Because I am such a model employee, I spent a few hours last Friday shooting pool at the community center near where I work.
It had been a long week, and Fridays are usually pretty slack, so I went down there. And in the midst of racking up some 8-ball, several young ladies entered the pool room. Three to be exact.
Now, despite what you might read here, I'm not a pervert. I have thoughts like any red-blooded man, but I don't think I go overboard.
But these ladies (and I use this term loosely, as you'll see in a moment), were a combined 21. Not bad, when you consider the average is a 7, but it was more like an 8, a 7 and a 6.
Problem was, I'm pretty sure they were high-school age. Something about the way they carried themselves, especially the hot one in tight black leggings and those furry boots screamed "jailbait." These were the kind of chicks that buying a pack of smokes is a big deal.
As if the plot didn't need thickening, these chicks were speaking a foreign language with each other. It sounded like German.
If you think a hot fraulein in f-me boots and tight leggings doesn't steam my clams, you'd be wrong.
I searched my brain, which is feeble when it comes to foreign languages. I figured, I mutter a German world or two, barely within earshot of the ladies, and they hear me, and if they know English, they'll immediately come up and
The only thing I know about German is how to count to three (eins, zwei, drei) and several quotes from Die Hard.
That's right, I went there.
I frantically pored over the German quotes in Die Hard, and only one came to mind, and it comes at a pivotal point in the flick.
So, under my breath, but loud enough to be heard across the room, I muttered, "schießen das fenster."
It had an immediate impact. But far from the "Ve must fuck you." response I had imagined, their eyes got wide. They looked over at me with something akin to fear in theuir eyes, then they looked around the room.
After a brief looking around, they ended their game, and quickly got the hell out of there.
And then it hit me.
You see, the quote I said came from one of the shootouts in Die Hard, right after Hans and McClane, have met, and Hans sees that McClane has no shoes.
So he tells Karl, "schießen das fenster," which roughly translates to "shoot the glass," or "shoot the window."
Well, it just so happens, that the pool room we were in, not only had two large plate glass windows separating i from the outside, and there is no wall separating the room from the hallway, just large windows, so everyone can see in and out of the pool room.
So to these young frauleins, I was suggesting to my friend that we should take out our guns, and shoot all of the windows. Better yet, since they probably didn't know I was listening intently to their German conversation, they probably thought I was trying to be secretive.
Let that be a lesson to all of you: Die Hard just doesn't impress the chicks.
I take that back. Die Hard never did anything wrong for anybody.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Yet Another Movie (Premiere)
As part of my job, I get to go to movie premiers, in order to review them.
I usually go to one a month, and before the other day, they usually aren't worth mentioning. But this one was quite memorable, both for the general douchebagginess of the audience, and several other things.
To start things off, the film was Duplicity starring Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. Good flick. It was in D.C., at Gallery Place, which neighbors the Verizon Center.
I went there, and when I checked in with the press people, I noticed something amiss. The people working for the press company (who are generally hot chicks) were dressed in fedoras and trench coat. What happened to the low-cut outfits that served me so faithfully when I go to sleep later that night?
Undeterred, I get to my seat, in the press section.
Let me tell you something. I enjoy reviewing movies. I don't like going to every movie that pops up, because I don't like watching foreign dramas, or even dramas for that matter. I like going to see stoner comedies, action flicks, and the occasional porno.
While I like to review movies, I never want to be what's called a "movie critic." Those are some of the worst people on the face of the earth.
People who view movies as "high art" are scum, and they are just looking for a way to think they are better than you. Sure, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is one of the most beautiful things ever, but that doesn't make me think that I'm better than you because I think it. I know I am.
It's possible for a movie to make you think, and have a great story and all that, but deep down, every movie ciritc will sell his integrity for a good line in a review.
I've done it myself. For example, before I saw Iron Man, I thought of a great headline for my review: "Iron Man shakes the rust off superhero genre." Brilliant, I know.
The thing was, I came up with that before I saw it, and I was going to use it no matter what. Luckily, the flick was pretty sweet, so I didn't run into a moral dilemma. But as a writer, make no bones about it, I would have used that headline even if it sucked, and then just spent 300 words justifying the headline. That's just how I roll.
But a movie critic would never admit that. They'd go on and on about how the film "spoke to him" or some other bullshit.
These same critics are the ones who are so pressured by other reviews, that it taints a lot of what they do.
Example: The Dark Knight. Great flick. But it is flawed, and flawed in a way that prevents it from being "The Greatest movie Ever."
Sure, Heath Ledger is great. But the plot has serious (get it?) holes in it. I won't go into a lot of them here, but it does. The performances make it a good movie, but it doesn't mean that it's a perfect flick, the way people were describing it.
And this pressure of so many positive reviews becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Critics who are worth their salt spent many pixels describing why the plot was a symbol o four current world and all that tripe.
The acclaim had a different effect on some reviewers, but a large effect nonetheless. Some reviewers felt the need to not flow with the crowd, and instead point out reasons that the film was incredibly overrated. Which is equally as wrong.
The film is a good story made great by good actors. It is a great film. Probably among the ten best of 2008. But that doesn't put it up there with movies like The Godfather. It just doesn't.
Anyways, I digress. Back to the premier, where I am surrounded by this scum at every angle.
Don't believe me that the people surrounding me were scum? Try this little nugget on for size.
There was a sign at the front of the theater, at the lower right hand of the screen, with the name of the organization sponsoring the premire. It covered literally a one foot long by four inches high of the 20'x45' screen. I didn't even notice it.
But guess who did? One of the horn-rimmed fucktasters in the press section.
Just as the audience got quiet and was waiting for the movie to start (no trailers at preimiers), and one critic had to make it all about himself.
"Uhhh, excuse me, Rebecca*?" Notice the use of the first name, trying to sound all important.
"Could you please move that sign, it's blocking the screen."
I wish the lights in the theatre had been on, because I would have loved to see this hot chick give this tool a withering glance, but she's probably better than that. She moved the sign.
So the movie started, and it was pretty good, but then trouble happened.
You see, I came straight to the premier from work, meaning I had to grab some dinner on the run. There happened to be a Chioptle right near the theater, so I ran in there, ate a quick burrito, and rolled to the movie.
Well, here's the thing about burritos...
Yeah, it's what you were thinking. The gas is brought into your body by the delicious, delicious beans, and soon it builds up. And once it hits a certain point, there's no more room for the gas, and it has to get out.
So I had myself a problem.
Let me clarify. The people sitting around me, packed in two media rows like sardines, they had a problem. Because this was more than just a case of gas.
You see, it was also nearing the end of the week, and my hamper was full, meaning my closet was rather empty. So I grabbed an old pair of khakis I had, but this particular pair had a twist.
You see, I had ripped this pair, around the crotchal region, slipping on some ice at some point during the winter. A photo, if you will:
Yep, there's a hole in my crotch. And this hole was special, it was like a chimney of stank, spewing my filth unto the unsuspecting populace.
I felt bad. For a second. Then some jackass critic started laughing much too loud for a movie that's not a comedy, again making it all about himself.
So I lifted my leg, and let fly with another toxic cloud of glory, and did my best to discretely fan the odor to him. I guess I'll never know if he smelled it.
Life's funny like that.
I usually go to one a month, and before the other day, they usually aren't worth mentioning. But this one was quite memorable, both for the general douchebagginess of the audience, and several other things.
To start things off, the film was Duplicity starring Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. Good flick. It was in D.C., at Gallery Place, which neighbors the Verizon Center.
I went there, and when I checked in with the press people, I noticed something amiss. The people working for the press company (who are generally hot chicks) were dressed in fedoras and trench coat. What happened to the low-cut outfits that served me so faithfully when I go to sleep later that night?
Undeterred, I get to my seat, in the press section.
Let me tell you something. I enjoy reviewing movies. I don't like going to every movie that pops up, because I don't like watching foreign dramas, or even dramas for that matter. I like going to see stoner comedies, action flicks, and the occasional porno.
While I like to review movies, I never want to be what's called a "movie critic." Those are some of the worst people on the face of the earth.
People who view movies as "high art" are scum, and they are just looking for a way to think they are better than you. Sure, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is one of the most beautiful things ever, but that doesn't make me think that I'm better than you because I think it. I know I am.
It's possible for a movie to make you think, and have a great story and all that, but deep down, every movie ciritc will sell his integrity for a good line in a review.
I've done it myself. For example, before I saw Iron Man, I thought of a great headline for my review: "Iron Man shakes the rust off superhero genre." Brilliant, I know.
The thing was, I came up with that before I saw it, and I was going to use it no matter what. Luckily, the flick was pretty sweet, so I didn't run into a moral dilemma. But as a writer, make no bones about it, I would have used that headline even if it sucked, and then just spent 300 words justifying the headline. That's just how I roll.
But a movie critic would never admit that. They'd go on and on about how the film "spoke to him" or some other bullshit.
These same critics are the ones who are so pressured by other reviews, that it taints a lot of what they do.
Example: The Dark Knight. Great flick. But it is flawed, and flawed in a way that prevents it from being "The Greatest movie Ever."
