Four Honkies

This Blog Is On Life Support

2005-10-07T07:48:00.000-04:00

Apparently, no one here can get their act together. I hate to say, "I told you so." Well, actually, I love to say that.

Please let it be clear to everyone that I was the star of this blog. I was the king. I was the fucking Elvis of this blog.

I had hoped that my training and instruction would have helped these poor fools, but no--some people just can't be reached. So this once fine example of exceptional writing has died on the vine. Has become putrid. Has rotted, like a pungent heap of compost.

Has no man here the will to succeed?

Birth Control

2005-09-19T10:16:00.000-04:00

My wife and I are currently debating if we want to have kids. We are in the process of weighing the pros and cons. A friend, who recently had twins, just emailed me this. I’d say this goes in the “con” column.

Last night we cooked dinner. Fed the babies theirs while ours got cold. When they were done, Kirsten and I started eating while they played on the floor. About 5 minutes into eating Kirsten says;

"Someone threw up, was it a baby or the dog?"

"I don't know" I say, "but neither of the boys have anything on their shirts or faces".

Meanwhile we notice both boys have already stepped in it and are now tracking it around and Kirsten says "unless it's poop". Me being a typical man, am thinking it can't be, they have diapers on and that doesn’t look like poop. Well, it WAS POOP. Not to get too grotesque, but it was the consistency of puke but smelled like poop and more of the same was in Stan's diaper (some must have squirted out the leg holes).

Now we realize we have poop on the floor and on both babies’ feet and legs. It is now bath time for both boys, while I clean up the floor (thank god for laminate flooring). I clean up, and then woof down the rest of my cold dinner while Kirsten starts the bath, then we switch and I finish the bath while Kirsten eats. I get the babies out of the tub and dried off and we leave the bathroom to go down the hall to get new diapers.

While I am putting a diaper on Stan, here comes Timmy naked and running down the hall PEEING the entire way (again thank god for laminate) and then sits down and starts playing in it. Now I need to re-wash him and keep the clean one from joining him in the puddle o' pee, then clean up the floor before they can get to it again.

The story of seven strangers

2005-09-14T21:20:00.000-04:00

After an intense beginning, the Real World Austin has lost a little of its punch. I swear, the episode where Danny found out his mother died was some of the most riveting television I have ever seen. This poor kid, after just suffering a broken face and subsequent surgery, gets home on Valentine’s Day and has a message to call his dad. As he makes the call, the camera zooms in on his face and we hear his father tell him his mother just passed away. The staggering look of incomprehension in his eyes was gut wrenching.

And then good ole Wes offers to the camera:

"I once lost a friend in high school so I know exactly how Danny feels."

Um... no Wes, you don’t. I am sure losing your friend was sad but being told your mom died on Valentine’s Day, while having it taped live for the world after just hanging up on her a few days ago, is a little different. Advantage Danny.

But Wes is ok. He thinks every girl wants him and if they don’t show interest, they really do want him but they are just playing head games. I wonder what color the sky is in Wes’s World.

It looks like it may be getting good again next week. Danny is thinking of dumping Melinda so fireworks will surely ensue. If I were in the house, I’d slap him upside the head with a toaster. (Instead, he is actually taking advice from Wes. Maybe Danny isn’t that bright) Melinda is fun, personable and hot. Danny, according to Mrs. Binx, is hot too and has the same qualities so they make a good couple. But no, he wants to go play the field. I see lonely nights in the hot tub ahead for him.

The rest of the cast is somewhat forgettable. Neimiah is ok but I am waiting for the episode where his head explodes like in Scanners. It almost happened last week. Someone spilled a beer on him at the Dizzy Rooster. He claims it was because he is black so went ape shit. I guess it had nothing to do with the fact that the bar was mobbed with drunk people who were about as stable as Margo Kidder. He’ll either become very quiet or take a page from Falling Down and start tearing up Austin. I’m rooting for the latter.

