Well, I hope everyone had a nice week. Maybe reconnected with old friends, made some new ones, and stopped for a brief moment or two to enjoy the little things that make life worth living.
Now that we got that shit out of the way, let's dive into this week's edition of Friday Hate:
Socks.
I fucking hate wearing socks, and by extension, the shoes that come with them.
If you read my earlier post about Winter, you would see that the two go hand in hand.
I'm a busy man. Between my job, the writing I do for free (including this little ditty here), and generally living the life, who has time to find a pair of matching socks, sit down, put them on, put my shoes on, tie them up.
What the fuck is that? We live in 2009. Shoes should put themselves on and tie themselves. Or I should be able to put my feet in a tub of goo, that will harden itself into a temporary shoe.
Summer, now that's the money season. When I didn't have a summer job, I once went an entire summer without putting socks on. Literally.
I also once went another summer by only putting socks on for work, and one other time, when I went to an arcade in Maine.
I would actually take a pay cut to be able to wear sandals every day to work. You can't put a price on comfort. (If my boss is reading this: A) Please don't read any more of this blog; B) If you do, please don't fire me and; C) Don't cut my pay.)
In a related hate-related note: I hate wearing dirty socks. And to me, dirty means once they're off, they're dirty.
The first time I went to Manhattan, I hadn't packed enough socks, so I spent a miserable day in dirty socks. Nothing feels worse than that.
From then on, I usually pack 1.5 pairs of socks for every day I am to spend away, and I round up the .5. So on a three day trip, I would take 4.5 pairs, rounded up to 5. You can't be too careful these days.
Let's crunch some numbers.
Let's assume it takes a total of three minutes to find matching socks, put them on, then put your shoes on. Add another minute for taking the shoes off at a later point.
Let's also assume that you only put your shoes on once, and only take them off once.
Now, assume you work a standard work week, five days a week, and that's the only time you wear shoes and socks.
Let's assume you work 48 weeks out of the year, average. So, five times a week, 48 weeks a year, times four minutes of shoe/sock nonsense.
That's 960 minutes, or 16 hours a year. Might not sound like much, right?
If you start work when you turn 22, retire at age 65, that's 43 years. 16 hours times 43 years equals 688 hours, or about 29 days.
That's almost a month of your life spent putting on shoes and socks. And I was very conservative in my estimates.
Why, that's almost as much wasted time as the time I took to figure all of those numbers out.
In conclusion, I hate socks. And you, I hate you too.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
A One-Night Stand with Sweet Lady Blacksburg
Occasionally, these vagabond shoes (Birkenstock, by the way) feel the need to roam. They feel the need to experience new and exotic locales, to drink deeply from this shallow cup of life of which we know not how deep it goes.
Basically, I wanted to get drunk in a different ZIP code.
So I decided to journey to the town where I cut my drinking teeth, Blacksburg, Va. To sweeten the pot (as if it needed sweetening, it was plenty dank already), there was a beer pong tournament going on, and I was planning on winning it.
This was just a one-night trip mind you, I left around 3 p.m. Saturday, and left Blacksburg around noon Sunday. But there was plenty of time to drink.
First stop? El Rodeo, a Mexican restaurant where the tequila flows like wine and the enchiladas are served up hot and fresh.
They have famous margaritas there, called the Jumbo Texas. You know how margaritas are generally a greenish hue? Well, these are golden-colored, the color of the finest agave fermented deliciousness.
I didn't indulge in a Jumbo Texas this night, for I wanted to stay sharp (well, as sharp as possible) for the Beer Pong Tourney, so I helped myself to the double X's.
The place was packed, as it always is. Years ago, the lackadaisical attitude when it comes to checking IDs gave the place quite the reputations, and though several ABC sanctions has made them much more active in preventing underage drinkers, it still was a hot spot.
Nearby our table was a group of African-Americans, who were doing the best they could to make everyone's dining experience all about them. There was picture taking, and screaming, and incredibly loud, obnoxious laughter.
When the Outkast song, "Hey Ya!" came over the speakers (no one said Mexicans were up to date on the latest club bangers), the entire table decided to sing along, incresibly loudly.
I felt like walking up to them and saying, "Don't you know that one of you is now in the White House? Have some respect fo yourself."
But as I said, I only had a beer or two, and my non-tequila-lubricated mouth wasn't about to cause a scene.
The dinner hits every spot except two: sweet sweet victory, and sweet sweet ejac....uh, never mind.
So we get to the house, and enter ourselves in the tournament. After a warm up game of pong, and a warm up game of foosball (you never know), it was on till the break of dawn.
The tourney was double-elimination and there were 23 teams, which meant that the winner would have to win at least five games to take home the pot (which, at half of the total collected ($10 per team) would equal about $115, or $57.50 per partner, which isn't bad for a night of free drinking), which is no small task.
My partner and I plow through the first three games like a fat kid attacking a pickup truck made of ham.
Since there are so many teams, there is often up to a half hour between games, even with three tables going. Since it's not like I am going to not drink between games, many personal beers were consumed between matches. And this is where the downfall begins...
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
In between games, me and a few people decided to play some card games. We started off with a classic entitled, "Fuck the Dealer."
Like an enema, it's simple and to the point. The dealer holds a card, the person gets two guesses as to what it is, and if the card is guessed, the dealer drinks, otherwise the guesser drinks. If three people guess wrong, the person to the dealer's left is the new dealer. As the deck is worked through, the odds become much smaller, and someone gets fucked. Good stuff.
Except we were taking the game literally. When the dealer went to go refill his beer, we looked at the cards. When he got back, we guessed every fucking card. We were smart, sometimes we did it on the first guess, sometimes the second. Needless to say, he got fucked.
Playing the game was this chick named Brandy (that's Brandy with a 'y', because, and I quote, "if it was spelled with an 'i', then I would be a slut). And this bitch decided that the game would be the perfect time to toss off some zingers.
Which is all well and good, hell, I'm as much of a fan of a good zinger as any one, except these pointed barbs were aimed at your truly.
Not that I mind that either. You've got to be able to take it if you can dish it out. At least, that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting in the fetal position naked under a cold shower, undeserving of such luxuries as hot water, wondering if I've finally hit the bottom.
But she hit where I'm most sensitive. No, not the nuts. That sort of thing only fills me with the most delightful mix of pain and pleasure that no amount of black tar heroin can match. And I've tried, believe you me.
No, she hit me in the ol' facial hair department. I've already discussed my self-loathing in this respect. So it should come to no surprise that being called "Patch Adams" was a bit much. You know, for my patchy-ass beard.
Also, and I quote, I believe this was uttered, "I would probably shoot myself in the face if I grew a beard like that."
Listen here Cunty McFaceFuck, I can't help it. In fact, I'll let your old pal Moe Szylak show you what happened next: (substitute "big ears" with "patchy beard" and the aforementioned Cunty McFaceFuck for Bart Simpson.
Needless to say, I was rattled.
What followed next was a shame spiral which included a blackout, and two straight losses in the beer pong tournament. Did that bitch have anything to do with it?
No, because I didn't remember that exchange until I checked my phone much later, and found I had written unintelligible garbage, that I decoded into the story about the chick. Who knows, it might never have happened.
So let that be a lesson to you. Don't.....uh.......don't....well, you probably shouldn't......uh....
(/eject)
Basically, I wanted to get drunk in a different ZIP code.
So I decided to journey to the town where I cut my drinking teeth, Blacksburg, Va. To sweeten the pot (as if it needed sweetening, it was plenty dank already), there was a beer pong tournament going on, and I was planning on winning it.
This was just a one-night trip mind you, I left around 3 p.m. Saturday, and left Blacksburg around noon Sunday. But there was plenty of time to drink.
First stop? El Rodeo, a Mexican restaurant where the tequila flows like wine and the enchiladas are served up hot and fresh.
They have famous margaritas there, called the Jumbo Texas. You know how margaritas are generally a greenish hue? Well, these are golden-colored, the color of the finest agave fermented deliciousness.
I didn't indulge in a Jumbo Texas this night, for I wanted to stay sharp (well, as sharp as possible) for the Beer Pong Tourney, so I helped myself to the double X's.
The place was packed, as it always is. Years ago, the lackadaisical attitude when it comes to checking IDs gave the place quite the reputations, and though several ABC sanctions has made them much more active in preventing underage drinkers, it still was a hot spot.
Nearby our table was a group of African-Americans, who were doing the best they could to make everyone's dining experience all about them. There was picture taking, and screaming, and incredibly loud, obnoxious laughter.
When the Outkast song, "Hey Ya!" came over the speakers (no one said Mexicans were up to date on the latest club bangers), the entire table decided to sing along, incresibly loudly.
I felt like walking up to them and saying, "Don't you know that one of you is now in the White House? Have some respect fo yourself."
But as I said, I only had a beer or two, and my non-tequila-lubricated mouth wasn't about to cause a scene.
The dinner hits every spot except two: sweet sweet victory, and sweet sweet ejac....uh, never mind.
So we get to the house, and enter ourselves in the tournament. After a warm up game of pong, and a warm up game of foosball (you never know), it was on till the break of dawn.
The tourney was double-elimination and there were 23 teams, which meant that the winner would have to win at least five games to take home the pot (which, at half of the total collected ($10 per team) would equal about $115, or $57.50 per partner, which isn't bad for a night of free drinking), which is no small task.
My partner and I plow through the first three games like a fat kid attacking a pickup truck made of ham.
Since there are so many teams, there is often up to a half hour between games, even with three tables going. Since it's not like I am going to not drink between games, many personal beers were consumed between matches. And this is where the downfall begins...
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
In between games, me and a few people decided to play some card games. We started off with a classic entitled, "Fuck the Dealer."
Like an enema, it's simple and to the point. The dealer holds a card, the person gets two guesses as to what it is, and if the card is guessed, the dealer drinks, otherwise the guesser drinks. If three people guess wrong, the person to the dealer's left is the new dealer. As the deck is worked through, the odds become much smaller, and someone gets fucked. Good stuff.