Sure, Heath Ledger is great. But the plot has serious (get it?) holes in it. I won't go into a lot of them here, but it does. The performances make it a good movie, but it doesn't mean that it's a perfect flick, the way people were describing it.
And this pressure of so many positive reviews becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Critics who are worth their salt spent many pixels describing why the plot was a symbol o four current world and all that tripe.
The acclaim had a different effect on some reviewers, but a large effect nonetheless. Some reviewers felt the need to not flow with the crowd, and instead point out reasons that the film was incredibly overrated. Which is equally as wrong.
The film is a good story made great by good actors. It is a great film. Probably among the ten best of 2008. But that doesn't put it up there with movies like The Godfather. It just doesn't.
Anyways, I digress. Back to the premier, where I am surrounded by this scum at every angle.
Don't believe me that the people surrounding me were scum? Try this little nugget on for size.
There was a sign at the front of the theater, at the lower right hand of the screen, with the name of the organization sponsoring the premire. It covered literally a one foot long by four inches high of the 20'x45' screen. I didn't even notice it.
But guess who did? One of the horn-rimmed fucktasters in the press section.
Just as the audience got quiet and was waiting for the movie to start (no trailers at preimiers), and one critic had to make it all about himself.
"Uhhh, excuse me, Rebecca*?" Notice the use of the first name, trying to sound all important.
"Could you please move that sign, it's blocking the screen."
I wish the lights in the theatre had been on, because I would have loved to see this hot chick give this tool a withering glance, but she's probably better than that. She moved the sign.
So the movie started, and it was pretty good, but then trouble happened.
You see, I came straight to the premier from work, meaning I had to grab some dinner on the run. There happened to be a Chioptle right near the theater, so I ran in there, ate a quick burrito, and rolled to the movie.
Well, here's the thing about burritos...
Yeah, it's what you were thinking. The gas is brought into your body by the delicious, delicious beans, and soon it builds up. And once it hits a certain point, there's no more room for the gas, and it has to get out.
So I had myself a problem.
Let me clarify. The people sitting around me, packed in two media rows like sardines, they had a problem. Because this was more than just a case of gas.
You see, it was also nearing the end of the week, and my hamper was full, meaning my closet was rather empty. So I grabbed an old pair of khakis I had, but this particular pair had a twist.
You see, I had ripped this pair, around the crotchal region, slipping on some ice at some point during the winter. A photo, if you will:
Yep, there's a hole in my crotch. And this hole was special, it was like a chimney of stank, spewing my filth unto the unsuspecting populace.
I felt bad. For a second. Then some jackass critic started laughing much too loud for a movie that's not a comedy, again making it all about himself.
So I lifted my leg, and let fly with another toxic cloud of glory, and did my best to discretely fan the odor to him. I guess I'll never know if he smelled it.
Life's funny like that.
Monday Links: 3/30
Monday links, hot and fresh out of the oven. Well, no...not really.
- I like her. She seems....smart.
- Honesty. It's always nice to have, even if it's from someone trying to rob you of your life savings.
- No one is quite as accomplished in the art of making it all about themselves than PETA members. Their president is no exception.
- Quite possibly the best name ever.
- No one wants to die, but if you can be killed by pure, unadulterated irony, well, then, it might not be so bad.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday Hate: 3/27
Welcome one, welcome all, to another edition of Friday Hate.
Topic for this week: the word bromance.
I mean, seriously. What kind of word is that? Let's examine.
It all started back in the magical summer of 2002. I was a young, smooth lad of eighteen, fresh out of high school, and killing time by working at a record store before I headed off to college in the fall.
I was drinking vanilla coke like it was water, got high for the first time, and tried to hang out with friends who were off to different places one last time.
As a nation, we were all still in 9/11 recovery mode, with airlines in trouble and an invasion of Iraq. Throughout all of this, the media found a story that they saw fit to beat us over the head with: Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck.
For those of you younger than me, you might not remember the frenzy that was that couple, but there was one. Jennifer Lopez was starring in horrible movies like The Wedding Planner but she could not get out of the public eye.
And some enterprising reporter came up with the term "Bennifer" for those couples. Little did he or she know what a monster they created.
Soon, every celebrity couple was an amagamation of both names. "Brangelina," "TomKat," and other abominations. People talked about how horrible those terms were, but they still used them, which really pisses me off. Now they're so cliche that everyone uses them.
Then came the combining of other words. "Chillaxin," "Metrosexual," and other staples of losers everywhere. And somehow, the word "bromance" came into play.
Like the others, people always talked about how they hated the term, but they still used it, and here were are. With a fucking TV show named after it, and anytime two men hang out, they are said to have a bromance. Give me a fucking break.
I'm not immune to having man-crushes. Sure, I have feelings for people like Dirk Nowitzki that no heterosexual male should ever have about another hetersexual male, but I own it.
Speaking of inappropriate feelings, is it wrong that Clive Owen makes me feel funny inside, like when I used to climb the rope in gym class?
He is a gorgeous man. I say that as a man who has no interest in having sex with another man, believe you me.
Maybe it's the combination of amazing movies he's been in (Sin City, Inside Man, Children of Men) and the fact that he seemed pretty down to earth, but I am fully in love with Clive Owen. Even his name is fucking awesome.
But I would never, NEVER, say that I have a bromance with Clive Owen. That's just gay.
And that's where I think the fine line comes into play. If you use the term "bromance," then you are probably a little bit gay. Ergo, if you have feelings about a man, and use the term broamcen, then you probably are gay enough to act on those feelings if given the chance.
And that's where you and I differ. Because I don't use the phrase, I wouldn't molest Dirk Nowitzki if I saw him in public. As least I don't think so.
So do us all a favor, don't use that fucking word, and better yet, walk into oncoming traffic.
Topic for this week: the word bromance.
I mean, seriously. What kind of word is that? Let's examine.
It all started back in the magical summer of 2002. I was a young, smooth lad of eighteen, fresh out of high school, and killing time by working at a record store before I headed off to college in the fall.
I was drinking vanilla coke like it was water, got high for the first time, and tried to hang out with friends who were off to different places one last time.
As a nation, we were all still in 9/11 recovery mode, with airlines in trouble and an invasion of Iraq. Throughout all of this, the media found a story that they saw fit to beat us over the head with: Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck.
For those of you younger than me, you might not remember the frenzy that was that couple, but there was one. Jennifer Lopez was starring in horrible movies like The Wedding Planner but she could not get out of the public eye.
And some enterprising reporter came up with the term "Bennifer" for those couples. Little did he or she know what a monster they created.
Soon, every celebrity couple was an amagamation of both names. "Brangelina," "TomKat," and other abominations. People talked about how horrible those terms were, but they still used them, which really pisses me off. Now they're so cliche that everyone uses them.
Then came the combining of other words. "Chillaxin," "Metrosexual," and other staples of losers everywhere. And somehow, the word "bromance" came into play.
Like the others, people always talked about how they hated the term, but they still used it, and here were are. With a fucking TV show named after it, and anytime two men hang out, they are said to have a bromance. Give me a fucking break.
I'm not immune to having man-crushes. Sure, I have feelings for people like Dirk Nowitzki that no heterosexual male should ever have about another hetersexual male, but I own it.
Speaking of inappropriate feelings, is it wrong that Clive Owen makes me feel funny inside, like when I used to climb the rope in gym class?
He is a gorgeous man. I say that as a man who has no interest in having sex with another man, believe you me.
Maybe it's the combination of amazing movies he's been in (Sin City, Inside Man, Children of Men) and the fact that he seemed pretty down to earth, but I am fully in love with Clive Owen. Even his name is fucking awesome.
But I would never, NEVER, say that I have a bromance with Clive Owen. That's just gay.
And that's where I think the fine line comes into play. If you use the term "bromance," then you are probably a little bit gay. Ergo, if you have feelings about a man, and use the term broamcen, then you probably are gay enough to act on those feelings if given the chance.
And that's where you and I differ. Because I don't use the phrase, I wouldn't molest Dirk Nowitzki if I saw him in public. As least I don't think so.
So do us all a favor, don't use that fucking word, and better yet, walk into oncoming traffic.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
How to Wear a Raincoat Like a Badass
It's raining today. Which I don't mind all that much. At least, not since Christmas of 2007.
Because that's when I got a long, classy raincoat. A London Fog if I'm not mistaken. And there are few things in life that are as badass as a properly worn raincoat.
Let me clue you in on what a properly worn raincoat is. It's never buttoned. You let that bitch flap around you in the wind, because it's bad ass.
I don't care if you're in a fucking monsoon, you keep that shit unbuttoned. Sure, you'll have a stripe of wetness (that just sounds wrong) going up your body, but it's a stripe of brawn is what it is.
Think back to all those badass movies where people are wearing trench coats.
If it's in color, the coat isn't buttoned.
Humphrey Bogart buttoned it. Bruce Willis doesn't.
I don't really have anywhere I'm going with this, so I'll keep it short and sweet, kind of like my...
Oh, wait. I've used that one before.
Because that's when I got a long, classy raincoat. A London Fog if I'm not mistaken. And there are few things in life that are as badass as a properly worn raincoat.
