuff that pretty much looks and feels like semen. Well, at Olive Garden apparently "garlic wine" scampi sauce is semen also, but without the sperm, clear-colored but just as sticky and nasty. Slick yellow stuff clung to the linguine and stuck to my fork. I equated it to the yellow gook you scrape off your teeth when you haven't brushed your teeth for a few days. The shrimp tasted good at least. Oh, but did I mention the fucking scallions? Yeah, the fucking scallions, all over the fucking dish! Did it mention them in the menu alongside the garlic, wine, tomatoes, shrimp, etc.? Oh no, not the scallions. Well, fuck you and your scallions, Olive Garden. Fuck. You. I spent 80% of my Olive Garden misadventure picking scallions off the top. Then I dove in and realized that white, nearly invisible, scallions were scattered throughout. That's when I pushed my plate aside and started shoving more breadsticks in the marinara boat. I was already grossed out anyway when I saw the pile of vomit on my companions' plates.

Even the bathrooms at Olive Garden suck. In addition to the oppressive heat, the urinals just plain suck. The world has given birth to many different kinds of urinals, but three types of urinals should be outlawed. 1) The trough: This is the long porcelain tub that stretches the length of the wall; everybody pees into the trough and it trickles down to the drain at the end. You usually find them at fairs and other backwoods locales. 2) The metal bucket: This is the interstate rest area urinal of choice in the South. It's a sheet metal monstrosity bolted to the wall that may or may not drain itself regularly. 3) The protruding urinal: Here's what Olive Garden had. It's a tiny little urinal that stretches perpendicular to the wall instead of parallel to it. The result is a wide open space for your junk to be viewed by any Olive Garden pervs and a target even smaller than a toilet! In a crowded mens room, proper etiquette is to keep your junk hidden. That means getting as close to the urinal as possible without touching. With this piece of shit, it stands so high and sticks out so far that it's impossible to keep the junk out of sight without scraping the bottom of your testicles against the porcelain. Considering the abundance of pubes floating in the bottom of these things, that's a technique some guys are willing to try. Add the toilet-sized target and you eliminate all the things that make urinals so great.

Clearly all this can mean only one thing: Italians suck. There, write about that!

P.S. If you're wondering about the title, I intentionally chose something completely unrelated so I can easily spot whether or not you actually read this entry. Using the title as your sole "inspiration" guarantees a low judging score from me.
March 21, 2007 at 8:59pm
March 21, 2007 at 8:59pm
#496737
For those of you who wonder about my work, here's some details from Monday, which was pretty typical as Mondays go.

First I laid anchor in the coastal settlement of Gibraltar and told the Spanish governor I'd escort his sloop to the port stronghold Santa Marta. We sailed close to the coast, and as soon as Gibraltar was beyond the horizon I sunk that Spanish bastard into the bottom of the Atlantic. And I giggled with glee. The English will probably give me a commendation, maybe even some more land, but it's all in a day's work for a notorious privateer like myself.

After a while I grew bored conquering Spanish settlements with my ragtag band of marauders, so I sailed north and west, into the gulf. Across open water I spotted the infamous Queen Anne's Revenge, the flagship of the dread pirate Edward "Blackbeard" Teach. I totally ruined his shit with my smaller Brigantine dubbed Invincible. After I sent Blackbeard to Davey Jones's locker, I claimed his ship as my own flagship and renamed it "Blackbeard's Folly." That dumb bastard must have been crazy to play chicken with me. I went on to mop the decks with William Kidd, Calico Jack Rackham, and Jean Lafitte. Frankly they disappointed me.

When I tired of hunting pirates and plundering every galleon in the Spanish Main, I romanced the the busty governor's daughter. At least that's what I call Jodi when we're role playing. She doesn't mind the tricorn hat I wear to bed, but I think the corset is starting to annoy her.
March 20, 2007 at 9:10am
March 20, 2007 at 9:10am
#496433
Kendra wonders how her life might be different and even better if she had made different choices earlier in her life. She points out that she made the right decisions at the time but ponders if they're still the right decisions knowing what she knows now. It makes me realize once again that I do everything ass backward compared to everyone else.

Throughout the short course of my life I know I made all kinds of bad decisions. I spurned opportunities and chances at happiness. I ran from possibilities and anything that might further advance myself. I retreated into my own little world and wondered about what might have been. All because I was afraid. Looking back not so long ago I figured I had made all the wrong choices.

Now I wonder where I might be if I had made the {i]right choices. No, that's not quite right either. Rather I wonder if I'd be where I am now if I had made the "right" choices back then. I'm as happy as I can possibly be. Sure there's always some financial stress lingering, but that's inevitable short of being independently wealthy, and it's insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I wouldn't want to be anywhere other than where I am right now. It turns out making bad decisions led me to exactly where I want to be. I wonder if all those fears that hindered me until now were part of a grander scheme, some cosmic plan to eventually bring me happiness.