Except we were taking the game literally. When the dealer went to go refill his beer, we looked at the cards. When he got back, we guessed every fucking card. We were smart, sometimes we did it on the first guess, sometimes the second. Needless to say, he got fucked.
Playing the game was this chick named Brandy (that's Brandy with a 'y', because, and I quote, "if it was spelled with an 'i', then I would be a slut). And this bitch decided that the game would be the perfect time to toss off some zingers.
Which is all well and good, hell, I'm as much of a fan of a good zinger as any one, except these pointed barbs were aimed at your truly.
Not that I mind that either. You've got to be able to take it if you can dish it out. At least, that's what I tell myself when I'm sitting in the fetal position naked under a cold shower, undeserving of such luxuries as hot water, wondering if I've finally hit the bottom.
But she hit where I'm most sensitive. No, not the nuts. That sort of thing only fills me with the most delightful mix of pain and pleasure that no amount of black tar heroin can match. And I've tried, believe you me.
No, she hit me in the ol' facial hair department. I've already discussed my self-loathing in this respect. So it should come to no surprise that being called "Patch Adams" was a bit much. You know, for my patchy-ass beard.
Also, and I quote, I believe this was uttered, "I would probably shoot myself in the face if I grew a beard like that."
Listen here Cunty McFaceFuck, I can't help it. In fact, I'll let your old pal Moe Szylak show you what happened next: (substitute "big ears" with "patchy beard" and the aforementioned Cunty McFaceFuck for Bart Simpson.
Needless to say, I was rattled.
What followed next was a shame spiral which included a blackout, and two straight losses in the beer pong tournament. Did that bitch have anything to do with it?
No, because I didn't remember that exchange until I checked my phone much later, and found I had written unintelligible garbage, that I decoded into the story about the chick. Who knows, it might never have happened.
So let that be a lesson to you. Don't.....uh.......don't....well, you probably shouldn't......uh....
(/eject)
Monday Links: 1/26
In honor of the recent Oscar nominations, I'll let the late Heath Ledger intro this week's edition of Monday Links.
- Rosetta stone, or rape?. Rape or Rosetta Stone?
- Alright ladies, I don't want to hear any complaints when we check out your sweater puppies. Turns out it's good for us.
- And if she complains? Samurai sword that bitch.
- There were so many possibilities for bad headlines when it comes to the inaugural balls. Here is your winner.
- Traffic has alwasys fascinated me, especially the phenomenon of backup with no visible sign. This is an interesting visual on what causes that.
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Great Mouse Detective
I have a NetFlix membership, and I love it. Not only to I get to stick it to those fuckstains over at Blockbuster video, but it allows me to......
I don't know how to finish that sentence. Fuck you Blockbuster.
Actually, I do, but I think the above sentence was funnier, so I'll let it slide. NetFlix allows me to put random-ass movies that I haven't seen in years into my queue.
Recently I got the Disney film, The Great Mouse Detective, which I remember seeing in the theater as a smooth young boy.
It features Vincent Price as Professor Ratigan, probably the best villain ever for Disney, at least when it comes to pure voice acting.
I will always remember being terrified at this scene.
Notice the drunk mouse who eventually makes a drunken mistake that costs him his life.
I was convinced that alcohol was the Devil's Mouthwash, because the fact that the mouse actually dies terrified me. I never wanted to ever drink something that would make me do stupid things.
Did the eventual nightmares of that mouse's death eventually lead me to start drinking whiskey at the tender age of 9, just so I could get some dreamless sleep? Sure, but that's besides the point.
I don't know how to finish that sentence. Fuck you Blockbuster.
Actually, I do, but I think the above sentence was funnier, so I'll let it slide. NetFlix allows me to put random-ass movies that I haven't seen in years into my queue.
Recently I got the Disney film, The Great Mouse Detective, which I remember seeing in the theater as a smooth young boy.
It features Vincent Price as Professor Ratigan, probably the best villain ever for Disney, at least when it comes to pure voice acting.
I will always remember being terrified at this scene.
Notice the drunk mouse who eventually makes a drunken mistake that costs him his life.
I was convinced that alcohol was the Devil's Mouthwash, because the fact that the mouse actually dies terrified me. I never wanted to ever drink something that would make me do stupid things.
Did the eventual nightmares of that mouse's death eventually lead me to start drinking whiskey at the tender age of 9, just so I could get some dreamless sleep? Sure, but that's besides the point.
Homeowner's Associations: The Bane of Humanity
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Friday Hate: 1/23
This week's edition of Friday Hate is about:
People who claimed on Tuesday, "This is the first time I've been proud of my country in eight years."
What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't get to choose when you are proud of the country that you live in.
Actually, you do. And that's the beauty of American. It's the same thing as the whole "Flag burning vs. people who died so you can burn the flag" thing. But that doesn't mean it's not a dick move.
Don't mistake this for a political rant, because it's not.
It's like being a fair-weather fan in sports. Not to trivialize the whole thing, but nobody likes a front-runner. Regardless of what you think of the president, you should always at least have respect for the president.
The people who say that are the same people who would boo President Bush when he appeared at public functions. It's one thing to not agree with politics, and let's face it, usually around hald of the country won't agree with a particular person's politics, it's quite another to show blatant disrespect to the leader of the free world.
There isn't a politician on this earth that I can't stand more than Hillary Clinton, but if she had been elected president (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit), I wouldn't dreamed of booing her under any circumstances.
It is interesting to observe in the opening days of the Obama administration that the country has seemed to rediscover its fascination with the highest office in the land.
I do think American needs to feel th romance that comes with being president again. For whatever reason (okay, I think we all know the reason(s)), the personal life of the president has lost its luster.
It began before Bush though. When Clinton was impeached, the natural charisma that comes with being president was diluted by the legal process. I think it led to Bush, a guy that seemed like a cool guy to grab a beer with, getting the chance.
For a while, his daughters' dalliances in D.C. were front page news, but since then world events have overshadowed his personal life, to the point that it barely made a splash when one of them got married.
With Obama, you have two young daughters who will spend their teenage years (and maybe beyond) in the national spotlight, and unless something goes awry, it will be hard to turn away.
Speaking of Michelle Obama, a brief and concluding side note: Doesn't she seem like she is a total bitch when the cameras are off?
Sure, she puts on a good face, but she strikes me as an ice queen. Not an ice queen like Hillary, because I don't think Michelle has any political aspirations beyond being first lady.
She just has something in her face that suggests that if the slightest thing goes wrong, she will smile and laugh in the spotlight, and then hand out a first-class ass-reaming in the back room.
I've heard this rumor from people I know who have been close to them, and I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't hope to see some sort of caught-in-the-act moment pop up on YouTube, a la Bill O' Reilly and Chris Berman.
People who claimed on Tuesday, "This is the first time I've been proud of my country in eight years."
What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't get to choose when you are proud of the country that you live in.
Actually, you do. And that's the beauty of American. It's the same thing as the whole "Flag burning vs. people who died so you can burn the flag" thing. But that doesn't mean it's not a dick move.
Don't mistake this for a political rant, because it's not.
It's like being a fair-weather fan in sports. Not to trivialize the whole thing, but nobody likes a front-runner. Regardless of what you think of the president, you should always at least have respect for the president.
The people who say that are the same people who would boo President Bush when he appeared at public functions. It's one thing to not agree with politics, and let's face it, usually around hald of the country won't agree with a particular person's politics, it's quite another to show blatant disrespect to the leader of the free world.
There isn't a politician on this earth that I can't stand more than Hillary Clinton, but if she had been elected president (I just threw up in my mouth a little bit), I wouldn't dreamed of booing her under any circumstances.
It is interesting to observe in the opening days of the Obama administration that the country has seemed to rediscover its fascination with the highest office in the land.
I do think American needs to feel th romance that comes with being president again. For whatever reason (okay, I think we all know the reason(s)), the personal life of the president has lost its luster.
It began before Bush though. When Clinton was impeached, the natural charisma that comes with being president was diluted by the legal process. I think it led to Bush, a guy that seemed like a cool guy to grab a beer with, getting the chance.
For a while, his daughters' dalliances in D.C. were front page news, but since then world events have overshadowed his personal life, to the point that it barely made a splash when one of them got married.
With Obama, you have two young daughters who will spend their teenage years (and maybe beyond) in the national spotlight, and unless something goes awry, it will be hard to turn away.
Speaking of Michelle Obama, a brief and concluding side note: Doesn't she seem like she is a total bitch when the cameras are off?
Sure, she puts on a good face, but she strikes me as an ice queen. Not an ice queen like Hillary, because I don't think Michelle has any political aspirations beyond being first lady.
She just has something in her face that suggests that if the slightest thing goes wrong, she will smile and laugh in the spotlight, and then hand out a first-class ass-reaming in the back room.
I've heard this rumor from people I know who have been close to them, and I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't hope to see some sort of caught-in-the-act moment pop up on YouTube, a la Bill O' Reilly and Chris Berman.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Self-Loathing: Hairlessness
I know I'm not what's considered a manly man. I don't hunt, I don't know shit about cars, and besides my knowledge of electrical equipment (thank you summer work in college) I'm not particularly handy.
But none of that fills me with shame. My lack of hair does.
Not hair on my head. Those of you who know me in real life no that I have no problem in that department. My hair doesn't grow long, it grows out.
Bald people hate me, because I have the kind of thick, out of control hair that they would love to take the place of their pale dome-skin, but alas, it isn't to be.
No, it's my lack of body hair, specifically on my armpits, legs and arms.
When I was in middle school, many of my friends began getting five o' clock shadows and hairy legs, yet mine remained covered with pale, transparent hairs.
I remember the first time I became aware of this. It was summer time, and me and several friends from my neighborhood were at the community pool.