Let me clue you in on what a properly worn raincoat is. It's never buttoned. You let that bitch flap around you in the wind, because it's bad ass.
I don't care if you're in a fucking monsoon, you keep that shit unbuttoned. Sure, you'll have a stripe of wetness (that just sounds wrong) going up your body, but it's a stripe of brawn is what it is.
Think back to all those badass movies where people are wearing trench coats.
If it's in color, the coat isn't buttoned.
Humphrey Bogart buttoned it. Bruce Willis doesn't.
I don't really have anywhere I'm going with this, so I'll keep it short and sweet, kind of like my...
Oh, wait. I've used that one before.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
On Archenemies
Everyone needs an archenemy. Superman had Lex Luthor, Batman had the Joker, Rosie O'Donnell has her never ending losing war with dignity.
It's a fact of life, and it makes things more interesting.
I've had several archenemies over the past few years and they keep me on my toes.
The last couple have all been work-related. When I was interning at a local paper, there was another reporter who happened to be assigned to many stories that I was.
It was a chick. A breathtakingly attractive chick, who would always show up with this weird, Eurotrash looking guy, kind of like this:
Or maybe that's just my shaky memory. Still, I remember he was a weird looking dude.
It just so happens that this hot reporter used to work for the paper I worked for. In fact, I sat at her desk, and noticed that the user name I logged into the computer with was hers.
I could tell you that once I found that out I didn't lick the seat, but I'd be lying.
Ass-residue licking aside, she became my, albeit super foxy, archrival.
When I would see her show up, I would mutter her name under my breath menacingly. It was kind of my thing.
She had a good name for that muttering under my breath too. I won't use the real one, but it was similiar to Petruzzi.
So there I would be, working on my shit, talking the fuck out of people (not literally, unfortunately), and then she would show up. And I'd mutter to myself, "Petruzzi...."
It makes me feel like a badass. I don't know why.
Fast forward to today. I am still a reporter, though I currently get paid. One of my "beats" as it were, happens to be a local national cemetery.
When covering events there, there is a certain reporter for a local rag known as the Washington Post that happens to cover the same stories.
While he's always been more than cordial to me, I despise him. He is my new archrival.
He sits there, with his horn-rimmed glasses, using five-dollar words when normal ones will do, and he mocks me.
It's not that I have a thing against big words. Hell, I use them a lot. In writing. Where they belong. I don't want a conversation with you to be like reading the fucking dictionary.
What's that you say? Better than me? I don't think so! Just because you've never urinated in a coffee cup while driving, and then proceeded to spill it all over my fine leather upholstery, doesn't mean you're better than me. That's never even happened to me.
Fast forward to today. Wait, wait, you went too far. You're at tomorrow. Go back.
Good. Today, I was covering a separate event, with another Washington Post reporter. He had the same horn-rimmed glasses (what are they, standard issue?) except he wore a fancy suit. Fucking asshole. Just because the crotch in my jeans wears out faster than normal people's doesn't give you the right!
Worse yet, everyone was kowtowing to this fuckface like he was the cat's fucking pajamas. Just because the paper I write for has a circulation of less than 24,000, and his happens to be almost 700,000 doesn't mean shit.
Back to my original point: everyone needs an archenemy. It keeps things interesting.
If you don't have an archenemy, whose name do you scream to an uncaring sky at five o' clock in the morning?
No one's? What does that even mean?
It's a fact of life, and it makes things more interesting.
I've had several archenemies over the past few years and they keep me on my toes.
The last couple have all been work-related. When I was interning at a local paper, there was another reporter who happened to be assigned to many stories that I was.
It was a chick. A breathtakingly attractive chick, who would always show up with this weird, Eurotrash looking guy, kind of like this:
Or maybe that's just my shaky memory. Still, I remember he was a weird looking dude.
It just so happens that this hot reporter used to work for the paper I worked for. In fact, I sat at her desk, and noticed that the user name I logged into the computer with was hers.
I could tell you that once I found that out I didn't lick the seat, but I'd be lying.
Ass-residue licking aside, she became my, albeit super foxy, archrival.
When I would see her show up, I would mutter her name under my breath menacingly. It was kind of my thing.
She had a good name for that muttering under my breath too. I won't use the real one, but it was similiar to Petruzzi.
So there I would be, working on my shit, talking the fuck out of people (not literally, unfortunately), and then she would show up. And I'd mutter to myself, "Petruzzi...."
It makes me feel like a badass. I don't know why.
Fast forward to today. I am still a reporter, though I currently get paid. One of my "beats" as it were, happens to be a local national cemetery.
When covering events there, there is a certain reporter for a local rag known as the Washington Post that happens to cover the same stories.
While he's always been more than cordial to me, I despise him. He is my new archrival.
He sits there, with his horn-rimmed glasses, using five-dollar words when normal ones will do, and he mocks me.
It's not that I have a thing against big words. Hell, I use them a lot. In writing. Where they belong. I don't want a conversation with you to be like reading the fucking dictionary.
What's that you say? Better than me? I don't think so! Just because you've never urinated in a coffee cup while driving, and then proceeded to spill it all over my fine leather upholstery, doesn't mean you're better than me. That's never even happened to me.
Fast forward to today. Wait, wait, you went too far. You're at tomorrow. Go back.
Good. Today, I was covering a separate event, with another Washington Post reporter. He had the same horn-rimmed glasses (what are they, standard issue?) except he wore a fancy suit. Fucking asshole. Just because the crotch in my jeans wears out faster than normal people's doesn't give you the right!
Worse yet, everyone was kowtowing to this fuckface like he was the cat's fucking pajamas. Just because the paper I write for has a circulation of less than 24,000, and his happens to be almost 700,000 doesn't mean shit.
Back to my original point: everyone needs an archenemy. It keeps things interesting.
If you don't have an archenemy, whose name do you scream to an uncaring sky at five o' clock in the morning?
No one's? What does that even mean?
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monday Links: 3/23
Another Monday is upon us. Don't you think that instead of reading random strange and funny links, maybe we should have a discussion about the world and how to fix it. For example, did you know Thailand is at an economic crossroads?
No? Oh well, Monday Links it is.
No? Oh well, Monday Links it is.
- Interesting stuff. That's the only way to describe it.
- It's made with bits of real panther.
- As nerdy as it sounds, I'm pretty sure I'd go on a Zombie Adventure.
- I tried and tried to come up with a better headline for this, but I think they nailed it.
- Awesome. Terrifying. Star Wars finally come to life. It's all that and more. So much more.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday Hate: 3/20
This week's edition of Friday Hate is brought to you by: any and every douchebag that goes to the gym.
There's nothing inherently wrong with going to the gym. In an effort to be less of a piece of human shit, I've found myself going on occasion. But the problem is what the gym breeds. And I'm not just talking about antibiotic-resistant staph infections.
I hate the pretension that comes with people who go to the gym. I don't even tell people I go to the gym. I either say, "playing basketball," or "scoping out elementary schools for future victims." Both of those things make fill me with less shame than telling people I'm at the gym.
I'm sure we all know plenty of pricks who put up Faceook statuses, Tweets, or away messages (do people still use AIM anymore?) about going to the gym. Fucking pricks. The vast majority of updates are a case of making it all about yourself, none more so than telling people that you're at the gym.
But it doesn't end there. Oh no.
Once you get to the gym, there are the people. The majority of people there are fine. They do their workouts, and get on with their life.
Then there are the dudes that come in, polishing off the last of their protein shake, and looking for a place to store their Muscle Milk. The guys who haven't worn sleeves since 1998, and think that stonewashed jeans are about to make a comeback.
These guys love to make it all about themselves. They rack of the heaviest weights, they grunt like they're passing a watermelon through their colon, and they always have to slam the weights down the hardest, creating a clanking sound that says to them, "I'M A FUCKING MAN!!", but to the rest of us it says, "MY DICK IS SMALL!!!"
Now, let us move to the locker room. It's hard to imagine anything more terrifying than men in various stage of undress, sauntering around a locker room, balls flinging every which way.
The gym I go to happens to be on a military base, so I'm not sure if this is the exception rather than the rule. But the guys there have absolutely no shame. I can walk in at any given time to see an old dude, completely naked, brushing his teeth and shaving at the sink, the same sink that has a full mirror, tossing back the image of old hairy nuts right back into my face. Gross.
Or sometimes an old dude will be on the scale weighing himself. Naked. Also in front of a mirror. There's no just escape from from the nutsacks.
I never thought I'd have to type that sentence again.
The point of the whole thing is that going to the gym is fine. It's more than fine. But it doesn't need to be something that you advertise to the whole fucking world.
Because I hate when people do that. And you. I hate you too.
There's nothing inherently wrong with going to the gym. In an effort to be less of a piece of human shit, I've found myself going on occasion. But the problem is what the gym breeds. And I'm not just talking about antibiotic-resistant staph infections.
I hate the pretension that comes with people who go to the gym. I don't even tell people I go to the gym. I either say, "playing basketball," or "scoping out elementary schools for future victims." Both of those things make fill me with less shame than telling people I'm at the gym.