I understand they are currently filming the next Real World in Key West. I want to take a road trip down there with the Mrs. I’ll give her permission to seduce one of the cast members and then I can come barging in the house to break it up. That’ll be some good television. Better than Taradise, that’s for sure.

NAME THAT TUNE

2005-09-12T22:20:00.000-04:00

As I was sitting here, the Stealers Wheel song Stuck in the Middle starting playing. How can you listen to that song without thinking of Michael Madsen dancing around, right before he goes Van Gogh on the cop?

It got me thinking of other songs that are defined by movies, and I am not talking about title tracks on soundtracks. Yes, the Boss's Dead Man Walking reminds of the movie but that's too obvious. Ones like;

Old Time Rock and Roll - Tom Cruise sliding around in his tighty-whities in Risky Business.

Eye of the Tiger - I still see Rocky training while he thinks of Clubber Lang making a pass at his frumpy woman.

Unchained Melody - Swayze; Moore and lots of clay. Roger Ebert once argued they shouldn't have replaced Whoopi Goldberg with the ghost Swayze for the final kiss with Moore. I whole heartedly disagree. Talk about a movie buzzkill.

Build Me Up, Buttercup - After the surprise that the Brett was actually Brett Fahv-ruh, a rigid Favre danced on screen to the closing credit cookies in Something About Mary.

There are many many more but when I starting typing, these were the first few to pop into recollection.

Got Milk?

2005-09-11T16:46:00.000-04:00

Jamaica was great even though my liver may be a little pissed at me. But that’s understandable since my normal breakfast consisted of eggs and a dirty banana, which is a Jamaican rum drink. After breakfast, a nice purple rain cocktail would usually do the trick, followed by some vodka lemonade slushees and eventually Red Stripe. Like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I am getting too old for this shit.

Here are a couple of the memorable moments from the trip:

**Under the stairs of one of the buildings was a little ceramic gnome. One night as we passed him, my wife noticed a something at his feet. It was a baggie with three very large perfectly rolled joints. The next night we decided to check again and this time there was a little bag of mushrooms. He thus became known as the magical gnome.

The last morning, when I opened the curtain to our room, there was the gnome sitting right outside my door. It was a little spooky. Either someone was fucking with me, or this little guy was Chucky’s Caribbean drug cousin.

**There are many activities to entertain the guests. I entered a Hedo Hunk contest. It was like the Miss America pageant if Bill and Ted ran it. One round was asking the contestants’ questions and if you answered wrong, you got your ass paddled. Have you ever had a Ping-Pong paddle snapped over ass? I have. There’s nothing like walking around with paddle marks on your cheeks for 2 days. Try that, Miss Nebraska!

**Without being too graphic, there was an instance where this girl let this guy (who wasn’t her husband) have a little suck on her breast. As he pulled away, I noticed a strange look on his face. The girl started laughing and said, "Did you get some? I’m lactating." He starting spitting and we all started laughing.

She then proceeded to use her boob like a squirt gun spraying all of us. Mouth agape from laughing, I got a little taste of the milk from the spray. For the record, the milk was warm and sweet but the whole incident was a little disturbing.

Yes indeed. Good times.

Back on American soil

2005-09-07T10:05:00.000-04:00

Just got back from Hedo Jamaica last night. They screwed up our reservation so we ended getting up stuck there an extra day. Poor us. I think I am still buzzed.

Forming complete sentences is probably still a good day away. It was a wonderful weekend of police escorts, magical gnomes and breast milk. A trip report will soon follow. Ya mon.

On a lighter note

2005-09-01T21:48:00.000-04:00

My wife and I are off to Hedo in Jamaica Friday morning. No tropical storms so we should be ok. I packed my sunglasses, flip-flops and little else. Back in a few days.

PS - Don't you think they'd be more lenient on you if you shot the deputy instead of the sheriff?

Shoot the looters!