As the mandatory 10 minutes break came on, we all ran to the hot tub, which only had room for eighty percent of us.
One of the older kids devised a way to decide who could get in the tub.
"Everyone with armpit hair can get in the hot tub," he said.
Slowly ten pairs of arms lifted up, and everyone began looking around to see which hairless wonder was going to spend the next eight minutes outside of the hot tub.
You guessed it. Yours truly was one of them. In fact, I had the least out of anyone, even the sixth grader that sat out with me.
I still hear their laughter in my darkest nightmares.
As the years progressed, My legs grew sufficiently hairy, my balls became groundhog-like, but my face never came around.
Even while in college, I never really had to shave more than once a week.
And then, a few months before my twenty-fifth birthday, I think I finally hit puberty. The number of hairs adorning my chest grew from one (literally, there was one hair. One.) to an even baker's dozen.
And finally, about a month and a half (okay, exactly a month and a half) before I turned 25, I went after a lifelong goal of mine: to grow a beard.
Supposedly you aren't supposed to shave at all for six weeks, and then you can trim your beard accordingly. So I did that.
Through most of the six weeks, I looked like this:
This is Gary from Team America, as he gets some sort of disguise to make him look Arabic. Notice the patchy-ass beard. That was me.
Though finally, I think my beard is semi-(read: not) respectable enough. It's still patchy below the jawline.
But I enjoy having a beard. Not only does it make me look hungover every single day, but it makes me feel like more of a man that I ever have.
You see, while some people get five o' clock shadow without shaving for a day or so, mine takes about a week.
And it quickly morphs into badass, Sonny Crockett-looking stubble, to Patches McGee over here. And that's no fun.
In the initial phase of not shaving, one of my roommates said he would do the same, After a week, he looked like fucking Grizzly Adams, and I looked like the above picture.
But hairiness is a mixed blessing I think. No one wants to be wearing a sweater, even when they're shirtless. I know people like that. In fact, I'm grateful for my lack of chest hair, and except for a little bit around my belly button, I don't have that much.
I'll pause to let all the ladies reading this pleasure themselves at that image.
..and we're back. That didn't take long.
As I was saying, I never wanted to have a mane of chest hair like Austin Powers.
But none of that fills me with shame. My lack of hair does.
Not hair on my head. Those of you who know me in real life no that I have no problem in that department. My hair doesn't grow long, it grows out.
Bald people hate me, because I have the kind of thick, out of control hair that they would love to take the place of their pale dome-skin, but alas, it isn't to be.
No, it's my lack of body hair, specifically on my armpits, legs and arms.
When I was in middle school, many of my friends began getting five o' clock shadows and hairy legs, yet mine remained covered with pale, transparent hairs.
I remember the first time I became aware of this. It was summer time, and me and several friends from my neighborhood were at the community pool.
As the mandatory 10 minutes break came on, we all ran to the hot tub, which only had room for eighty percent of us.
One of the older kids devised a way to decide who could get in the tub.
"Everyone with armpit hair can get in the hot tub," he said.
Slowly ten pairs of arms lifted up, and everyone began looking around to see which hairless wonder was going to spend the next eight minutes outside of the hot tub.
You guessed it. Yours truly was one of them. In fact, I had the least out of anyone, even the sixth grader that sat out with me.
I still hear their laughter in my darkest nightmares.
As the years progressed, My legs grew sufficiently hairy, my balls became groundhog-like, but my face never came around.
Even while in college, I never really had to shave more than once a week.
And then, a few months before my twenty-fifth birthday, I think I finally hit puberty. The number of hairs adorning my chest grew from one (literally, there was one hair. One.) to an even baker's dozen.
And finally, about a month and a half (okay, exactly a month and a half) before I turned 25, I went after a lifelong goal of mine: to grow a beard.
Supposedly you aren't supposed to shave at all for six weeks, and then you can trim your beard accordingly. So I did that.
Through most of the six weeks, I looked like this:
This is Gary from Team America, as he gets some sort of disguise to make him look Arabic. Notice the patchy-ass beard. That was me.
Though finally, I think my beard is semi-(read: not) respectable enough. It's still patchy below the jawline.
But I enjoy having a beard. Not only does it make me look hungover every single day, but it makes me feel like more of a man that I ever have.
You see, while some people get five o' clock shadow without shaving for a day or so, mine takes about a week.
And it quickly morphs into badass, Sonny Crockett-looking stubble, to Patches McGee over here. And that's no fun.
In the initial phase of not shaving, one of my roommates said he would do the same, After a week, he looked like fucking Grizzly Adams, and I looked like the above picture.
But hairiness is a mixed blessing I think. No one wants to be wearing a sweater, even when they're shirtless. I know people like that. In fact, I'm grateful for my lack of chest hair, and except for a little bit around my belly button, I don't have that much.
I'll pause to let all the ladies reading this pleasure themselves at that image.
..and we're back. That didn't take long.
As I was saying, I never wanted to have a mane of chest hair like Austin Powers.
This sort of thing isn't my bag, baby.
My arms aren't particularly hairy either. From a distance of not less than 20 meters, I appear to have no arm hair.
What's odd is that my feet are strangely hairy, especially from proportion to the rest of my body.
I'll let you ladies rub another one out right quick at the thought of that.
In fact, the other day, I tried using my beard trimmer on my feet, just to see how the hair would grow back.
If it's like my head hair, it will grow back thick and lustrous in a matter of days.
Otherwise, who gives a fuck? It's only foot hair.
What's odd is that my feet are strangely hairy, especially from proportion to the rest of my body.
I'll let you ladies rub another one out right quick at the thought of that.
In fact, the other day, I tried using my beard trimmer on my feet, just to see how the hair would grow back.
If it's like my head hair, it will grow back thick and lustrous in a matter of days.
Otherwise, who gives a fuck? It's only foot hair.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Parking Ticket Video
While I finish several updates, here are two funny videos to help you wile away the time. Enjoy.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Monday Links: 1/19
In honor of MLK day, this week's Monday Links is dedicated to the black man. Thanks for taking it all in stride.
- The world hero is used all too often today. But this man is the greatest hero who ever lived.
- Eric Cartman. Prophet. Role Model. Philosopher. Feeder of parents to their own children in the form of chili. Click here to revel in Cartman in all of his glory.
- To me, Stonehenge is one of the most fascinating thing in the world. Of course, most people say that it is simply a primitive calendar, built by an ancient race of pagans. Oh yeah? Then how did it get underwater? Did that just blow your mind?
- Okay, this guy is the most insane person on earth. That's all there is to say.
- For fans of Super Troopers and Beerfest: Have you ever wondered how those guys would fare in a fight against each other? If you're like me, this idea has kept you up through many a sleepless night. Well, sleep easy tonight friends, here it is.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Confessions of a hat guy, and Paul Blart
I'm going to level with you. I'm a hat guy. I love hats. The more obnoxious the better.
Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my collection of hideous hats, hats that I wear on a regular basis.
I even have ten hat pegs in my room to display my gems. Presently adorning the pegs are:
A quick note about the Castro hat: I invented that shit. Before every douchebag with mutton chops and a harmonica started wearing a castro hat, I bought one from Hemingway's bar in Key West. It was in 2003, well before the fad took off.
Anyways, I told you all that to tell you this: It's dangerous for me to be bored and around a store that sells hats.
I had to review a movie last night (Paul Blart: Mall Cop, more on that later), and I got to the theater about an hour and a half early.
The theater was in D.C., and it was part of a mall, which I decided to explore. First, I decided to get some dinner, since I hadn't eaten lunch due to a deadline.
The mall had a Subway and a McDonald's. Deciding that no, I didn't want to shit my lungs out for the next 36 hours, I opted for a five-dollar footlong, figuring I could eat a sandwich and nurse (read: slip bourbon into) a soda for ninety minutes.
But it wasn't to be. Because as soon as I got in line, this sign greeted me:
What the fuck? If I'm plunking down eight bucks for a sandwich, chips and a soda, I want to sit and read my Penthouse tucked into a U.S. News and World Reports if I want.
As I paid for my sandwich, I grabbed my tray and looked at the cashier and asked, "So did my thirty minutes start when I ordered, or do they start now?"
She looked at me like I had asked her to hold onto my AIDS for a second. I just walked away.
I finished my dinner with seven minutes to spare, so I got a refill of soda, and continued to read. I swear, literaly 31 minutes after I entered the store, a security guard came in and started looking around, rather than getting in line to order his sandwich.
I was ready for a throwdown. But he didn't say anything, just kind of took a lap aroung the store without making eye contact with me.
I decided I wasn't going to let a mall cop keep me from seeing Paul Blart: Mall Cop (oh, the irony), so I decided to browse some other stores.
Here's where I ran into trouble. Have you ever heard of Filene's Basement? I hadn't. But I walked in because it looked kind of like a Kohl's, and Kohl's is where I get most of my threads.
I went to the men's section, and lo and behold, they had an extensive hat section.
Cowboy hats, bowlers, Indiana Jones hats, wool hats with bills and without, and some sort of crazy shit I has never seen before. Let's just say it was a fishing cap with burlap sack sewn all around it. Something a douchebag would wear no doubt.
After walking out of the store with my freshly bought burlap sack hat...
Just kidding. But I tried on a lot of hats. I had already picked out a heavy knit green wool number, as well as the knit poofball hat that currently adorns my hat pegs (relegating the jester hat to my closet, I'm afraid).
I was this close to buying a grey pork pie hat and an Indiana Jones-style fedora when I stopped myself. I could have easily dropped $100 on hats, but I had to make myself leave after only two.
Like I said, I'm a hat guy. But I can't say that I won't stop by that place again to pick up a hat or two. I've wanted an Indiana Jones-style fedora since I was a kid, and something has always gotten in the way of me actually buying it, mostly my sense of shame.
On to Paul Blart:Mall Cop. My full review is now the propoerty of the people who pay my salary, but I will be brief.