I'm sure we all know plenty of pricks who put up Faceook statuses, Tweets, or away messages (do people still use AIM anymore?) about going to the gym. Fucking pricks. The vast majority of updates are a case of making it all about yourself, none more so than telling people that you're at the gym.
But it doesn't end there. Oh no.
Once you get to the gym, there are the people. The majority of people there are fine. They do their workouts, and get on with their life.
Then there are the dudes that come in, polishing off the last of their protein shake, and looking for a place to store their Muscle Milk. The guys who haven't worn sleeves since 1998, and think that stonewashed jeans are about to make a comeback.
These guys love to make it all about themselves. They rack of the heaviest weights, they grunt like they're passing a watermelon through their colon, and they always have to slam the weights down the hardest, creating a clanking sound that says to them, "I'M A FUCKING MAN!!", but to the rest of us it says, "MY DICK IS SMALL!!!"
Now, let us move to the locker room. It's hard to imagine anything more terrifying than men in various stage of undress, sauntering around a locker room, balls flinging every which way.
The gym I go to happens to be on a military base, so I'm not sure if this is the exception rather than the rule. But the guys there have absolutely no shame. I can walk in at any given time to see an old dude, completely naked, brushing his teeth and shaving at the sink, the same sink that has a full mirror, tossing back the image of old hairy nuts right back into my face. Gross.
Or sometimes an old dude will be on the scale weighing himself. Naked. Also in front of a mirror. There's no just escape from from the nutsacks.
I never thought I'd have to type that sentence again.
The point of the whole thing is that going to the gym is fine. It's more than fine. But it doesn't need to be something that you advertise to the whole fucking world.
Because I hate when people do that. And you. I hate you too.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Piecing Together the Previous Evening
7:53.
LED lights screaming those numbers are the first thing I see. Considering I have to be at work by 8:00, it's not good news.
Before I can process that information, full consciousness hits me like a freight train, bringing nothing but pain along with it.
I am wearing no pants, but I do have my socks and collared shirt on from the night before. Oddly enough, my pants are on the other end of the room, while my shoes are right next to my bed. Who'd-a thunk it?
Here's what I remember from the night before. It was St. Patrick's Day. Green beer. A bar. A party after the bar. Talking with a gay guy at the party. Falling, possibly puking.
That's it.
There's a glass of water on my nightstand. I didn't put it there. At least, I don't think. I stagger to the bathroom, realizing that I am still intoxicated.
Pain. Everywhere.
For the first time in my professional career, I say to myself, "Fuck it" and I got back to sleep.
I wake up about 9:45.
Pain. Everywhere.
I again stagger to the bathroom to get in the shower, intending to wash the stench of failure off. It doesn't work.
I get out, and the pain is still there, along with the alcohol in my blood. I almost slip getting out of the shower, which would have been a perfect end to a perfect morning.
I rush to get dressed, throwing on the same jeans and shoes I wore last night. As I'm getting ready to leave, I hear my roommate moving around, so I go to ask him what happened last night.
The facts are not encouraging.
Apparently I was sitting in a chair (outside, thank goodness), when I suddenly bent over, and puked in between my legs on the ground.
He said, "I would wash those jeans and throw away the shoes you were wearing last night."
I'm wearing both. They appeared to be stain free, but now, I'm not so sure.
I also dropped my glasses, the very glasses I'm now wearing, in the puke.
I notice my coat is missing, and I ask him where it is. He said he doesn't remember me wearing it, so it must be at the house. Probably sitting next to my dignity, which I also left at the house.
Just where I want to go back to. I'm sure my face is a welcome sight.
As I drive to work, some events get clearer.
The gay guy I was talking to, at first he said he wasn't gay. So I remember talking to him, half-belittling him, half friendly chat, trying to get him to admit he was gay. He does. A win for yours truly. The only one of the night.
I don't remember much else, including what time we left or any of that. I'm just glad I didn't drive.
And hey, if you happen to see a black peacoat in the Annandale area, it's probably mine.
LED lights screaming those numbers are the first thing I see. Considering I have to be at work by 8:00, it's not good news.
Before I can process that information, full consciousness hits me like a freight train, bringing nothing but pain along with it.
I am wearing no pants, but I do have my socks and collared shirt on from the night before. Oddly enough, my pants are on the other end of the room, while my shoes are right next to my bed. Who'd-a thunk it?
Here's what I remember from the night before. It was St. Patrick's Day. Green beer. A bar. A party after the bar. Talking with a gay guy at the party. Falling, possibly puking.
That's it.
There's a glass of water on my nightstand. I didn't put it there. At least, I don't think. I stagger to the bathroom, realizing that I am still intoxicated.
Pain. Everywhere.
For the first time in my professional career, I say to myself, "Fuck it" and I got back to sleep.
I wake up about 9:45.
Pain. Everywhere.
I again stagger to the bathroom to get in the shower, intending to wash the stench of failure off. It doesn't work.
I get out, and the pain is still there, along with the alcohol in my blood. I almost slip getting out of the shower, which would have been a perfect end to a perfect morning.
I rush to get dressed, throwing on the same jeans and shoes I wore last night. As I'm getting ready to leave, I hear my roommate moving around, so I go to ask him what happened last night.
The facts are not encouraging.
Apparently I was sitting in a chair (outside, thank goodness), when I suddenly bent over, and puked in between my legs on the ground.
He said, "I would wash those jeans and throw away the shoes you were wearing last night."
I'm wearing both. They appeared to be stain free, but now, I'm not so sure.
I also dropped my glasses, the very glasses I'm now wearing, in the puke.
I notice my coat is missing, and I ask him where it is. He said he doesn't remember me wearing it, so it must be at the house. Probably sitting next to my dignity, which I also left at the house.
Just where I want to go back to. I'm sure my face is a welcome sight.
As I drive to work, some events get clearer.
The gay guy I was talking to, at first he said he wasn't gay. So I remember talking to him, half-belittling him, half friendly chat, trying to get him to admit he was gay. He does. A win for yours truly. The only one of the night.
I don't remember much else, including what time we left or any of that. I'm just glad I didn't drive.
And hey, if you happen to see a black peacoat in the Annandale area, it's probably mine.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Monday Links: 3/16
Wellity, wellity, wellity. It looks like ol' Mr. Clean wants to hang out with Dirty Dingus McGee.
On to Monday Links.
On to Monday Links.
- I found this interesting, a photoshop contest in which movie posters were made by changing the title by one letter. Good stuff.
- There are five sporting goals I have in life. Bowl a 300 game, get a hole-in-one, hit a walk-off Home Run, kick a field goal, and get a rebound over a black guy. I've only accomplished one. This bitch did the hardest one, and on her first try.
- If you're a Calvin and Hobbes fan, you'll appreciate this. And if you're not, well then, we have nothing in common, and I think less of you as a person.
- The only thing funnier than this is the people on Digg who thought it was real.
- Nerd-dom. Sad, yet fascinating.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Friday Hate: 3/13
Back with another edition of Friday Hate. Sure it's Sunday, but are you really going to bust my balls? You are? Then add yourself to this list, fucktaster.
This week's topic? Anyone who drives cars.
This includes you. And me. All of us. Since this topic fills me with white-hot rage, I'm just going to do bullet points, because having to think about this too long would make me point bullets. At you.
Wordplay. Brilliant.
I hate the fuckers who camp out for parking spots, clogging up the lanes, and just being assholes. Sometimes these people will wait up to ten minutes for a spot, just because they see someone get in a car.
I hate people who drive BMWs and Mercedes, because mot of them act like they can do whatever they want, and just because their car is nicer than mine, and they don't have to buy anti-fungal lotion every week, that they're better than me.
I hate people who refuse to make a mistake while driving. This means the people who realize they are in the right lane and need to make a left hand turn, and instead of being a normal human being an just turning around the block, they stop, put on their fucking signal, and disrupt not one (the lane they're in), not two (the lane next to them, for people going straight), but three (the left turn lane). These people are the patron saints of making it all about themselves.
I hate people who park across two spots, know they did it, but don't care. I was in a parking lot the other day, and a gentleman did this. He got out of the car, looked at how he was parked, and just kept walking into the store. How can you consider yourself any sort of decent person and do this? If I had balls I would have ran up to him and asked him that question, but I didn't feel like getting shot (after all, the dude was black).
I hate people who are in too much of a goddam hurry. I was at a red light, about five cars back, and I was the last car in front of the right hand turn lane. And some cunt came up behind me and starting honking, and I edged as close to the car in front of me as I could, so she could squeak by. This crusty bitch gave me the stink-eye of all stink-eyes. The car behind her waited for me to move forward before getting in the right hand turn lane, and you want to know the elapsed time between the first car and the second car taking a right at the intersection. Ten fucking seconds. God, I hate people.
A can feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about this, so I'll wrap it up. Like I've said to a handful of lucky ladies, sorry for the shortness of this one, I'll try and do better next time.
This week's topic? Anyone who drives cars.
This includes you. And me. All of us. Since this topic fills me with white-hot rage, I'm just going to do bullet points, because having to think about this too long would make me point bullets. At you.
Wordplay. Brilliant.
I hate the fuckers who camp out for parking spots, clogging up the lanes, and just being assholes. Sometimes these people will wait up to ten minutes for a spot, just because they see someone get in a car.