2005-08-31T13:14:00.000-04:00

Does anyone have a problem with this? My God, these people are the lowest of the low. I was watching the news last night trying to see if I’ll ever be able to again visit the Grand Casino in Biloxi; home of the world’s greatest chili. And all they were showing was image after image of chaos created by the looters. It was pissing me off.

I am not talking about the ones who are stealing food and blankets. That I can somewhat understand. I admit I have never faced anything remotely close to those circumstances. But to see a trail of scumbags walking like ants at a picnic out of Walmart with TV’s, iPods, toasters, etc, is appalling. Do they not realize power isn’t coming back on for a while?!

It is a pretty safe bet that someone who takes advantage of a crisis like this, probably isn’t going to end up as a major contributor to society. Like Perry Ferrell of Jane’s Addiction once sang, “Some people should die. That’s just unconscious knowledge.” Amen to that.

Movie recommendation

2005-08-30T10:57:00.000-04:00

If you haven’t seen The 40 Year Old Virgin yet, you really should. This is one of the funniest comedies to come along in a while. Wedding Crashers was good. This one is very good. It combines some hilarious outrageous moments, reminiscent of Something About Mary, with sharp one-liners and subtle facial expressions a la Meet the Parents.

The movie offers such insights as;

“You know, you’d think a girl fucking a horse would be really cool. But it isn’t.”

And great dating tips like;

“Be cool. And kinda a dick. Be like David Caruso in Jade.”

And they have fun playing the, I know you gay because, game citing;

“I know you are gay because you like Coldplay.”

The movie is also surprisingly sweet (for lack of a better word) and we really end up rooting for the virgin and his love interest. For those looking for a comedy with a little more substance than, say, Van Wilder or Eurotrip, this is a must see.

Conjunction junction - what's your function

2005-08-29T09:39:00.000-04:00

Every morning here at work, we have a group meeting. Everyone gathers in the boss’s office and we discuss any important upcoming projects. Usually there aren’t any, so people start talking about what they had for dinner last night or their plans for the upcoming weekend. These brief meetings are followed by the some nugget of inspiration like last week’s “Progress should be your ally, not your foe.” Not exactly Nietzsche.

Today, during our motivational moment, my supervisor stumbled on the word “constituency”. She leaned over to the manager for help who, in turn, also phonetically fumbled the ball. We got attempted gems like:
CON-STI-TOO-SEE
CON-TIN-YOU-EN-SEE
CONS-STA-TU-TION-A-LEE (where do you see an “L”??)

This is my boss and my boss’s boss. The people that make a lot more money than me. The people from which I take daily orders and they struggle with verbal hurdles that extend beyond 3 syllables. What the hell am I doing wrong??

Do Straight Men Wear Capri's??

2005-08-24T13:39:00.000-04:00

Just found this recent pic of my favorite morning personality Howard Stern. My question is would any straight man wear capri pants? I'm not homophobic, but even his hot girlfriend couldn't get me into THAT OUTFIT!

Destination: Central America

2005-08-23T12:20:00.000-04:00

My wife and I recently took a trip to Costa Rica. Traveling to a foreign land where the only words you know are “dos cerveza” can be a little intimidating. But the trip was fantastic. We zip-lined from treetops in the forest, went white water rafting, sat in the hot springs of Tabacon and witnessed giant tendrils of lava roll down a nearby volcano after an eruption.

One thing Costa Rica could do without are the bugs. We stayed at a secluded bungalow in the rainforest. The room was beautiful complete with dual Jacuzzis, a fireplace, and a shower resembling a rock waterfall. And then there was the bed.

Before leaving for Costa Rica we had naturally checked out some pictures of our room online. The one thing that caught my eye was the bed had sheer decorations draped around the canopy. I had convinced myself that it was just decoration and tried to keep all thoughts of that Expedia commercial out of my mind. So as we toured the room, I immediately went bedside to examine the decorations. Yep…It was mosquito netting. And judging by gaps under the door heading to the open patio, we were going to need it.