After a summer of Judd Apatow gross-out comedies, it was actually refreshing to be able to laugh at things that aren't gross and obscene. Kevin James' brand of awkward, sweaty humor has always made me laugh.
A confession, one that fills me with no small amount of shame
The King of Queens is my one guilty TV pleasure. I even own a few seasons on DVD.
Wow. It felt good to get that out. I'd been holding onto that one for a long time. Feels good though. No, I'm not crying, why do you ask? Just dust in my eye.
Anyways, (sniff) I thought the movie was actually pretty funny. I wasn't expecting to laugh at all, but I did. I'm glad I didn't have to pay for the film, and I recommend that if you do see it, don't pay more than matinee price.
It's a fantasic movie to take kids to. There's no blood, no swearing, and I don't even think anyone dies. It sends up movies like Die Hard, Under Siege, and Rambo pretty well also, in more clever ways than you'd think.
It would be a perfect movie to watch on cable, especially when you're hungover. Which is actually when I end up watching most of my King of Queens.
The guy who plays the jerk pen salesmen is going to be the next Seith Rogen/Michael Cera ind of star. He's good at that obnoxious, awkward comedy. Kind of like a less funny, but still funny Ricky Gervais.
Anyways, that'll about do 'er. Go fuck yourself, planet earth.
Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my collection of hideous hats, hats that I wear on a regular basis.
I even have ten hat pegs in my room to display my gems. Presently adorning the pegs are:
- A red New York Giants baseball cap.
- A green Boston Red Sox hat.
- A red Red Sox hat.
- A blue Dallas Mavericks hat.
- My straw golf hat.
- My CIA baseball cap.
- A felt trilby hat that I got in London.
- A charcoal gray ascot.
- A castro-style hat from Ernest Hemingway's favorite bar in Key West
- a knit wool hat with a puffball on the top and two long strings going down the side
- A felt jester's hat
- An irish patchwork bowler hat
- A crumpled up fedora.
A quick note about the Castro hat: I invented that shit. Before every douchebag with mutton chops and a harmonica started wearing a castro hat, I bought one from Hemingway's bar in Key West. It was in 2003, well before the fad took off.
Anyways, I told you all that to tell you this: It's dangerous for me to be bored and around a store that sells hats.
I had to review a movie last night (Paul Blart: Mall Cop, more on that later), and I got to the theater about an hour and a half early.
The theater was in D.C., and it was part of a mall, which I decided to explore. First, I decided to get some dinner, since I hadn't eaten lunch due to a deadline.
The mall had a Subway and a McDonald's. Deciding that no, I didn't want to shit my lungs out for the next 36 hours, I opted for a five-dollar footlong, figuring I could eat a sandwich and nurse (read: slip bourbon into) a soda for ninety minutes.
But it wasn't to be. Because as soon as I got in line, this sign greeted me:
What the fuck? If I'm plunking down eight bucks for a sandwich, chips and a soda, I want to sit and read my Penthouse tucked into a U.S. News and World Reports if I want.
As I paid for my sandwich, I grabbed my tray and looked at the cashier and asked, "So did my thirty minutes start when I ordered, or do they start now?"
She looked at me like I had asked her to hold onto my AIDS for a second. I just walked away.
I finished my dinner with seven minutes to spare, so I got a refill of soda, and continued to read. I swear, literaly 31 minutes after I entered the store, a security guard came in and started looking around, rather than getting in line to order his sandwich.
I was ready for a throwdown. But he didn't say anything, just kind of took a lap aroung the store without making eye contact with me.
I decided I wasn't going to let a mall cop keep me from seeing Paul Blart: Mall Cop (oh, the irony), so I decided to browse some other stores.
Here's where I ran into trouble. Have you ever heard of Filene's Basement? I hadn't. But I walked in because it looked kind of like a Kohl's, and Kohl's is where I get most of my threads.
I went to the men's section, and lo and behold, they had an extensive hat section.
Cowboy hats, bowlers, Indiana Jones hats, wool hats with bills and without, and some sort of crazy shit I has never seen before. Let's just say it was a fishing cap with burlap sack sewn all around it. Something a douchebag would wear no doubt.
After walking out of the store with my freshly bought burlap sack hat...
Just kidding. But I tried on a lot of hats. I had already picked out a heavy knit green wool number, as well as the knit poofball hat that currently adorns my hat pegs (relegating the jester hat to my closet, I'm afraid).
I was this close to buying a grey pork pie hat and an Indiana Jones-style fedora when I stopped myself. I could have easily dropped $100 on hats, but I had to make myself leave after only two.
Like I said, I'm a hat guy. But I can't say that I won't stop by that place again to pick up a hat or two. I've wanted an Indiana Jones-style fedora since I was a kid, and something has always gotten in the way of me actually buying it, mostly my sense of shame.
On to Paul Blart:Mall Cop. My full review is now the propoerty of the people who pay my salary, but I will be brief.
After a summer of Judd Apatow gross-out comedies, it was actually refreshing to be able to laugh at things that aren't gross and obscene. Kevin James' brand of awkward, sweaty humor has always made me laugh.
A confession, one that fills me with no small amount of shame
The King of Queens is my one guilty TV pleasure. I even own a few seasons on DVD.
Wow. It felt good to get that out. I'd been holding onto that one for a long time. Feels good though. No, I'm not crying, why do you ask? Just dust in my eye.
Anyways, (sniff) I thought the movie was actually pretty funny. I wasn't expecting to laugh at all, but I did. I'm glad I didn't have to pay for the film, and I recommend that if you do see it, don't pay more than matinee price.
It's a fantasic movie to take kids to. There's no blood, no swearing, and I don't even think anyone dies. It sends up movies like Die Hard, Under Siege, and Rambo pretty well also, in more clever ways than you'd think.
It would be a perfect movie to watch on cable, especially when you're hungover. Which is actually when I end up watching most of my King of Queens.
The guy who plays the jerk pen salesmen is going to be the next Seith Rogen/Michael Cera ind of star. He's good at that obnoxious, awkward comedy. Kind of like a less funny, but still funny Ricky Gervais.
Anyways, that'll about do 'er. Go fuck yourself, planet earth.
Friday Hate: 1/16
This week's subject of Friday date: people who treat their pets (especially cats) as children.
Seriously, get a fucking life. I don't have anything against pets, I've had a few dogs in my time, and I always liked having them around, and sometimes would even jokingly have conversations with them, mostly to annoy other people in the room.
But stop talking to your cat like it's a person.
Example: I was doing the part of my job that I loathe the most the other day, taking a survey for a feature in my newspaper. This week's questions involved people's plans for the inauguration.
One of my stops was at a Veterinarian's office on the base where I work, and I asked one of the patrons there what her plans for the inauguration was.
She gazed lovingly into the cat's eyes, and said "Oh, I don't know. But Arlo [the cat] is going to watch it on his favorite chair on Tuesday. Yes he is! He's going to watch it on his favorite chair in mommy's lap."
Sixty seconds and five sore and bloody knuckles later, the screams finally stopped.
Kidding, of course. But seriously. What makes you think that cats are people? Are you self-aware enough that you can see you are so desperately lonely to have any being who converts oxygen into carbon dioxide (though that doesn't mean the bitch doesn't have like 100 houseplants) seem like a friend?
Does that compute at all?
I used to think that people who used online dating sites were the most pathetic people (though I'm sure fate will eventually make me pay for that one by forcing me to eHarmony.com when I'm in my late 40s and so desperate to spread my seed that I'll hump any piece of online trash that will have me), but not any more.
What's even weirder is the people who consider their pets children who also have a husband and children.
At my previous job writing for a small community weekly paper I met a woman who has still in mourning over a dog that she had put to sleep years ago. She spoke of how looking at his picture brought tears to her eyes sometimes.
I wanted to find a megaphone and scream at her: "IF THE WORST THING THAT HAPPENS IN YOUR LIFE IS THAT YOU OUTLIVE YOUR FUCKING DOG, THEN CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY, CUNT!!"
But alas, I let it pass.
That doesn't mean I don't hate her though. And you. I hate you too.
Seriously, get a fucking life. I don't have anything against pets, I've had a few dogs in my time, and I always liked having them around, and sometimes would even jokingly have conversations with them, mostly to annoy other people in the room.
But stop talking to your cat like it's a person.
Example: I was doing the part of my job that I loathe the most the other day, taking a survey for a feature in my newspaper. This week's questions involved people's plans for the inauguration.
One of my stops was at a Veterinarian's office on the base where I work, and I asked one of the patrons there what her plans for the inauguration was.
She gazed lovingly into the cat's eyes, and said "Oh, I don't know. But Arlo [the cat] is going to watch it on his favorite chair on Tuesday. Yes he is! He's going to watch it on his favorite chair in mommy's lap."
Sixty seconds and five sore and bloody knuckles later, the screams finally stopped.
Kidding, of course. But seriously. What makes you think that cats are people? Are you self-aware enough that you can see you are so desperately lonely to have any being who converts oxygen into carbon dioxide (though that doesn't mean the bitch doesn't have like 100 houseplants) seem like a friend?
Does that compute at all?
I used to think that people who used online dating sites were the most pathetic people (though I'm sure fate will eventually make me pay for that one by forcing me to eHarmony.com when I'm in my late 40s and so desperate to spread my seed that I'll hump any piece of online trash that will have me), but not any more.
What's even weirder is the people who consider their pets children who also have a husband and children.
At my previous job writing for a small community weekly paper I met a woman who has still in mourning over a dog that she had put to sleep years ago. She spoke of how looking at his picture brought tears to her eyes sometimes.
I wanted to find a megaphone and scream at her: "IF THE WORST THING THAT HAPPENS IN YOUR LIFE IS THAT YOU OUTLIVE YOUR FUCKING DOG, THEN CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY, CUNT!!"
But alas, I let it pass.