I hate people who drive BMWs and Mercedes, because mot of them act like they can do whatever they want, and just because their car is nicer than mine, and they don't have to buy anti-fungal lotion every week, that they're better than me.
I hate people who refuse to make a mistake while driving. This means the people who realize they are in the right lane and need to make a left hand turn, and instead of being a normal human being an just turning around the block, they stop, put on their fucking signal, and disrupt not one (the lane they're in), not two (the lane next to them, for people going straight), but three (the left turn lane). These people are the patron saints of making it all about themselves.
I hate people who park across two spots, know they did it, but don't care. I was in a parking lot the other day, and a gentleman did this. He got out of the car, looked at how he was parked, and just kept walking into the store. How can you consider yourself any sort of decent person and do this? If I had balls I would have ran up to him and asked him that question, but I didn't feel like getting shot (after all, the dude was black).
I hate people who are in too much of a goddam hurry. I was at a red light, about five cars back, and I was the last car in front of the right hand turn lane. And some cunt came up behind me and starting honking, and I edged as close to the car in front of me as I could, so she could squeak by. This crusty bitch gave me the stink-eye of all stink-eyes. The car behind her waited for me to move forward before getting in the right hand turn lane, and you want to know the elapsed time between the first car and the second car taking a right at the intersection. Ten fucking seconds. God, I hate people.
A can feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about this, so I'll wrap it up. Like I've said to a handful of lucky ladies, sorry for the shortness of this one, I'll try and do better next time.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Culture? I Hardly Know Her
Culture. It's more than just a sample in a preti dish that will tell you whether or not you have AIDS. It's something that people have. Other people, not me.
So when given a chance to meet with high-society types, I took this oppotunity to crawl out of the slop, hose myself off, and act like a human being.
Last night, as per usual on a Friday night, I found myself rather thirsty. Not thirsty for water or vengeance, but for delicious, delicious alcohol.
A friend of mine called me about a happening in Washington D.C., where some Libertarian website was holding a viewing party for their new special. Not that I give a shit about any of this, but it did have an open bar. Just try and keep me away from an open bar.
For most people, the evening was a chance to rub elbows with D.C.'s young, progressive elite, and meet like-minded people who would use these connections to one day change the world for the better.
For me, I could get drunk for free, and mabye create some awkward situations. A win-win really. And if I managed to find an emotionally distant chick with too much eye makeup to pity fuck me, well, it would be the cherry (if I'm lucky) on top.
So I got off work, and met my friend at his place, and we drove into D.C. The venue, as it turned out, was near DuPont Circle, which is a place that is rife with "the gays."
Nothing wrong with that, but I didn't want to find myself walking into the wrong bar and seeing bad things. Unspeakable things.
The club near the place I parked was called "The Ramrod" and it seemed to be one of those places where one might walk in to see an asshole stretched tighter than a snare drum.
I don't even know what that means, but I guarantee you the staff of The Ramrod do.
The guests at the particular event I was attending was the kind of people I rarely associate with.
Lime green sweater vests over pink shirts. Touch screen phones as far as the eye could see. Short, moussed hair. Chilled white wine in clear plastic cups. Goatees. Horn-rimmed glasses. Boot cut jeans over slip-on shoes.
That kind of crowd. Fuckfaces galore.
The event itself was absolutely perfect for two of my favorite pastimes: people watching and eavesdropping.
Most of the crowd was the mid-twenties, yuppie types who have likely never known the sweet sting of sweat after a hard day's labor.
But lo and behold! There was a mullet sighting. It was this guy who had a T-shirt tucked into jeans with elastic cuffs over white Asics. A classic look really. And timeless.
This guy was with a mousy looking girl, and they had a real Rocky-and-Adrian thing going on. He kept an arm around her the whole time, and she just looked like the sight of this many people would cause her to disappear into fine particle of pure estrogen.
Besides the guest lecturers, there wasn't any women over the age of 30. But there were plenty of gray-haired men, with nary a wedding ring in sight, and they always seemed to be following crowds of chicks. A little bit creepy (read: me in 20 years).
It was in an office on one floor of the building. It was a giant square room, with angled corners made of old brick and new white drywall between corners.
In the center of the room was another square, for glass walls and inside was the free food. The open bar was right next to this square, and that's where I decided to set up camp.
It was one of those parties where, if you came exclusively to drink (which I did), then you pretty much had to get back in line as soon as you got your drink (which I also did), because by the time you got back to the front, your drink would be empty (which it was).
The beer was pretty good, some micro-brew from California, but that didn't stop most of the doucebags from ordering Scotch.
I mean, seriously, Scotch, even good scotch tastes like shit. And they didn't have good scotch. They had Johnnie Walker Red, which is the equivalent of Budweiser in the scotch world. It's okay, but everyone knows the brand because of the advertising, and there are a ton of better drinks out there.
Everyone who ordered a scotch and soda made sure to say it really loud, and then look around, hoping to catch an approving glance from another like-minded prick.
Here's when I knew I was in a weird place. I went to use the men's room, where there were three urinals. I waited in line to use them, and I noticed a very curious thing.
Every dude at the urinal would unbuckle his belt to take a piss. Isn't that weird. Whatever happened to unzipping your fly? Freaking weirdos, man.
I decided to walk around spreading hate and awkwardness in my path. Since these were a progressive bunch, I knew which buttons to push.
A sampling of conversation starts I used:
The event itself was a series of lectures on things like: universal pre-school, privatization of roads, immigration and the like. BOR-ING!
At one point, they asked for questions from the audience, and I raised my hand, and they passed the mic over to me.
"Uh.. do you think the Celtics will overtake the Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference?"
Deafening silence. I continued, thinking the audience hadn't gotten the question.
"Because, you know, the Celtics have been pretty good without KG, and they did it last year, but I just don't see how they can match up with LeBron in crunch time."
Cricket. Cricket.
I took that as my cue to leave. And when I say leave, I mean go to another, straighter, part of D.C., get hammered, get lost in the city, and end up driving through the ghettoes to get home.
Good times, good times.
So when given a chance to meet with high-society types, I took this oppotunity to crawl out of the slop, hose myself off, and act like a human being.
Last night, as per usual on a Friday night, I found myself rather thirsty. Not thirsty for water or vengeance, but for delicious, delicious alcohol.
A friend of mine called me about a happening in Washington D.C., where some Libertarian website was holding a viewing party for their new special. Not that I give a shit about any of this, but it did have an open bar. Just try and keep me away from an open bar.
For most people, the evening was a chance to rub elbows with D.C.'s young, progressive elite, and meet like-minded people who would use these connections to one day change the world for the better.
For me, I could get drunk for free, and mabye create some awkward situations. A win-win really. And if I managed to find an emotionally distant chick with too much eye makeup to pity fuck me, well, it would be the cherry (if I'm lucky) on top.
So I got off work, and met my friend at his place, and we drove into D.C. The venue, as it turned out, was near DuPont Circle, which is a place that is rife with "the gays."
Nothing wrong with that, but I didn't want to find myself walking into the wrong bar and seeing bad things. Unspeakable things.
The club near the place I parked was called "The Ramrod" and it seemed to be one of those places where one might walk in to see an asshole stretched tighter than a snare drum.
I don't even know what that means, but I guarantee you the staff of The Ramrod do.
The guests at the particular event I was attending was the kind of people I rarely associate with.
Lime green sweater vests over pink shirts. Touch screen phones as far as the eye could see. Short, moussed hair. Chilled white wine in clear plastic cups. Goatees. Horn-rimmed glasses. Boot cut jeans over slip-on shoes.
That kind of crowd. Fuckfaces galore.
The event itself was absolutely perfect for two of my favorite pastimes: people watching and eavesdropping.
Most of the crowd was the mid-twenties, yuppie types who have likely never known the sweet sting of sweat after a hard day's labor.
But lo and behold! There was a mullet sighting. It was this guy who had a T-shirt tucked into jeans with elastic cuffs over white Asics. A classic look really. And timeless.
This guy was with a mousy looking girl, and they had a real Rocky-and-Adrian thing going on. He kept an arm around her the whole time, and she just looked like the sight of this many people would cause her to disappear into fine particle of pure estrogen.
Besides the guest lecturers, there wasn't any women over the age of 30. But there were plenty of gray-haired men, with nary a wedding ring in sight, and they always seemed to be following crowds of chicks. A little bit creepy (read: me in 20 years).
It was in an office on one floor of the building. It was a giant square room, with angled corners made of old brick and new white drywall between corners.
In the center of the room was another square, for glass walls and inside was the free food. The open bar was right next to this square, and that's where I decided to set up camp.
It was one of those parties where, if you came exclusively to drink (which I did), then you pretty much had to get back in line as soon as you got your drink (which I also did), because by the time you got back to the front, your drink would be empty (which it was).
The beer was pretty good, some micro-brew from California, but that didn't stop most of the doucebags from ordering Scotch.
I mean, seriously, Scotch, even good scotch tastes like shit. And they didn't have good scotch. They had Johnnie Walker Red, which is the equivalent of Budweiser in the scotch world. It's okay, but everyone knows the brand because of the advertising, and there are a ton of better drinks out there.