Our first evening, my wife calmly pointed out that there was a bug on the vanity. I was not so calm. I froze like Peter Brady when he had the tarantula on him in Hawaii. This was no bug. It was Mothra. It was a huge brown moth-like creature (probably poisonous) hunkered down beneath the mirror.

“Aren’t you going to kill it?” my wife asked.

“Are you crazy? That thing probably has fangs.”

“Well what are you going to do?”

I did what any rational male would do who was unafraid to show the chinks in his armor of masculinity… I ran out of the bathroom and dove onto the bed immediately sealing off all entrances using the mosquito netting. My wife would have to fend for herself. Within minutes, I heard the distinct swooshing sound of wings flapping. It was airborne. We had reached Defcon 1.

I stayed up most of the night. The light from the television would occasionally attract Mothra so I could keep my eye on him. In the morning he was gone. I looked like hell but we were safe. I had done my job as protector of the family.

And Then There Were Three (maybe)

2005-08-22T09:35:00.000-04:00

I guess I should explain the events that happened. I wrote something called "Snorkeling in Aruba". It was a tongue in cheek letter to Natalee Holloway. The Snorkeling was a reference to penis snorkeling. It was about my wife being too wrapped up in the case. Wolf didn't like what I wrote and quit. In a knee jerk move, I deleted the post. That was the only thing I apologize for. It was in bad taste, but it was what I felt like writing. It's gone now, so we'll never know what anyone else thought.

So here we are left with three. Maybe we'll add a 4th Honkie, we've discussed the possibility of a female Honkie (feel free to apply). Maybe we'll just stay at three? Four Honkies with Three members?

All is quiet on the electronic front

2005-08-22T08:50:00.000-04:00

It has been a tumultuous weekend. Our blog has had all the sanity of the Philadelphia Eagle’s locker room. There was name calling, hurt feelings, shoe throwing and a tear or two being shed. The end result looks like Four Honkies will live on sans Wolf.

We will bring in some new blood possibly looking to infuse a different perspective by recruiting a female voice. We are looking for someone smart, articulate, funny with a uniquely warped view of the world. Basically, we are looking for Wolf with boobs.

And to show there are no hard feelings, later this week, we will post Wolf’s real name, his work phone number and his social security number on the blog. (Just kidding Wolf – you will be deeply missed!!)

Gracefully bowing out

2005-08-18T19:18:00.000-04:00

I AM IN NO WAY ASSOCIATED WITH THE POST BELOW.

Fuck me, that's in bad taste.

I'm officially abandoning ship.

We'll call it creative differences. I'm going solo.

Wolf out.

Tommy Lee Goes to College

2005-08-17T13:53:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I watched it.

Tommy sitting in Chemistry class completely bewildered. Tommy cackling at every opportunity. Tommy having the attention span of a five year old. But, hey, he’s Tommy. A guy with a huge wang and no shortage of hot chicks who want to see it.

I can’t help but laugh when I see him, no matter what the situation. We have some history, he and I, but that’s another story.

The part that really surprised me is his complete ineptitude on the drums. Look, I know the guy isn’t exactly Neil Pert, but he looked like a real dumbass trying out for the marching band.

Band Director: “Okay, Tommy, just play something freestyle.”

Tommy: [stands there staring at his drums]

Band Director: “Go ahead…anything…something…”

Tommy: [stands there for a moment and then twirls his right stick]

Band Director: “Can you play something for us?”

Tommy: [giggles]

It was pretty damned funny. And the chemistry tutor was extremely hot. I have no idea what the show is about, why Tommy Lee is bumming his way through UNL or why anyone thought this was a good idea. Because it’s not. Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.

Tommy can you hear me? Tommy? Tommy?

My General Malaise

2005-08-16T13:05:00.000-04:00

It’s about 95 degrees outside and when I look out my window I can see the wavy mirage-like lines steaming off the pavement. It makes me wonder how the indigenous folk ever survived. From healthy stock I guess, until we traded those blankets full of smallpox.