That doesn't mean I don't hate her though. And you. I hate you too.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Preparations A though G were unsuccessful...
I start this next story with a question for you, the reader:
We're friends right?
We have a connection, I think. As much as a connection as we can when I type these words and you read them at your leisure.
So I'm going to tell you:
I went to the grocery store the other night to buy hemorrhoid cream.
Now that that's out in the open, I won't go into detail. Just know that things aren't right back there. And occasionally the toilet paper looks like it's been dipped in salsa. That's all I'll say.
And I don't think there is anything more em-bare-ass-ing (see what I did there?) in the entire world.
This is from a guy who is a little embarrassed to be buying toilet paper, and don't even mention condoms.
If it's a lady cashier, I know she's thinking, "Who are you fooling homo? You know you're just going to jack off into these after the expiration date on the spermicidal lube."
But I braved possible ridicule, and hoped that the self-checkout line would provide me with shelter.
As I browsed the shampoo/soap/medicine section of my local Giant, I quickly realized that not everyone is as shame filled as me.
There was an eldery couple standing near the laxatives, talking about the pron and cons of each like they were at a fucking art gallery. You know, that voice that is supposed to be soft, but they really want everyone to hear what they are saying.
"Well Stan, this one is higher fiber, but this one is orange-flavored."
Gross.
So I pick the classic. Prep H. Put in in my basket, and I felt like I might as well have been carrying child porn. I was putting stupid shit I didn't need over it, just in case someone happened. Now I've got two jars of pickled asparagus. What the fuck am I going to do with that.
The worst part was standing in front of the checkout line. I felt more exposed that if I was walking through the Gaza strip with a Star of David tattooed on my face.
If any sort of attractive female had come anywhere near me, I know what I would have done.
I would have literally punted my basket, breaking eggs and whatever else I had in the basket, and I would have run out of the store, probably all the way to my house (no time to find my car and start it), which is a few miles away.
I would have picked my car up well after closing, and I would never go to that store again.
Luckily, it never came to that. I went into the self-checkout, scanned my shit, and it was there that I realized my fatal flaw:
After you scan the stuff, you put it on a conveyor belt, and it goes to the bagging area, which is passed by each and every customer as they exit. And I almost lost my shit.
Everyone of them could see that I had a problem, and they kept looking at me, judging me.
My second fatal flaw: I was, as I've done on every grocery store trip since I turned 21, purchasing alcohol.
Quick side note: I always try to buy some kind of alcohol when I go to the store. Call me old, fashioned, call me paranoid that the drinking age might suddenly shoot up to 30, but I need to make sure I've got some.
Back to the story. When you scan alcohol at the self-checkout, it means a notice goes off for the cashier, and she must check your ID, and then type in her passsword to clear you.
Well, when the chick comes up to check your ID, she usually takes a second on her way back to bag some of your items, which I usually find to be quite helpful.
Not this time. The fucking meddlesome cunt was getting all in my shit, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not run out of the store. Luckily, she was an ugly one, and who really cares what ugly chick think? I mean, come on.
So I managed to escape, medication in tow, and hopefully this shit lasts me forever, cause I don't know if I can go through that again.
We're friends right?
We have a connection, I think. As much as a connection as we can when I type these words and you read them at your leisure.
So I'm going to tell you:
I went to the grocery store the other night to buy hemorrhoid cream.
Now that that's out in the open, I won't go into detail. Just know that things aren't right back there. And occasionally the toilet paper looks like it's been dipped in salsa. That's all I'll say.
And I don't think there is anything more em-bare-ass-ing (see what I did there?) in the entire world.
This is from a guy who is a little embarrassed to be buying toilet paper, and don't even mention condoms.
If it's a lady cashier, I know she's thinking, "Who are you fooling homo? You know you're just going to jack off into these after the expiration date on the spermicidal lube."
But I braved possible ridicule, and hoped that the self-checkout line would provide me with shelter.
As I browsed the shampoo/soap/medicine section of my local Giant, I quickly realized that not everyone is as shame filled as me.
There was an eldery couple standing near the laxatives, talking about the pron and cons of each like they were at a fucking art gallery. You know, that voice that is supposed to be soft, but they really want everyone to hear what they are saying.
"Well Stan, this one is higher fiber, but this one is orange-flavored."
Gross.
So I pick the classic. Prep H. Put in in my basket, and I felt like I might as well have been carrying child porn. I was putting stupid shit I didn't need over it, just in case someone happened. Now I've got two jars of pickled asparagus. What the fuck am I going to do with that.
The worst part was standing in front of the checkout line. I felt more exposed that if I was walking through the Gaza strip with a Star of David tattooed on my face.
If any sort of attractive female had come anywhere near me, I know what I would have done.
I would have literally punted my basket, breaking eggs and whatever else I had in the basket, and I would have run out of the store, probably all the way to my house (no time to find my car and start it), which is a few miles away.
I would have picked my car up well after closing, and I would never go to that store again.
Luckily, it never came to that. I went into the self-checkout, scanned my shit, and it was there that I realized my fatal flaw:
After you scan the stuff, you put it on a conveyor belt, and it goes to the bagging area, which is passed by each and every customer as they exit. And I almost lost my shit.
Everyone of them could see that I had a problem, and they kept looking at me, judging me.
My second fatal flaw: I was, as I've done on every grocery store trip since I turned 21, purchasing alcohol.
Quick side note: I always try to buy some kind of alcohol when I go to the store. Call me old, fashioned, call me paranoid that the drinking age might suddenly shoot up to 30, but I need to make sure I've got some.
Back to the story. When you scan alcohol at the self-checkout, it means a notice goes off for the cashier, and she must check your ID, and then type in her passsword to clear you.
Well, when the chick comes up to check your ID, she usually takes a second on her way back to bag some of your items, which I usually find to be quite helpful.
Not this time. The fucking meddlesome cunt was getting all in my shit, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not run out of the store. Luckily, she was an ugly one, and who really cares what ugly chick think? I mean, come on.
So I managed to escape, medication in tow, and hopefully this shit lasts me forever, cause I don't know if I can go through that again.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Enter.... Baby Mangino
I like to think that I have a good sense of humor. If you enjoy reading this blog, then chances are that you either have a similar sense of humor as myself, or at least you know what is funny and what isn't. Because it's all about the funny.
Having a good sense of humor is comprised of two things:
The point is, I don't consider myself a slave to fad humor.
Until now.
One of my favorite sites is Deadspin.com, a humorus sports blog. Around Halloween, they ran this article, which featured a young child dressed as Kansas University head football coach Mike Mangino. And it makes me laugh hysterically every single fucking time I see him.
A comparison:
Over the weeks, Baby Mangino, spawned impostors, rivals, and nay-sayers.
The cherub-cheeked lad was eventually unmasked, and then entered in Deadspin's Sportshuman of the Year Contest. I voted for him. Every time and repeatedly.
Like Gen. Sherman's, Baby Mangino's infantry (see what I did there?) march to the top left nothing but scorched earth (read: sports celebrities) in his path, before entering the final round.
And then the world took notice. Okay, just central Kansas. Well, and CNN.
So please to be enjoying the last link about Baby Mangino, which discusses his win, and contains a video about his quest to be named Sportshuman of the Year 2008.
Hopefully this isn't the last we'll hear of Baby Mangino.
Having a good sense of humor is comprised of two things:
- Knowing what is funny
- Knowing what isn't funny
- Will Ferrell on SNL
- Judd Apatow movies
- Ricky Gervais and his brand of awkward humor
- It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia
- Rick-rolling. I like the song, but I can't see where the funny is.
- Dancing to the song "Crank That" by Soulja Boy. We've all seen the video, and I know too many people that have made their own YouTube versions of it. I've been to several parties when a group of white guys have danced in a line to that stupid song, and literally every single person at the party was laughing as if they were hearing Dave Chappelle for the first time. Ridiculous.
- Pretty much everything on Cartoon Networks Adult Swim, with the exception of Futurama and Family Guy.
The point is, I don't consider myself a slave to fad humor.
Until now.
One of my favorite sites is Deadspin.com, a humorus sports blog. Around Halloween, they ran this article, which featured a young child dressed as Kansas University head football coach Mike Mangino. And it makes me laugh hysterically every single fucking time I see him.
A comparison:
Over the weeks, Baby Mangino, spawned impostors, rivals, and nay-sayers.
The cherub-cheeked lad was eventually unmasked, and then entered in Deadspin's Sportshuman of the Year Contest. I voted for him. Every time and repeatedly.
Like Gen. Sherman's, Baby Mangino's infantry (see what I did there?) march to the top left nothing but scorched earth (read: sports celebrities) in his path, before entering the final round.
And then the world took notice. Okay, just central Kansas. Well, and CNN.
Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy
So please to be enjoying the last link about Baby Mangino, which discusses his win, and contains a video about his quest to be named Sportshuman of the Year 2008.
Hopefully this isn't the last we'll hear of Baby Mangino.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Monday Links: 1/12
Back again, with a heaping helping o' Monday Links!!
- The Boston Globe makes its second consecutive appearance on Monday Links. This one about hallucinating and other awesome things with everyday objects, for those of us who can't afford delicious, delicious mushrooms.
- Ever read the book The Secret? Well, here is a glowing review. Good for him.
- A man gives his kidney to his wife. Sound romantic? Sure. But what happens if things go sour? This.
- If you're like me, then you love delicious delicious alcohol. Well, here is a list of things that your bartenders are doing to cheat you out of alcohol and money, the two greatest things in the world.
- You know what else is good? Sandwiches. A list of the ten best sandwiches. While I generally agree, I think the muffaletta is conspicuously absent from this list.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Domestic abuse, sweet sweet reefer, and a trip to Roanoke
The following story is absolutely true. I couldn't have made it any stranger if I tried.
It was late 2006. I was finishing my one and only semester of grad school (don't ask) at Virginia Tech. I had just finished a lengthy and poorly-written paper for my literary criticism class, and I was walking out to my car, which was parked in a gravel lot behind my duplex.