Everyone who ordered a scotch and soda made sure to say it really loud, and then look around, hoping to catch an approving glance from another like-minded prick.
Here's when I knew I was in a weird place. I went to use the men's room, where there were three urinals. I waited in line to use them, and I noticed a very curious thing.
Every dude at the urinal would unbuckle his belt to take a piss. Isn't that weird. Whatever happened to unzipping your fly? Freaking weirdos, man.
I decided to walk around spreading hate and awkwardness in my path. Since these were a progressive bunch, I knew which buttons to push.
A sampling of conversation starts I used:
- Hey, the government has functioned perfectly for the past 230 years, why change now?
- I miss Dubya.
- I don't know about you, but I think there's just some things the government needs to do to keep us safe, and we don't need to know about it.
- Sure, immigration needs reform, but won't that lead to a decline in white people? No one wants that. Right? Guys?
- That Ron Paul sure is a kook, isn't he?
The event itself was a series of lectures on things like: universal pre-school, privatization of roads, immigration and the like. BOR-ING!
At one point, they asked for questions from the audience, and I raised my hand, and they passed the mic over to me.
"Uh.. do you think the Celtics will overtake the Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference?"
Deafening silence. I continued, thinking the audience hadn't gotten the question.
"Because, you know, the Celtics have been pretty good without KG, and they did it last year, but I just don't see how they can match up with LeBron in crunch time."
Cricket. Cricket.
I took that as my cue to leave. And when I say leave, I mean go to another, straighter, part of D.C., get hammered, get lost in the city, and end up driving through the ghettoes to get home.
Good times, good times.
Friday, March 13, 2009
On Assignment: Covering El Presidente
I enjoy my job. Some days more than others, but in today's economy, beggar's can't be choosers. And when I say beggars, I mean people with a Bachelor's Degree in Liberal arts with a sub-3.0 GPA, such as myself.
Yesterday was one of those days when I really like my job, because I get to cover something cool. This cool thing happened to be the 44th President of the United States, Mr. Barack Obama. Not bad for a 25-year-old asshole who still isn't quite sure about the social stigmas attached to hand lotion.
It's the first time I've covered Obama, and I was lucky enough to cover President Bush on two non-consecutive occasions. I always liked covering Presidents, because the leader of the free world and the effect he has on people is a fascinating thing to watch.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Yesterday, I happened to be the only non-White House Press Corps media assigned to this particular story. So I had to get into Washington D.C. by 10:15 a.m. Not a problem, right? Except for that fact that the president wasn't speaking until at least 1:00.
So I am forced to spend three-plus hours waiting for a speech that ended up taking 15 minutes. Not the president's fault, but I wish he would be more considerate of reporters who write for weekly community papers with circulations of less than 30,000. Where's the change he promised??
Anyways, I was forced to spend three-hours in the lonely press section of this auditorium. I had a book to read, and of course, my ever-present Yahtzee on my cell phone, but that only lasted me about an hour's worth of amusement.
So when I got bored, I had plenty of time to people-watch. And when you're surrounded by people who are waiting to see the president, it's always interesting.
Secret Service agents, for example. Those are some bad-asses to the Nth degree. You see the dark suit and the earpiece, and they may not look like much. Hell, the older guys look like they could just as easily be accountants or something.
Which is exactly what they want you to think. These fuckers see everything going on. And I mean EVERYTHING.
Example: I was covering an event last December in which the keynote speaker was the director of the FBI. Such an important gentleman has Secret Service agents that protect him.
I was sitting in the press section, with a bunch of cameramen. Next to me was a guy in a kilt, with a full bagpipe set-up. He played some traditional song beforehand, and he would play something at the end, and in between he was hanging out near the press, and we ended up shooting the shit for a little while.
So we're talking, and all of a sudden, a Secret Service Agent, who I swear was on the other side of the crowd ten seconds ago, materializes next to the guy. And he asks the bagpiper why he keeps reaching into his coat.
Now, I had been talking with the guy for about ten minutes, and I didn't once realize that he reached in his coat. It turns out, part of the harness for the bagpipes is right below the sternum, and the guy was fiddling with it while he was standing around. The Secret Service Agent noticed his fiddling from about 100 feet away, and he came over to check it out. Bad ass.
As the agent is turns to leave, the bagpiper says, "I thought you were going to ask me about the knife." See, as part of his ceremonial garb, he had a long, curved dagger in a silver holder on his side. And the Secret Service agent responded with:
"I saw that when you arrived, sir. I don't think you'd get too far with that thing."
I think I popped a boner right there. Fucking awesome.
Anyways, back to El Presidente.
The mood before a president speaks is unlike anything else I've ever seen. The closest thing I can think of is the buzz before a big boxing or wrestling match. The audience knows that something big is going to happen, something they have been waiting for for quite a while, and they know it will be over before they know it. The anticipation is thick in the air.
It's funny, I've learned that the buzz before a presiden comes is the only thing that stops me from playing the usual game I play when I'm around large crowds. I usually play the, "Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game, which is always a winner.
Except, before the president shows up, I like to play the "which one of these people is like John Malkovich in In the Line of Fire and has some sort of composite plastic weapon to kill the president with?" game. Which is quite fun.
Note: Sometimes I revert back to the Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game when a hot chick walks in, which they inevitably do.
As far as the John Malkovich game, the first thing you do is eliminate your suspects. In the case of Barack, you can eliminate black people.
I mean, for real, what black person is going to do anything to Obama? I'm pretty sure the Secret Service doesn't even put them through the metal dectectors. It's a waste of time.
I'd like to imagine some sort of reverse discrimination, where the Secret Service eyes white people with nothing but suspicion and the black folk in attendance are completely above suspicion.
So every single whitey in the place was under the umbrella of suspicion. Step one, complete.
Step two: I drop a test fart to see who notices the sound and/or smell.
You see, the standard maniac who is waiting to hurt the president is probably no nervous that he's not focusing on anything external, he's preparing to make history and/or get capped by the Secret Service for his trouble.
Judging from the disgusted looks and suddenly empty seats around me, no one in my section was planning anything shady. A standard check of the ol' underpants for a shart (yeah, it smelled that bad), and step two is complete.
Slowly but surely, a list of suspects presented itself.
Suspect one: McBeardFace. The old white guy in the suit with a unbelievable bushy beard. Is he some sort of Confederate General that has travelled forward in time to see if the South won the war? Upon discovering that one of the "slave folk" in in charge, will he immediately challenge the president to a duel with pistols at dawn?
Suspect two: TwirlyPen. The nervous looking white guy who keeps twirling and clicking his pen. Is the pen some sort of grenade a la, GoldenEye, where the right combination of clicks turns it into a live grenade with a five-second fuse?
Suspect three: Hooty McBoob. A buxom wench sitting near the front, who acts all high society, but is probably a half-generation removed from having slave labor. Bitch.
There you have it, a list of probable assasins.
The Secret Service ain't got shit on me.
But of course, they did their jobs, and despite what the agent said, I'm pretty sure I stopped an assassination, so I can feel good about that. Still, that fucker could have at least thanked me instead of threatening the taser.
After three hours of waiting, the president spoke briefly, and then it was all over. The people who were taking pictures were like little kids at a concert. The only thing that would have been worse would have been if they were all cell-phone cameras.
Let me tell you something about when a president enters a room. It's like a bomb goes off. The ripple that goes through the room as palpable. I actually noticed it more with Bush, but I don't know if that's just because he was the first one that I covered.
Anyways, if I had done anything obnoxious, I'm sure you would have heard about it on the news.
Yesterday was one of those days when I really like my job, because I get to cover something cool. This cool thing happened to be the 44th President of the United States, Mr. Barack Obama. Not bad for a 25-year-old asshole who still isn't quite sure about the social stigmas attached to hand lotion.
It's the first time I've covered Obama, and I was lucky enough to cover President Bush on two non-consecutive occasions. I always liked covering Presidents, because the leader of the free world and the effect he has on people is a fascinating thing to watch.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Yesterday, I happened to be the only non-White House Press Corps media assigned to this particular story. So I had to get into Washington D.C. by 10:15 a.m. Not a problem, right? Except for that fact that the president wasn't speaking until at least 1:00.
So I am forced to spend three-plus hours waiting for a speech that ended up taking 15 minutes. Not the president's fault, but I wish he would be more considerate of reporters who write for weekly community papers with circulations of less than 30,000. Where's the change he promised??
Anyways, I was forced to spend three-hours in the lonely press section of this auditorium. I had a book to read, and of course, my ever-present Yahtzee on my cell phone, but that only lasted me about an hour's worth of amusement.
So when I got bored, I had plenty of time to people-watch. And when you're surrounded by people who are waiting to see the president, it's always interesting.
Secret Service agents, for example. Those are some bad-asses to the Nth degree. You see the dark suit and the earpiece, and they may not look like much. Hell, the older guys look like they could just as easily be accountants or something.
Which is exactly what they want you to think. These fuckers see everything going on. And I mean EVERYTHING.
Example: I was covering an event last December in which the keynote speaker was the director of the FBI. Such an important gentleman has Secret Service agents that protect him.