I’m pissed off about a multitude of things, not the least of which is the Travel Channel. For some reason the sound is fucked up in my area and it’s completely unwatchable. So much for digital cable.

There’s a goddamn wasp loose on my floor and it’s only a matter of time before he finds my office. It may be the biggest wasp I‘ve ever seen; it looks like something from a Yes album cover and I seem to be the only one concerned about it.

The Check Engine light is on again. Car manufacturers should just be honest about this shit. A light should go on that just has the dollar amount. Instead of Check Engine, the light should just say $800.

I bought a new pair of sneakers and they’re just huge. The heel on the sole must be two inches thick. It’s like they were designed for interplanetary exploration or something. What happened to fucking Keds?

There’s no Led Zeppelin or Frank Zappa on iTunes.

I haven’t returned any phone calls since Friday and the blinking red light on the phone is like Chinese water torture. Each pulse seems like it’s getting brighter and brighter, but I hate almost everyone and I can’t bear to listen to the messages. Now it’s like I’m living through The Tell-Tale Heart.

Shana Hiatt has quit the World Poker Tour on the fucked up Travel Channel and her replacement has to be worked into my masturbatory repertoire. It’s a real pain in the ass because the Shana fantasy was really starting to groove.

End of report.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

2005-08-16T11:36:00.000-04:00

Deuce Bigalow Part 2 earned 9.8 million dollars over the weekend. At an average of $8.50 a ticket, that means approximately 1,152,941 people saw the previews for that movie and thought it looked good.

If I could only find these million people and convince each of them that for a dollar, I will kick them in the crotch. It is cheaper and less painful than sitting through a Rob Schneider movie.

Grandma's Pancakes

2005-08-15T05:57:00.000-04:00

I had the pleasure of visiting New Orleans for the first time. I went to the annual RTDA (Retail Tobacco Dealers Association) A couple of my vendors have booths there (I won't pimp my websites) but I'm not in the Tobacco Business.

On Saturday night, after loosing $700 that I was up at the craps tables we decided to head over to Bourbon St. at about midnight. Figured it would be wild, but didn't know that they flashed on "regular" weekends. Saw a couple of hotties exposing themselves, and was having an overall nice experience. Then it happened.

There were two old ladies standing below a crowd of people on a balcony. Everyone egging on some nubile 20 year olds behind these old bags, to get some beads. One of the AARP women yells in a drunkin slur "what about my tits?"

Before I could turn away, she bared some pancake titties that hadn't been viewed in 15 years or so. This was burned in my retina like and eclipse, and I set out to find something to replace it. I wasn't leaving until I saw something hot.

About 10 minutes later a HOT young girl on a balcony bared some perfect C-Cups and I was cured of Grandma's Pancakes.

My Life Partner

2005-08-10T20:12:00.000-04:00

I have henceforth decided to reference my beautiful and loving wife of 20 years as “my life partner”.

No, I haven’t been watching Oprah or Dr. Phil; this is just something I decided to do in order to keep people on their toes.

My first opportunity came Monday morning during a business meeting with seven other people; I knew only one other person at the table. The small talk began prior to jumping into the agenda.

“So, how was everyone’s weekend?” someone asked.

The usual B.S. ensued, after which I jumped in and said, “We had a nice weekend also – played poker with a few friends and put the finishing touches on a vacation we’re planning”.

“Where are you going?” asked another.

“Oh, my life partner and I are heading back to one of our favorite places, the coastal shore of central Maine. It’s absolutely beautiful there in late summer.”

The pause was fantastic, and I relished it, as all eyes were upon me, some replete with a raised eyebrow.

And so my little game has begun. I will not put on the telltale and overly effected lisping or prancing act, but rather simply speak as I always do: plain and somewhat matter-of-factly. The great advantage to my new adventure is that my wife has an androgynous name: Bobbie. This will allow me to speak freely using her name, coupled with “my life partner”. Bobbie. Bobby. Girl. Boy.