The lot behind my place was adjacent to a small, rectangular house, where this guy Sean lived with his two kids. As I made my way to the car, a woman I'd never seen before walked out and tried to get my attention.
She was probably 5'6", very skinny, reasonably attractive, and she had a black eye.
"Excuse me," she said, "can I ask you a favor?"
Always wary of questions from battered women, I hesitated.
"It's just that, well, I'm living here on Blacksburg with my boyfriend, who's also the father of my two kids." Uh oh, I thought. "And he really beat me up last night. I was wondering if you could take me and the kids to a battered women's shelter in Roanoke."
For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of southwest Virginia, Roanoke is a bustling metropolis located about 45 minutes from Blacksburg.
As if I had any other options as a human being, I told her I would be happy to give her a ride, but I had to run to class and turn in my paper first.
She said that was fine, she was hanging out at Sean's (who was her friend, not her abusive boyfriend) so her boyfriend wouldn't find her. I told her I'd come get her after my class.
So I go to class, and if you think I was able to concentrate on the neo-feminist postmodern movement, and what it meant to us as a society, you're wrong.
I get back to my place, go over to grab the chick (if she told me her name at any point, I don't remember), and her two kids, and we roll.
She has two daughters, one probably about four, one about two. She tells me that she has a friend on the way to Roanoke that she can drop the four-year-old off at, so she won't have to bring two kids to the shelter.
We drop off the kid, and begin the magic carpet ride to Roanoke.
As we drive, she tells me about how this guy beat the shit out of her last night, and she showed me the big knot on her head, as well as the black eye which I could plainly see.
While driving, I let her use my phone to call her friend who was taking care of her older kid, so she could let her know where she would be. After hanging up, she told me not to answer my phone if a strange number came up, that her boyfriend might try and track her down.
Great, that's just what I need. A domestic abuser with my phone number.
As get closer to Roanoke, she asks if she can stop by her friends house to get the number and address for the women's shelter.
So we stop at her friend's house, which happens to be in a trailer park, and I wait for about twenty minutes while she and the kid go inside.
She gets out, and mumbles some excuse about not being able to find the shelter. She then proceeds to ask me if I smoke weed.
I would be lying if I told you I wasn't surprised to say the least. But I would also be lying if I said I told her no.
So we start smoking on the way back. Meanwhile in the back seat, her kid found a flashlight I had back there, and she started playing with it, turning it on and off.
And the chick started yelling, "Stop that! Don't you know what we're doing up here? We're smoking weed! Don't you know that it's illegal? You don't want mommy to go to jail do you?"
As stoned as I was, I was barely able to contain my hysterical laughter at this ridiculousness. And no, I didn't feel particularly guilty smoking around the kid, although in retrospect I probably should have.
So we get back to Blacksburg, and I drop her off at Sean's house. She asked me if she could borrow some money, since she didn't know when she would be able to leave town.
At this point in my life, I'm a grad student whose appetites for drugs and alcohol far outweigh the meager income I take in delivering pizzas. So it's not like I have any money to give. I think I had a few ones in my wallet, which I gave her.
Looking back, a few things stick out to me:
Was I just a chauffer to take a car-less woman to get some sweet stinky reefer? If so, then who beat her up?
Why did she give up on the idea of the battered women's shelter so fast?
Later in the evening, while I was drunkenly recounting the story, my phone rang with a number I was unfamiliar with. I didn't answer it, but someone grabbed my phone, and picked it up.
Remembering the chick's warning, I grabbed the phone and gave a shaky, "Hello?"
"Hey, is _____ there?" I guess I did get her name at some point, I just can't remember. Reefer will do that to you.
"Uhhhhhhh.....no. You have the wrong number." I'd like to think I said this quietly, yet defiantly, so that no question would exist as to whether I had helped this chick, thereby keeping me away from a chick-hitter, but we'll never know.
I never heard from the dude or the girl again. I hope they don't know how to read blogs.
It was late 2006. I was finishing my one and only semester of grad school (don't ask) at Virginia Tech. I had just finished a lengthy and poorly-written paper for my literary criticism class, and I was walking out to my car, which was parked in a gravel lot behind my duplex.
The lot behind my place was adjacent to a small, rectangular house, where this guy Sean lived with his two kids. As I made my way to the car, a woman I'd never seen before walked out and tried to get my attention.
She was probably 5'6", very skinny, reasonably attractive, and she had a black eye.
"Excuse me," she said, "can I ask you a favor?"
Always wary of questions from battered women, I hesitated.
"It's just that, well, I'm living here on Blacksburg with my boyfriend, who's also the father of my two kids." Uh oh, I thought. "And he really beat me up last night. I was wondering if you could take me and the kids to a battered women's shelter in Roanoke."
For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of southwest Virginia, Roanoke is a bustling metropolis located about 45 minutes from Blacksburg.
As if I had any other options as a human being, I told her I would be happy to give her a ride, but I had to run to class and turn in my paper first.
She said that was fine, she was hanging out at Sean's (who was her friend, not her abusive boyfriend) so her boyfriend wouldn't find her. I told her I'd come get her after my class.
So I go to class, and if you think I was able to concentrate on the neo-feminist postmodern movement, and what it meant to us as a society, you're wrong.
I get back to my place, go over to grab the chick (if she told me her name at any point, I don't remember), and her two kids, and we roll.
She has two daughters, one probably about four, one about two. She tells me that she has a friend on the way to Roanoke that she can drop the four-year-old off at, so she won't have to bring two kids to the shelter.
We drop off the kid, and begin the magic carpet ride to Roanoke.
As we drive, she tells me about how this guy beat the shit out of her last night, and she showed me the big knot on her head, as well as the black eye which I could plainly see.
While driving, I let her use my phone to call her friend who was taking care of her older kid, so she could let her know where she would be. After hanging up, she told me not to answer my phone if a strange number came up, that her boyfriend might try and track her down.
Great, that's just what I need. A domestic abuser with my phone number.
As get closer to Roanoke, she asks if she can stop by her friends house to get the number and address for the women's shelter.
So we stop at her friend's house, which happens to be in a trailer park, and I wait for about twenty minutes while she and the kid go inside.
She gets out, and mumbles some excuse about not being able to find the shelter. She then proceeds to ask me if I smoke weed.
I would be lying if I told you I wasn't surprised to say the least. But I would also be lying if I said I told her no.
So we start smoking on the way back. Meanwhile in the back seat, her kid found a flashlight I had back there, and she started playing with it, turning it on and off.
And the chick started yelling, "Stop that! Don't you know what we're doing up here? We're smoking weed! Don't you know that it's illegal? You don't want mommy to go to jail do you?"
As stoned as I was, I was barely able to contain my hysterical laughter at this ridiculousness. And no, I didn't feel particularly guilty smoking around the kid, although in retrospect I probably should have.
So we get back to Blacksburg, and I drop her off at Sean's house. She asked me if she could borrow some money, since she didn't know when she would be able to leave town.
At this point in my life, I'm a grad student whose appetites for drugs and alcohol far outweigh the meager income I take in delivering pizzas. So it's not like I have any money to give. I think I had a few ones in my wallet, which I gave her.
Looking back, a few things stick out to me:
Was I just a chauffer to take a car-less woman to get some sweet stinky reefer? If so, then who beat her up?
Why did she give up on the idea of the battered women's shelter so fast?
Later in the evening, while I was drunkenly recounting the story, my phone rang with a number I was unfamiliar with. I didn't answer it, but someone grabbed my phone, and picked it up.
Remembering the chick's warning, I grabbed the phone and gave a shaky, "Hello?"
"Hey, is _____ there?" I guess I did get her name at some point, I just can't remember. Reefer will do that to you.
"Uhhhhhhh.....no. You have the wrong number." I'd like to think I said this quietly, yet defiantly, so that no question would exist as to whether I had helped this chick, thereby keeping me away from a chick-hitter, but we'll never know.
I never heard from the dude or the girl again. I hope they don't know how to read blogs.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Friday Hate: 1/9
Introducing a new segment to your favorite blog: Friday Hate.
In this feature, we will explore people that I hate. Most of them I hate because I secretly know that they are better than me, but that's neither here nor there.
Your first subject: Heisman winning and two-time national champion (my blood pressure is rising already) Tim Tebow.
I like to think I'm not alone on this one:
I want (in the worst way) for Tim Tebow to get caught with child porno, or snuff films, or some sort of crazy amalgum involving snuff child porno, maybe he could even drop the N-bomb on some sort of interview.
I hate Tim Tebow.
It's not because he's talented, or because he's good looking, or that instead of drinking and trying to fingerfuck people (like yours truly) he's building houses for poor people in the Phillippines.
Okay, it's exactly those things.
But I don't think I'm alone on this one.
I have a natural hatred towards talented people that aren't part of things that are close to me.
For example: Tim Tebow plays for Florida, a school that has now won four national championships in the past three years.
I went to Virginia Tech, a school that once and only once has gotten close to a national title.
So Tim Tebow can fuck himself. Have fun sucking balls for two to four years playing for the Raiders or the Lions asshole.
Two words for you Tim Tebow: Danny Wuerffel.
In this feature, we will explore people that I hate. Most of them I hate because I secretly know that they are better than me, but that's neither here nor there.
Your first subject: Heisman winning and two-time national champion (my blood pressure is rising already) Tim Tebow.
I like to think I'm not alone on this one:
I want (in the worst way) for Tim Tebow to get caught with child porno, or snuff films, or some sort of crazy amalgum involving snuff child porno, maybe he could even drop the N-bomb on some sort of interview.
I hate Tim Tebow.
It's not because he's talented, or because he's good looking, or that instead of drinking and trying to fingerfuck people (like yours truly) he's building houses for poor people in the Phillippines.
Okay, it's exactly those things.
But I don't think I'm alone on this one.