I was sitting in the press section, with a bunch of cameramen. Next to me was a guy in a kilt, with a full bagpipe set-up. He played some traditional song beforehand, and he would play something at the end, and in between he was hanging out near the press, and we ended up shooting the shit for a little while.
So we're talking, and all of a sudden, a Secret Service Agent, who I swear was on the other side of the crowd ten seconds ago, materializes next to the guy. And he asks the bagpiper why he keeps reaching into his coat.
Now, I had been talking with the guy for about ten minutes, and I didn't once realize that he reached in his coat. It turns out, part of the harness for the bagpipes is right below the sternum, and the guy was fiddling with it while he was standing around. The Secret Service Agent noticed his fiddling from about 100 feet away, and he came over to check it out. Bad ass.
As the agent is turns to leave, the bagpiper says, "I thought you were going to ask me about the knife." See, as part of his ceremonial garb, he had a long, curved dagger in a silver holder on his side. And the Secret Service agent responded with:
"I saw that when you arrived, sir. I don't think you'd get too far with that thing."
I think I popped a boner right there. Fucking awesome.
Anyways, back to El Presidente.
The mood before a president speaks is unlike anything else I've ever seen. The closest thing I can think of is the buzz before a big boxing or wrestling match. The audience knows that something big is going to happen, something they have been waiting for for quite a while, and they know it will be over before they know it. The anticipation is thick in the air.
It's funny, I've learned that the buzz before a presiden comes is the only thing that stops me from playing the usual game I play when I'm around large crowds. I usually play the, "Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game, which is always a winner.
Except, before the president shows up, I like to play the "which one of these people is like John Malkovich in In the Line of Fire and has some sort of composite plastic weapon to kill the president with?" game. Which is quite fun.
Note: Sometimes I revert back to the Who are the hottest chicks and in what order would I nail them?" game when a hot chick walks in, which they inevitably do.
As far as the John Malkovich game, the first thing you do is eliminate your suspects. In the case of Barack, you can eliminate black people.
I mean, for real, what black person is going to do anything to Obama? I'm pretty sure the Secret Service doesn't even put them through the metal dectectors. It's a waste of time.
I'd like to imagine some sort of reverse discrimination, where the Secret Service eyes white people with nothing but suspicion and the black folk in attendance are completely above suspicion.
So every single whitey in the place was under the umbrella of suspicion. Step one, complete.
Step two: I drop a test fart to see who notices the sound and/or smell.
You see, the standard maniac who is waiting to hurt the president is probably no nervous that he's not focusing on anything external, he's preparing to make history and/or get capped by the Secret Service for his trouble.
Judging from the disgusted looks and suddenly empty seats around me, no one in my section was planning anything shady. A standard check of the ol' underpants for a shart (yeah, it smelled that bad), and step two is complete.
Slowly but surely, a list of suspects presented itself.
Suspect one: McBeardFace. The old white guy in the suit with a unbelievable bushy beard. Is he some sort of Confederate General that has travelled forward in time to see if the South won the war? Upon discovering that one of the "slave folk" in in charge, will he immediately challenge the president to a duel with pistols at dawn?
Suspect two: TwirlyPen. The nervous looking white guy who keeps twirling and clicking his pen. Is the pen some sort of grenade a la, GoldenEye, where the right combination of clicks turns it into a live grenade with a five-second fuse?
Suspect three: Hooty McBoob. A buxom wench sitting near the front, who acts all high society, but is probably a half-generation removed from having slave labor. Bitch.
There you have it, a list of probable assasins.
The Secret Service ain't got shit on me.
But of course, they did their jobs, and despite what the agent said, I'm pretty sure I stopped an assassination, so I can feel good about that. Still, that fucker could have at least thanked me instead of threatening the taser.
After three hours of waiting, the president spoke briefly, and then it was all over. The people who were taking pictures were like little kids at a concert. The only thing that would have been worse would have been if they were all cell-phone cameras.
Let me tell you something about when a president enters a room. It's like a bomb goes off. The ripple that goes through the room as palpable. I actually noticed it more with Bush, but I don't know if that's just because he was the first one that I covered.
Anyways, if I had done anything obnoxious, I'm sure you would have heard about it on the news.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Monday Links: 3/9
You fucked up. You trusted me. You should have known regular updates wouldn't happen.
- A slideshow of female teachers accused of banging their students. Only two are "nice."
- My new Master's Degree.
- A list of drinking games. Some good ones on there, including ones I have never heard of.
- Fast food is always evolving. It's not always healthy, but it's usually funny.
- A very important list that not many people know, surprisingly.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
There's No Day Like A Snow Day
To paraphrase Cyrus the Virus, "my proclivities towards winter are well-known and often lamented facts of blogging lore."
But yesterday was something different.
Yesterday, the heavens poured forth with a frosty melange of winter's finest. Now, normally I detest snow days. Unlike the glory days of my youth, when such a day meant canceled school, now it just means I have to plan an extra hour into my commute, what with the scraping, the brushing, the skidding, and general assholiness of the other drivers on the road.
Not today my friends. Today I woke up to more than six inches. Which is better than the four and a half inches I wake up to every morning. Hey-oh!
After I got back in from scraping off my car, I took my wet shit off. And that's when I decided: I'm not wearing pants for the rest of the day.
There are very few joys in life as simple as not wearing pants at a time when you always have pants on.
At 11:00, I'm usually at my desk, drinking cold coffee in a desperate attempt to stay awake until lunch, as I get bad beat after bad beat in online poker.
Today? I was watching The People's Court on mute, listening to Neil Diamond with my hand down my boxers, deciding which porn site to go to. Just as God intended us to live. It was a regular Garden of Eden.
But sure enough, boredom soon enveloped me. And by boredom, I mean that I had viewed so much porno in such a short period of time that I had to be on some government list somewhere.
What to do? The NBA was almost seven hours away, and they still hadn't plowed by street.
I shuffled downstairs to my kitchen to find something to eat, and there, lit up in a golden halo of light, was a fifth of Gentleman Jack Whiskey.
I don't know if you're familiar with fine bourbons, (if you're not, re-evaluate your life) but Gentleman Jack is among the finest. My friend had given me the bottle the week before for giving him a ride to the airport, and it was time for this bad boy to get drank.
But alas! There were no mixers in the house! Nothing except the remnants of a flat 2-liter of Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash, while still delicious, wouldn't mix well with fine whiskey.
So I had a choice to make. Do I venture out across the icy tundra in search of the glorious mixture of high fructose corn syrup and carbonated water that they call Coca Cola, or do I just sit at home like an asshole and not drink.
If I leave, I have to put on pants, if I stay, I have to remain sober. Not an easy choice, believe you me.
My love of delicious brown liquor eventually won out over my infatuation with pants-lessness. I put on my soggy shit from earlier in the morning, got my down jacket, and prepared to face the elements like the man I've seen so many times in movies and television.
I fortified myself for the difficult journey ahead with several slugs of Gentleman Jack. How ironic, the very whiskey I drank would give me strength to get a mixer so I could drink more of said whiskey. Circle of life.
And it was cold as balls. Face-numbingly cold. And the fact that the wind was howling like a mad bitch didn't help things. I had barely got to the end of my block before my feet were soaked. And I still had another few blocks to go before I got to the gas station.
As I walked across the newly formed Annandale Glacier, the footprints I left behind me would be the only evidence of the pioneer who chose alcohol over warmth. I fully expected to freeze to death, and my frozen corpse would be found at the first thaw, a mere hundred yards from the gas station I so desperately sought.
And still a trudged on, the tears freezing on my face faster than I could cry them. Snot covering my face like Lloyd and Harry in Dumb and Dumber as they entered the town of Aspen.
When I got to the gas station, I entered, and fell to the wet tile floor, kissing it, grateful for the warmth that radiated out of the store's central heating.
"Sir? Are you okay?" The concerned cashier asked.
"I've just been to hell and back shopkeep, and I'm only halfway to my destination," was my reply.
"Uh, aren't you the guy that lives over there?" He then nodded out the window, where my place is fully visible from the gas station.
I quickly composed myself.
"Yeah, but...uh...there's a fence, I had to walk around the block.."
"And that took you what, five minutes?" he asked mockingly.
Searching frantically for a reply that would cork his sass-hole, I replied, "Yeah, well, it took me at least ten, you know, the wind's pretty rough out there."
Just then, as if they were sent to undermine me, a mother and two young children came into the store. The children were begging their mother to be allowed to go back outside and play in the snow.
Little fuckers. I had just been on an epic journey.
I forked over a hard-earned $1.98 for my 2-liter of coke, but the cashier accepted my dignity without offering anything in return. We'll see whose laughing when I lob a molotov fucking cocktail into your precious gas station fuckface.
Once again, I braved the hard, cold, bitter wind in getting back to my warm, safe house. And once again, I saw reltives long dead, who beckoned me into the white light, which promised me nothing but endless, warm sleep. All I wanted to do was curl up in the snow and take an eternal nap, but I soldiered on.
I finally made it home, fingers black with cold, and I immediately relieved myself of my pants. Much better.