Oh this will be fun…

Everybody Loves Raymond lied to me!

2005-08-09T16:13:00.000-04:00

Friday night, my wife and I decided to have a couple of people over for cocktails, pizza and to watch a Mitch Hedberg (deceased comedian) DVD. These couple of people invited a couple more. When 5pm rolled around, the guest list included my wife, five other females and me. It was my first ever “girl’s night out” and it was enlightening.

Alcohol began flowing at a moderate rate. Early on, it resembled what any guys night would be. There was drinking, jokes, laughing, light-hearted ribbing, and chowing on happy hour munchies like pizza, wings and tostados. The only thing missing thankfully was the occasional passing of gas.

Then it took an unexpected turn with something that has probably never happened in the history of a guy’s night out. They started comparing underwear. How it began escapes me but soon we were all in the bedroom, my wife pulling out different kinds of panties as they debated the pros and cons of t-backs, thongs, bloomers and stuff in between. This progressed into questioning each other as to which kind they were currently wearing and with gentle tugs and pulls from the less shy ones; they were showing off their current pairs. Mind you, this was not a sexual event despite my suggestion of :

“The only way you can really get a feel for each kind is to try them on.”

They were simply having a discussion about them much like guys might discuss quarterback ratings. It was fascinating. Then, because of some comment regarding a pocket rocket, the trunk where we keep all our carnal toys, was opened. Objects were pulled out and strewn about like props at a Carrot Top show. My follow-up suggestion for a lingerie pillow fight again fell upon deaf ears. Clearly our trains of thought were on different tracks.

As the toy chest excitement waned, a new rage started. Resting in our game room was a large mirror that used to belong on top of a dresser. One of the girls thought it would be a good idea to lay the mirror on the carpet and use it as a dance floor. While wearing heels. This turned out to be a better idea in theory as the mirror abruptly shattered into several large shards. Unaffected by the 7 years of bad luck, the party rambled on in the dining room. There was a shot glass on the table with some change as someone yelled :

“Hey! Let’s play quarters!”

“Yeah! Strip quarters!” I added.

No response. Although I did get a couple of bothered looks. Perhaps my comments were beginning to annoy. In the end, I was surprised how similar (yet distinctly different in ways) the night resembled a night with the guys. One girl even ended up hurling on my driveway. Good times. It was nothing like I expected. You would never see Deborah Romano doing this stuff. Based on all I know from television and movies, I pictured it more like a bunch of women sitting around sipping wine and men bashing. It ended up being more like the sequel to Van Wilder.

Foreign Accents: A turn on?

2005-08-04T13:17:00.000-04:00

Jennifer asks, “…are Irish and Scottish accents as hot when they belong to attractive females as when they belong to attractive males?”

Yes.

Back when I was in my twenties I lived in a somewhat exclusive area. One might say it was brimming over with the filthy rich. And as most people know, rich people like to have servants. Especially au pairs.

My town had more au pairs than you could shake a stick at. All were girls between the ages of 18-22 and they were from all over Western Europe. This was back in the day when there were no agencies. These girls would come over from Europe to live with a family for a set length of time. They’d send a picture of themselves with a brief list of their qualifications, which mostly consisted of the ability to feed and bathe toddlers.

I stumbled onto my first au pair by accident at the post office. She was from France and I must say the accent played a part in the attraction. I began seeing this girl regularly. Before I knew it, she introduced me to a whole coven of au pairs from France, Sweden, Germany and Ireland. The great thing was, these girls knew absolutely no one in the US and were virtual prisoners in the homes of the rich and famous. They were let out every other weekend and had no place to go.

I became a wrangler of au pairs. I was picking them up by the carload on Saturday nights and taking them back to my place for cocktails and a night of swimming. Since they didn’t know anyone over here, and they had been here some months, most of them were incredibly horny. It got to the point where I’d pick up three or four of these broads, bring them back to my place and they’d just start stripping and grabbing at me and the other girls. I’d be on the phone with Pizza Hut and look up to find they had all disrobed and were chasing each other around the house. It was a total, once in a lifetime fantasy come true.