I have a natural hatred towards talented people that aren't part of things that are close to me.
For example: Tim Tebow plays for Florida, a school that has now won four national championships in the past three years.
I went to Virginia Tech, a school that once and only once has gotten close to a national title.
So Tim Tebow can fuck himself. Have fun sucking balls for two to four years playing for the Raiders or the Lions asshole.
Two words for you Tim Tebow: Danny Wuerffel.
Monday, January 5, 2009
It's officially "Go Time"
Today is the day. The first Monday after the New Year. The day when resolutions actually begin.
You see, no one actually starts their New Year's resolutions on Jan. 1. Assuming you're not a total loser, you probably woke up on the morning of Jan. 1, 2009 feeling like shit.
The last thing you need to do with a massive hangover is to start a brand-new routine. Is anyone going to wake up hungover and start working out?
Is someone who just desperately wants the pounding, throbbing headache to go away not going to light up that smoke?
Of course not.
In fact, due to the fact that 2009 began on a Thursday, most New Year's resolutions were pushed back to today.
Even if you decided to quit smoking for the New Year, odds are, you smoked most if not all of your cigs on New Year's Eve, and you went out to buy a pack Thursday morning.
No big deal, you thought, I'll just have one more weekend of smoking, and then I'll start fresh Monday.
Because Monday never comes. Except this one did. Now you're shaking from lack of nicotine, or dreading that first trip to the gym, or contemplating an entire year without masturbating. Fools.
Today I woke up with a newfound sense of purpose. I spent the weekend tidying up loose ends, cleaning my room, buying new groceries, throwing out the clutter.
Because there's nothing like starting fresh.
I move that this day be recognized nationally. It will be called St. Mandelbaum's Day, in honor of the late, great, Izzy Mandelbaum from Seinfeld, who spouted those now immortal words, "It's go time."
For today, the first Monday of the New Year, the first day back at work for many of us, it is truly go time.
Good luck with your resolutions, unless it was to stop masturbating, in which I then say to you:
You poor, misguided bastard.
You see, no one actually starts their New Year's resolutions on Jan. 1. Assuming you're not a total loser, you probably woke up on the morning of Jan. 1, 2009 feeling like shit.
The last thing you need to do with a massive hangover is to start a brand-new routine. Is anyone going to wake up hungover and start working out?
Is someone who just desperately wants the pounding, throbbing headache to go away not going to light up that smoke?
Of course not.
In fact, due to the fact that 2009 began on a Thursday, most New Year's resolutions were pushed back to today.
Even if you decided to quit smoking for the New Year, odds are, you smoked most if not all of your cigs on New Year's Eve, and you went out to buy a pack Thursday morning.
No big deal, you thought, I'll just have one more weekend of smoking, and then I'll start fresh Monday.
Because Monday never comes. Except this one did. Now you're shaking from lack of nicotine, or dreading that first trip to the gym, or contemplating an entire year without masturbating. Fools.
Today I woke up with a newfound sense of purpose. I spent the weekend tidying up loose ends, cleaning my room, buying new groceries, throwing out the clutter.
Because there's nothing like starting fresh.
I move that this day be recognized nationally. It will be called St. Mandelbaum's Day, in honor of the late, great, Izzy Mandelbaum from Seinfeld, who spouted those now immortal words, "It's go time."
For today, the first Monday of the New Year, the first day back at work for many of us, it is truly go time.
Good luck with your resolutions, unless it was to stop masturbating, in which I then say to you:
You poor, misguided bastard.
Monday Links: 1/5
After a one-week respite, we're back with your weekly helping of Monday Links.
- The Boston Globe published this interesting piece about albums from 1968 that are still relevant today. Good stuff.
- Far be it from me to recommend health articles, but this one about how men and women perceive drunkeness is fascinating, if only because it combines my love of alcohol and women in one easy-to-read article.
- Clint Eastwood thinks it's sad that you are a pussy. And I for one agree.
- Tall women are my favorite. Maybe it's because I believe that mating with her will allow me to raise the nexst Larry Bird. Either way, here are some things that you should never say to them.
- I don't watch Celebrity Rehab, though I'm told it's riveting. However, this video of the guy from Crazy Town smoking crack is too good not to share. Why can't he get clean? Because everytime the crack-induced haze fades, he remembers that he is responsible for "Butterfly."
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Peaks and Valleys
Gather round my children and I'll tell you the tale
of my life's greatest triumph and my life's greatest fail
Maybe it's the New Year getting me into a reflective mode, maybe I'm just running out of ideas, but I shall now share with you, the loyal reader, my greatest moment, and my moment of greatest defeat.
The Best
If you read my post about New Year's of Yore, you will perhaps recall that I spent the transition period from 2007 into 2008 in the city of Miami.
I was down there for the Virginia Tech-Kansas game, but I spent a few days there, with friends new and old, rocking out in Miami.
My greatest moment comes as your hero and his party are leaving a bar for the evening. I don't remember the bar name, but it was the place that I heard the Reggae cover of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," so it did leave some sort of impression on me.
Anyways, as we are leaving the bar, several of us take a moment to enjoy some sweet nic-o-tine in a courtyard outside of the place.
Since New Year's was a few days before, there were still signs of the festivities on the courtyard. Several chairs were still attached to strings of balloons, though the balloons were slowly leaking their helium, and were resting on the ground.
Close to the group was a chain of about five baloons, lying on the ground wrapped around a chair, about eight feet from where we were standing.
It was a windy night (the week I was down there was the coldest week in Miami in the past 70 years, go figure) and the baloons were gently swaying on the ground.
We were bullshitting as we were talking, and someone threw their cigarettes butt near one of those balloons.
This evolved into a brief argument about whether or not any of us could throw their cigarette at a balloon, thereby popping it into a glorious helium explosion.
Several people were of the ilk that it would not be possible in this wind, and I argued that it could be done.
As other cigarettes slowly burned down, everyone who tried it failed. Our cries as each one missed attracted the attention of other smokers in the area, all who came to see what the ruckus was.
Most people agreed with my friends, saying that it could not be done, and so destiny called me. I was the last one to finish, so it was up to me.
Let me tell you something. Apart from a season of sitting on the bench playing JV baseball in high school, most of my organized sport playing days were before I was able to legally drive.
And when you're playing youth league basketball or soccer, there isn't much spotlight on you.
So this was my chance. A chance to shoot myself into the ranks of the immortals. At least, immortal to the drunks that had gathered around me this particular evening in Miami.
Someone offered to place a wager: if I hit the balloon, he would buy my first beer at the next bar, and if I missed, I would be buying the first beer.
I coolly eyed my surrounding, the way Clint Eastwood did as he was faced with a gang of banditos at the beginning of A Fistful of Dollars.
I toed the line that served as the border which I wasn't to step across. With a brief stretch of my left arm, I held the slowly burning cigarette in front of me, and then I let fly...
.....only to be greeted by a muffled pop as the thin latex skin was pierced by the ember of the cigarette.
The crowd went wild. At least, I like to think they did. Suddenly, it was as if I had just won the Super Bowl. People were high-fiving me, men were offering to name their first-borns after me, and the females were all offering themselves to me, pantsless in the cold evening.
I'm pretty sure I'm not exaggerating.
That first free beer had never tasted so good. Miami, she is now my mistress.
The Worst
I take you from the scene of my greatest triumph to the scene of my greatest failure.
I can consider myself lucky in one repspect. My victory was watched by several people, while the audience to my failure was much smaller.
I'll set the scene.
I am living in Blacksburg, and it is the Sunday of a Memorial Day weekend. I am substitute teaching at the time, so I was taking the opportunity to pick up some groceries for the week, and I headed to my local Food Lion.
I purchased my groceries, which included the first batch of summer brews, in this case it was some Blue Moon honey summer ale.
I wheel my shopping cart out into the parking lot, and that's where disaster struck.
Being that I am always filled with a childlike sense of wonderment, I decided to take a moment to go back to my childhood, and I stood on the bottom shelf of the shopping cart, intending to take a glorious ride to my car.
But gravity is an elusive goddess. During the course of my brief ride, my cart ran over a sewer grate in the parking lot, which upset the delicate balance of my position.
Suddenly the shopping cart was tilting backwards onto me. While I struggled valiantly to maintain control, it was to no avail.
The handle of the shopping cart dragged several feet across the pavement, and between said handle and said pavement were my hands, trapped by the position they were in during my ride.
After the slide, I lifted the cart up, and quickly scramled to my car, hoping that a scraped knee and a loss of pride was all the damage that had been done.
No such luck. As I push to may car, I get a glimpse of my hands.
The skin on the lower parts of my index, middle and ring finger on each hand was gone, and there was a dime-sized divot in the knuckle below the ring finger on my left hand.
The cuts were so deep on my index fingers, that I could see white at each of the middle knuckles.
Soon the blood started flowing. It soaked my grocery bags, and the shock of seeing it all caused me to drop several bags, breaking two bottles of the beer I had just purchased.
I was able to get the blood-soaked bags into my trunk, and I drove the mile-and-a-half to my place in shock.
After some quick bandaging, I decided the cuts were deep enough that I decided to drive myself to the hospital.
As I was waiting to have the wouded cleansed, I started getting peculiar looks from the people examining them.
You see, due to the odd position of my hands when it happened, the scrape marks were going to opposite way that you would expect if I had , say, punched through a glass window.
I had to explain my story to the doctors, the nurse, the security guard, all of whom responded with a laugh and a look that asked, "And you say you're 22?"
Needless to say, the injury served as the end to my brief teaching career. I couldn't go teach with three fingers on each hand bandaged like there was no tomorrow.
It also meant I couldn't take a shower. I tried, once, a few days after the accident, and it was the most painful experince of mhy life that didn't involve Rosie O'Donnell.
It also set back my basketball and guitar playing by several months, and it was almost a year before I could fully extent my left index finger again.