I made myself a tall drink, and suddenly, life wasn't so hard.
I amused myself with several cocktails, and then boredom struck again. They had still yet to plow my street, and as much fun as it sounded to try and get out of the snow while heavily buzed, I decided against it.
I moseyed my web browser over to NetFlix, where I decided to take advantage of the "Watch Instantly" feature. Soon, another conundrum presented itself to me.
Do I watch Eraser or Hard Target? Arnold or JCVD? A tale of redemption and the battle against government corruption, or one man's quest against a rich New Orleans man and his love of hunting homeless people?
No one told me life would be this hard.
I chose Eraser, and I soon discovered that with a decision like that, there really is no wrong answer.
And sitting there, watching U.S. Marshall John Kruger dual-wield futuristic rail-guns that fire caseless aluminum rounds at almost the speed of light, with a stout Jack and Coke in hand, I was content. Heaven itself couldn't be more satisfying.
And I wept with joy after John Kruger exacted his revenge by trapping his enemies in a limousine on a railroad track, just like the fairy-tales of my youth.
All in all, a good day to be alive. No work, got drunk, braved the elements.
Just another day with the burden of mankind on my shoulders.
But yesterday was something different.
Yesterday, the heavens poured forth with a frosty melange of winter's finest. Now, normally I detest snow days. Unlike the glory days of my youth, when such a day meant canceled school, now it just means I have to plan an extra hour into my commute, what with the scraping, the brushing, the skidding, and general assholiness of the other drivers on the road.
Not today my friends. Today I woke up to more than six inches. Which is better than the four and a half inches I wake up to every morning. Hey-oh!
After I got back in from scraping off my car, I took my wet shit off. And that's when I decided: I'm not wearing pants for the rest of the day.
There are very few joys in life as simple as not wearing pants at a time when you always have pants on.
At 11:00, I'm usually at my desk, drinking cold coffee in a desperate attempt to stay awake until lunch, as I get bad beat after bad beat in online poker.
Today? I was watching The People's Court on mute, listening to Neil Diamond with my hand down my boxers, deciding which porn site to go to. Just as God intended us to live. It was a regular Garden of Eden.
But sure enough, boredom soon enveloped me. And by boredom, I mean that I had viewed so much porno in such a short period of time that I had to be on some government list somewhere.
What to do? The NBA was almost seven hours away, and they still hadn't plowed by street.
I shuffled downstairs to my kitchen to find something to eat, and there, lit up in a golden halo of light, was a fifth of Gentleman Jack Whiskey.
I don't know if you're familiar with fine bourbons, (if you're not, re-evaluate your life) but Gentleman Jack is among the finest. My friend had given me the bottle the week before for giving him a ride to the airport, and it was time for this bad boy to get drank.
But alas! There were no mixers in the house! Nothing except the remnants of a flat 2-liter of Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash, while still delicious, wouldn't mix well with fine whiskey.
So I had a choice to make. Do I venture out across the icy tundra in search of the glorious mixture of high fructose corn syrup and carbonated water that they call Coca Cola, or do I just sit at home like an asshole and not drink.
If I leave, I have to put on pants, if I stay, I have to remain sober. Not an easy choice, believe you me.
My love of delicious brown liquor eventually won out over my infatuation with pants-lessness. I put on my soggy shit from earlier in the morning, got my down jacket, and prepared to face the elements like the man I've seen so many times in movies and television.
I fortified myself for the difficult journey ahead with several slugs of Gentleman Jack. How ironic, the very whiskey I drank would give me strength to get a mixer so I could drink more of said whiskey. Circle of life.
And it was cold as balls. Face-numbingly cold. And the fact that the wind was howling like a mad bitch didn't help things. I had barely got to the end of my block before my feet were soaked. And I still had another few blocks to go before I got to the gas station.
As I walked across the newly formed Annandale Glacier, the footprints I left behind me would be the only evidence of the pioneer who chose alcohol over warmth. I fully expected to freeze to death, and my frozen corpse would be found at the first thaw, a mere hundred yards from the gas station I so desperately sought.
And still a trudged on, the tears freezing on my face faster than I could cry them. Snot covering my face like Lloyd and Harry in Dumb and Dumber as they entered the town of Aspen.
When I got to the gas station, I entered, and fell to the wet tile floor, kissing it, grateful for the warmth that radiated out of the store's central heating.
"Sir? Are you okay?" The concerned cashier asked.
"I've just been to hell and back shopkeep, and I'm only halfway to my destination," was my reply.
"Uh, aren't you the guy that lives over there?" He then nodded out the window, where my place is fully visible from the gas station.
I quickly composed myself.
"Yeah, but...uh...there's a fence, I had to walk around the block.."
"And that took you what, five minutes?" he asked mockingly.
Searching frantically for a reply that would cork his sass-hole, I replied, "Yeah, well, it took me at least ten, you know, the wind's pretty rough out there."
Just then, as if they were sent to undermine me, a mother and two young children came into the store. The children were begging their mother to be allowed to go back outside and play in the snow.
Little fuckers. I had just been on an epic journey.
I forked over a hard-earned $1.98 for my 2-liter of coke, but the cashier accepted my dignity without offering anything in return. We'll see whose laughing when I lob a molotov fucking cocktail into your precious gas station fuckface.
Once again, I braved the hard, cold, bitter wind in getting back to my warm, safe house. And once again, I saw reltives long dead, who beckoned me into the white light, which promised me nothing but endless, warm sleep. All I wanted to do was curl up in the snow and take an eternal nap, but I soldiered on.
I finally made it home, fingers black with cold, and I immediately relieved myself of my pants. Much better.
I made myself a tall drink, and suddenly, life wasn't so hard.
I amused myself with several cocktails, and then boredom struck again. They had still yet to plow my street, and as much fun as it sounded to try and get out of the snow while heavily buzed, I decided against it.
I moseyed my web browser over to NetFlix, where I decided to take advantage of the "Watch Instantly" feature. Soon, another conundrum presented itself to me.
Do I watch Eraser or Hard Target? Arnold or JCVD? A tale of redemption and the battle against government corruption, or one man's quest against a rich New Orleans man and his love of hunting homeless people?
No one told me life would be this hard.
I chose Eraser, and I soon discovered that with a decision like that, there really is no wrong answer.
And sitting there, watching U.S. Marshall John Kruger dual-wield futuristic rail-guns that fire caseless aluminum rounds at almost the speed of light, with a stout Jack and Coke in hand, I was content. Heaven itself couldn't be more satisfying.
And I wept with joy after John Kruger exacted his revenge by trapping his enemies in a limousine on a railroad track, just like the fairy-tales of my youth.
All in all, a good day to be alive. No work, got drunk, braved the elements.
Just another day with the burden of mankind on my shoulders.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Monday Links: 3/2
Daily posts kicks off with a cop-out! Monday links. Woooooooo!
- I'm a fan of history. And poop. But rarely are the two combined with such elegance.
- Some causes are more important than others.
- How has the life of the supervillain changed since the advent of the internet? Take a look.
- This has become one of my go-to sites when I'm bored. The stories are priceless.
- Apparently there is a new European sport. It's called Sharking and, well, it's just a big bag of alright.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A promise to you, Loyal Reader
I come to you, Loyal Reader, on this first day of March with an apology and a promise.
An apology for slacking on updates. My goal was to have more articles every month. I started in October 2008 with 7, ten in November, 16 in December, and 22 in January 2009.
This month I only had 14, so I have failed in my mission.
A promise that updates will soon flow like the wild salmon of capistrano.
I've got a lot of half-written articles, and I finished several of them on Friday, which explains the triple update. I'm hoping to get a new article out every weekday, including your favorite bookends to the week, Monday Links and Friday Hate.
The daily updates probably won't last long, because three brand-new articles a week will tap out my reserves pretty quick, and unless some crazy shit starts happening, I don't know if I'll have that much to write about.
So hopefully the half-dozen of you who read this weren't put off by my slack-ass February. It will change, starting tomorrow with Monday Links, and on Tuesday with a brand-new hysterically funny update.
In the coming weeks, you might see some changes in the design and name of this blog. While Fists With Your Toes is a good URL, I'm trying to come up with a better title for the Blog as a whole.
Onwards and upwards...
An apology for slacking on updates. My goal was to have more articles every month. I started in October 2008 with 7, ten in November, 16 in December, and 22 in January 2009.
This month I only had 14, so I have failed in my mission.
A promise that updates will soon flow like the wild salmon of capistrano.
I've got a lot of half-written articles, and I finished several of them on Friday, which explains the triple update. I'm hoping to get a new article out every weekday, including your favorite bookends to the week, Monday Links and Friday Hate.
The daily updates probably won't last long, because three brand-new articles a week will tap out my reserves pretty quick, and unless some crazy shit starts happening, I don't know if I'll have that much to write about.
So hopefully the half-dozen of you who read this weren't put off by my slack-ass February. It will change, starting tomorrow with Monday Links, and on Tuesday with a brand-new hysterically funny update.
In the coming weeks, you might see some changes in the design and name of this blog. While Fists With Your Toes is a good URL, I'm trying to come up with a better title for the Blog as a whole.
Onwards and upwards...
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