Suppose I had made the "right" decisions back then, the "smart" decisions as it were. Would I still be living comfortably with a woman who completes me in ways I never thought possible, or would I be rich and alone? Would I be getting married this summer to someone I could previously only dream about, or would I be on my second divorce because I wasn't picky enough? Would I still be working a job I enjoy, or I would be stuck in a highrise in the city with stress up to my eyeballs? Would I still be spending weekends with people and family I love, or would I be holed up in my apartment miles away like my more ambitious friend in Philadelphia?

People would be stunned at some of the "bad" choices I've made and some of the opportunities I've turned down. They'd call me an idiot, and in fact they did. I got the last laugh though, because when it comes right down to it, life is perfect. No regrets and no what ifs. I guess I made the right decisions afterall.

Oh, and because writing this response entry reminded how thankful and lucky I am, allow me this moment of sappiness...

I love you, Jodi. *Heart*
March 19, 2007 at 1:23pm
March 19, 2007 at 1:23pm
#496229
Dammit, I want work to be done. I want to be home so I can play my new pirate computer game. It's awesome. You sail from port to port, either befriending or angering the nations colonizing the Carribbean, capturing ships and plunder along the way. It's sort of like Oregon Trail meets Sim City meets Warcraft meets Pirates of the Carribbean. It kicks so much ass. I played for three hours last night . I should have have stopped at 11PM since it was a work night, but Jodi didn't enforce my bedtime so I stayed up a while longer.

Oh, did I mention I played this game after I made my own pirate hat? I got a wool, felt blank about a week ago. A "blank" is a wide, flat-brimmed hat with no real shape or embellishment. Then with a steaming teakettle, leather cording, super glue, an exacto knife, and Jodi's supervision, I folded that sucker into my first hand-made tricorner pirate hat. Since I already own three authentic wool pirate hats, not including the ones I'm currently holding for the groomsmen, and with a fourth on the way, I folded this one in a different style. It came out pretty decent for my first attempt, but I definitely need some work on pinning the sides up with the leather stitching. Even so, it was good enough to wear around the house the remainder of the night. I may even decorate it with marabou trim or a white ostrich plume. For now though it's sitting atop Darth Vader's head in my office, next to the Star Wars Collectors Edition PEZ set.

I would have made the hat earlier but I didn't have the leather cording. That was a good thing though because it gave us an excuse to go out shopping yesterday. In the search for leather and glue, we managed to spend $300 on wedding stuff, mostly all of a piratical nature. I don't deal well with financial stress, so I drowned my sorrows in the 20" chocolate bunny I got at a local pharmacy. Imagine my disappointment when I realized the damn thing was hollow! I took it out on my co-shoppers by farting several times in the store, much to their horror and embarrassment.

That was pretty much the sum of my weekend. The only other noteworthy experience, besides playing board games on Saint Patty's Day, was when I drew Jodi a love you note on the shower wall with my new bath crayons. Because a picture is worth a thousand words and because I love that girl so damn much, I couldn't settle for just a hastily scribbled "I love you!" that would likely drizzle down the porcelain in a blend of suds and dirty bath water. Instead I drew her a special something, and I have to admit it was pretty darn special. Frankly I'm sad we can't hang it up on the fridge.

The artwork detailed me in all my stick figured glory protectively standing in front of my fair maiden with a large misshapen heart dangling over our heads. Why was I standing in front of her, you ask? Because I was defending her of course, defending her from the mean ol' brown monkey that was flinging three smelly bits of poo at us! Who says chivalry is dead?!

Oh, this wasn't supposed to be a weekend recap; it was supposed to be a response to "when did you grow up?" Hmmmm, have you read the rest of this entry? I'm not sure I really need to answer that. In fact, I'm not sure I can.

Sure I have responsibilities. Sure I work and pay bills and contribute to supporting the two of us. Sure I check out the news... online... on fark.com... or when someone links a story about three-eyed cats in his blog. Sure I vote and stay in touch with current events. Sure I aspire to do fancy grownup things. Sure I don't waste time partying and boozing it up when I could be combatting the ninja menace in my toilet. Sure I'm counting down to the 30. But I'm not grownup, and I don't ever want to be.

Old people are sad, miserable, and boring. (Take elizm446 for example.) I can't think of a single reason I need to "grow up" to survive. Some have said becoming a parent made them "grow up." That ain't happening with me. Oh, sure I'll care for the little rugrats and provide for them and what not, but that doesn't mean I have to grow up. I mean c'mon, my kids get to see wedding pictures and say "my daddy is a pirate!" How freakin' awesome is that?! Sure they'll demand I take down the wedding photos and stuff them in a box when they hit puberty, but that's when I'll let them invite friends over and then wander out in full pirate regalia or maybe set ninjas all around the house. They'll be mortified, but I bet their friends will laugh. With me or at me makes no difference.