I still have the scar on my knuckle, and sometimes on a humid day, the middle knuckle of my index fingers stiffen up.
So there you have it. My greatest public triumph followed a mere four months later by bloodied groceries, and reverse scrapes on all of my fingers.
As far as the surviving bottles of Blue Moon, caked with so much of my undignified blood?
I saved them. I kept them on my desk, lest I forget, and everytime I felt an ache in my fingers, I looked at them and thought, "You could be sitting here with ten healthy fingers, remembering how great that lazy Sunday afternoon was, drinking honeyed ale and watching basketball."
But it wasn't to be.
of my life's greatest triumph and my life's greatest fail
Maybe it's the New Year getting me into a reflective mode, maybe I'm just running out of ideas, but I shall now share with you, the loyal reader, my greatest moment, and my moment of greatest defeat.
The Best
If you read my post about New Year's of Yore, you will perhaps recall that I spent the transition period from 2007 into 2008 in the city of Miami.
I was down there for the Virginia Tech-Kansas game, but I spent a few days there, with friends new and old, rocking out in Miami.
My greatest moment comes as your hero and his party are leaving a bar for the evening. I don't remember the bar name, but it was the place that I heard the Reggae cover of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," so it did leave some sort of impression on me.
Anyways, as we are leaving the bar, several of us take a moment to enjoy some sweet nic-o-tine in a courtyard outside of the place.
Since New Year's was a few days before, there were still signs of the festivities on the courtyard. Several chairs were still attached to strings of balloons, though the balloons were slowly leaking their helium, and were resting on the ground.
Close to the group was a chain of about five baloons, lying on the ground wrapped around a chair, about eight feet from where we were standing.
It was a windy night (the week I was down there was the coldest week in Miami in the past 70 years, go figure) and the baloons were gently swaying on the ground.
We were bullshitting as we were talking, and someone threw their cigarettes butt near one of those balloons.
This evolved into a brief argument about whether or not any of us could throw their cigarette at a balloon, thereby popping it into a glorious helium explosion.
Several people were of the ilk that it would not be possible in this wind, and I argued that it could be done.
As other cigarettes slowly burned down, everyone who tried it failed. Our cries as each one missed attracted the attention of other smokers in the area, all who came to see what the ruckus was.
Most people agreed with my friends, saying that it could not be done, and so destiny called me. I was the last one to finish, so it was up to me.
Let me tell you something. Apart from a season of sitting on the bench playing JV baseball in high school, most of my organized sport playing days were before I was able to legally drive.
And when you're playing youth league basketball or soccer, there isn't much spotlight on you.
So this was my chance. A chance to shoot myself into the ranks of the immortals. At least, immortal to the drunks that had gathered around me this particular evening in Miami.
Someone offered to place a wager: if I hit the balloon, he would buy my first beer at the next bar, and if I missed, I would be buying the first beer.
I coolly eyed my surrounding, the way Clint Eastwood did as he was faced with a gang of banditos at the beginning of A Fistful of Dollars.
I toed the line that served as the border which I wasn't to step across. With a brief stretch of my left arm, I held the slowly burning cigarette in front of me, and then I let fly...
.....only to be greeted by a muffled pop as the thin latex skin was pierced by the ember of the cigarette.
The crowd went wild. At least, I like to think they did. Suddenly, it was as if I had just won the Super Bowl. People were high-fiving me, men were offering to name their first-borns after me, and the females were all offering themselves to me, pantsless in the cold evening.
I'm pretty sure I'm not exaggerating.
That first free beer had never tasted so good. Miami, she is now my mistress.
The Worst
I take you from the scene of my greatest triumph to the scene of my greatest failure.
I can consider myself lucky in one repspect. My victory was watched by several people, while the audience to my failure was much smaller.
I'll set the scene.
I am living in Blacksburg, and it is the Sunday of a Memorial Day weekend. I am substitute teaching at the time, so I was taking the opportunity to pick up some groceries for the week, and I headed to my local Food Lion.
I purchased my groceries, which included the first batch of summer brews, in this case it was some Blue Moon honey summer ale.
I wheel my shopping cart out into the parking lot, and that's where disaster struck.
Being that I am always filled with a childlike sense of wonderment, I decided to take a moment to go back to my childhood, and I stood on the bottom shelf of the shopping cart, intending to take a glorious ride to my car.
But gravity is an elusive goddess. During the course of my brief ride, my cart ran over a sewer grate in the parking lot, which upset the delicate balance of my position.
Suddenly the shopping cart was tilting backwards onto me. While I struggled valiantly to maintain control, it was to no avail.
The handle of the shopping cart dragged several feet across the pavement, and between said handle and said pavement were my hands, trapped by the position they were in during my ride.
After the slide, I lifted the cart up, and quickly scramled to my car, hoping that a scraped knee and a loss of pride was all the damage that had been done.
No such luck. As I push to may car, I get a glimpse of my hands.
The skin on the lower parts of my index, middle and ring finger on each hand was gone, and there was a dime-sized divot in the knuckle below the ring finger on my left hand.
The cuts were so deep on my index fingers, that I could see white at each of the middle knuckles.
Soon the blood started flowing. It soaked my grocery bags, and the shock of seeing it all caused me to drop several bags, breaking two bottles of the beer I had just purchased.
I was able to get the blood-soaked bags into my trunk, and I drove the mile-and-a-half to my place in shock.
After some quick bandaging, I decided the cuts were deep enough that I decided to drive myself to the hospital.
As I was waiting to have the wouded cleansed, I started getting peculiar looks from the people examining them.
You see, due to the odd position of my hands when it happened, the scrape marks were going to opposite way that you would expect if I had , say, punched through a glass window.
I had to explain my story to the doctors, the nurse, the security guard, all of whom responded with a laugh and a look that asked, "And you say you're 22?"
Needless to say, the injury served as the end to my brief teaching career. I couldn't go teach with three fingers on each hand bandaged like there was no tomorrow.
It also meant I couldn't take a shower. I tried, once, a few days after the accident, and it was the most painful experince of mhy life that didn't involve Rosie O'Donnell.
It also set back my basketball and guitar playing by several months, and it was almost a year before I could fully extent my left index finger again.
I still have the scar on my knuckle, and sometimes on a humid day, the middle knuckle of my index fingers stiffen up.
So there you have it. My greatest public triumph followed a mere four months later by bloodied groceries, and reverse scrapes on all of my fingers.
As far as the surviving bottles of Blue Moon, caked with so much of my undignified blood?
I saved them. I kept them on my desk, lest I forget, and everytime I felt an ache in my fingers, I looked at them and thought, "You could be sitting here with ten healthy fingers, remembering how great that lazy Sunday afternoon was, drinking honeyed ale and watching basketball."
But it wasn't to be.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Siblings Skywalker
I was watching Star Wars the other day (the first one), and as the credits began to roll and that familiar music played, I couldn't help but wonder:
Is there any way Luke didn't nail Leia after she gave him the medal?
Incest aside, take a closer look. According to the information I was able to gather in the Nerdiverse, both Luke and Leia were 19 years old at the time the first film ended.
You're telling me that two sexually repressed 19-year-olds who just came mere seconds from death together aren't humping like rabbits the second they get a minute alone?
Take a look at how she looks at Luke, compared to how she looks at Han.
She wants some Jedi lightsaber. And not the weapon. The phallus. Of Luke. If you know what I mean...
You've got the farm-boy who's spent his life dreaming of getting off of the desert planet (where, you'll notice, there isn't a stitch of pussy, not even at Mos Eisley Spaceport), and a sexually repressed princess, forced to be mature beyond her years, who also just happened to watch her entire planet explode.
They were doing the no-pants dance as soon as the assembly hall cleared out.
Think about it. In a bar, you can ostensibly get a woman to sleep with you if you bum her a smoke and toss out a clever zinger or two.
And if you happen to:
Take a look at Luke after this.
He's thinking, "Yeah, and she fucks like a minx too. I've hit it. Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to re-enact that amazing blow job she gave me."
Sorry Han Solo, no matter how much it seemed like Leia began to overlook your rough and cocky exterior and turn you from an anti-hero into a hero, you're just getting Luke's sloppy seconds.
Is there any way Luke didn't nail Leia after she gave him the medal?
Incest aside, take a closer look. According to the information I was able to gather in the Nerdiverse, both Luke and Leia were 19 years old at the time the first film ended.
You're telling me that two sexually repressed 19-year-olds who just came mere seconds from death together aren't humping like rabbits the second they get a minute alone?
Take a look at how she looks at Luke, compared to how she looks at Han.
She wants some Jedi lightsaber. And not the weapon. The phallus. Of Luke. If you know what I mean...
You've got the farm-boy who's spent his life dreaming of getting off of the desert planet (where, you'll notice, there isn't a stitch of pussy, not even at Mos Eisley Spaceport), and a sexually repressed princess, forced to be mature beyond her years, who also just happened to watch her entire planet explode.
They were doing the no-pants dance as soon as the assembly hall cleared out.
Think about it. In a bar, you can ostensibly get a woman to sleep with you if you bum her a smoke and toss out a clever zinger or two.
And if you happen to:
- Oh, I don't know, RESCUE HER FROM THE FUCKING DEATH STAR, a space station that is filled with the bad guys who are ready to execute you at a moment's notice.
- And not only do you get her out of that hell-hole, but you actually DESTROY that thing, mere seconds before it obliterated the very planet you stand on, not to mention the cause to which you've dedicated your entire life for.
- Oh, and to boot, you destroyed the Death Star in a badass manner, without using a targeting computer like a pussy.
Take a look at Luke after this.
He's thinking, "Yeah, and she fucks like a minx too. I've hit it. Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm going to re-enact that amazing blow job she gave me."
Sorry Han Solo, no matter how much it seemed like Leia began to overlook your rough and cocky exterior and turn you from an anti-hero into a hero, you're just getting Luke's sloppy seconds.
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