Life's too short to grow up. As we get senile we regress to our childhood anyway, so we might as well embrace it while we can still remember it. (That goes for wearing the diapers too--I propose we all buy some Depends right now.) Like a wise man once said, "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than die with the saints."

I wanna be a dragon when I grow up...
March 19, 2007 at 11:37am
March 19, 2007 at 11:37am
#496196
... I just paid everyone off for their blog comments over the past two weeks. It was a lackluster, abysmal showing to be sure. I know you folks can do better. But there, it's done. Now away, you ungrateful sons o'bitches! *Pthb*
March 13, 2007 at 10:17am
March 13, 2007 at 10:17am
#494767
The following advertisment is rhetorically addressed to wedding guests, not my readership or Writing.com in general.

People have been asking when and where we're going to register for our upcoming wedding. Well, people, the answer is never and no where. Why you ask? Well, what I'm about to tell you may make me sound like a selfish bastard, but frankly I don't care. You see, the answer is simple: we don't want gifts from any store, we want cash.

Jodi and I have been living together for over a year. Don't you think if we really needed wooden spoons, bath towels, and other domestic accoutrements it would have been an issue before now? The fact is we barely have enough room now to contain all our crap. Those few items necessary for domestic bliss that we didn't already have when we moved in together were provided to us this past Christmas. That means any other crap our wedding guests get us will be shoved into closets, rarely used, regifted, or even sold at a yard sale.

People ask us what we need. Well, the only thing we actually need is money. Last week I spent $700 on wedding bands! This shit ain't cheap, folks. By the time it's all said and done I expect this wedding will cost a minimum of $8,000. We're doing the bulk of that on our own, so much so that we'll fall behind on bills, ruin our credit, and dismiss any notion of a honeymoon until at least 2008. We'll be dead broke just as we're ready to start thinking about having kids. Woohoo!

So what would we rather have: a bunch of kitchen shit we'll never use or cold hard cash that we can use to recover from the thousands of dollars we're dumping into a one day event? It's pretty clear to me, people, and if that makes me selfish and ungrateful, then so be it.

If you really insist on buying us another spatula to jam into our overfilled kitchen drawers, at least pick out a stainless steel one. That way it will hurt more and might even cut you up when I smack you in the face with it. Or if you really must get us another crockpot we'll never use, make sure it's a marketable brand, preferably something in a shiny box that people coming to our yard sale will notice. At least that way we might recoup some of the rental fee for that portapotty we're getting so your nasty ass won't have to go inside. If you're looking to get us fine China, we really like the paper Chinette ones. That's because we hate doing dishes, so you could always buy us a portable dishwasher, but my guess is you're too cheap for that. Remember it though when you're shoveling down your meal at $20 a plate.

In all seriousness, what we really need is money. I won't lie and say we'll appreciate all the other gifts, because I know I won't. Some of them I probably will, but I suspect 98% of them will be near copies of crap we already have. As a general rule, if you get us anything that resembles an item found at Bed, Bath, & Beyond, you can count on getting it back for Christmas, partly because we'll be too broke to shop for Christmas and partly because you're total lack of consideration and/or originality doesn't really deserve something new.

You're welcome to get us something truly original, unique, special, etc. Those things we'll appreciate, provided they show actual thought and aren't found on a wedidng registry. Granted it won't make me nearly as appreciative as a nice check, but at least the thank you note will be sincere.

I'd honestly rather receive a 10 dollar bill than a $50 Ginzu knife set. Ginzu knives don't pay the bills unless I become an assassin. Keep that in mind.
March 8, 2007 at 6:49pm
March 8, 2007 at 6:49pm
#493535
Some days I have to sit back and just ponder how very lucky I am. There are moments that I enjoy life in ways most people will never experience. Sometimes I write about them here, like sex and BLTs, which is roughly as close as one can get to Heaven without dying or having sex whilst watching Star Wars (as Robert Waltz so accurately pointed out).

My life is filled with grand moments that every true man should enjoy. Jodi is a large part of that. Even when she's not directly contributing (eg sex and BLTs), sharing my life with her has given me a happiness and sense of freedom I cherish. Though she would probably say I'm just regressing to my childhood. I daresay with her in my life I'm ever more problematic. But with a lot less angry and a lot more love of course. I am truly blessed.

Okay, so by now you're wondering why I'm getting all sappy and what not. Well, of course I have to share one of those awesome man moments. It happened just minutes ago in fact. It's not quite sex and BLTs but it's close. Probably right up there with toilet ninjas. In fact, speaking of toilets, I riddle you this, dear readers: is there anything more kickass than taking a crap whilst reading the Sunday comics and wearing a brand new pirate hat?! I submit that there is not.

PS I'm awarding the GPs for blog comments at the end of the two week period, so keep those comments coming.
March 5, 2007 at 6:31pm
March 5, 2007 at 6:31pm
#492755

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