One particular girl from Sweden was an absolute “10” as well as being a really nice girl. She was smart, funny and loved to have sex. They all loved to have sex. It was without a doubt the greatest time of my life. Me and a coven of horny, hot young chicks from Europe. They taught me to lose all inhibitions. I don’t think any of my regular friends even saw me for a six month period while I was holed away with these girls. I won’t go into detail, but my place was like a roman bath for while there.

At one point, a family I knew was sending a girl back to France and let me go through all the pictures of the new prospects and pick the one I wanted. When the girl got here the family introduced me and she was brought into the fold. The family was happy because the girl was happy. I was happy because the girl was hot.

And believe me, I'm not making this stuff up.

As to whether a woman with an Irish or Scots accent turns me on? Sure. However, Jen, I’m having trouble with the mental image of you getting hot watching Stuart Mackenzie dance to the accordion solo in So I Married an Axe Murderer.

What’s the smallest line you can read?

2005-08-04T08:04:00.000-04:00

The thought that my eyesight was poor never crossed my mind until recently. I was trying to register my iPod and the serial number was so goddamned small I couldn’t see it.

Yesterday I was prodded into an eye doctor’s office at the insistence of my old lady. It didn’t go well.

“What’s the smallest line you can read?”

“The top one.”

“The top line?”

“Yeah, but I could guess at the next one…it’s either a B or an 8…”

It went downhill from there. Hundreds of dollars later I left the place wearing glasses.

The good news is that I can fucking see. I had no idea other people could read road signs.

The bad news is that I look like a fucking idiot. My wife claims they’re a fashionable accessory and they bring out my boyish features. I think I look like I have wire and glass on my face. I’m not coming unglued because they haven’t been put to the test yet, but if women stop flirting with me I’m going to lose my fucking mind. It’s one of life’s small pleasures. Of course now that I can see I’ll probably find out the only women flirting with me are old, leather-skinned hosebags. Or the skanks that hang around outside the convenience store smoking Benson & Hedges menthol and drinking quarts of Old English 800.

These glasses combined with last week’s haircut are seriously cutting into my groove.

I'm not only the hair club president

2005-08-03T11:50:00.000-04:00

I don't think women realize what a sensitive subject hair loss is for men. It is something that can cause much anxiety and yet it is rarely handled with kid gloves. I still have plenty of hair on my head but it is certainly not the shock of flowing brown locks it once was. Over the last several years I have waved good-bye to many a strand as they spiraled down the drain. It can be traumatic. Any yet, I am not always spared ridicule. I have heard my share of thinning hair jokes, mostly from women as I am assuming they don't realize the pain it inflicts.

A while back I thought of a rebuttal and this morning I finally got the chance to try it. A female coworker, who is also a friend, was standing by my desk. The topic of getting my haircut came up:

"I have a 1pm haircut Friday."

"You better be careful. Soon there aren't going to be too many left to cut."

"Maybe. But I bet you've gained more weight in the last year than I've lost hair." I joked.

This was a mistake. Utter silence. I swear in the distance, I heard a glass break and cat screech. It was like those old E.F. Hutton commercials. People from all nearby cubes just stopped what they were doing and stared at me with an "oh no you just didn't" look. My friend immediately got pissed.

"Why would you say something like?"

"What? You just said I was going bald!" I pleaded.

"Yeah, but I was only joking around with you. That was really mean."

And she walked off. Hindsight vision being what it is, I guess that may have not been the most subtle way to get my point across. Later, I made a fresh batch of coffee and stopped by her desk to let her know I had just brewed a little pot of heaven in the kitchen, hoping for bygones. She quietly and coldly responded "No thanks" and said nothing more. Tomorrow she is supposed to sit at my desk all morning for a training session. It's going to be a long day. Maybe I'll shave my head as a peace offering.

Giada!

2005-08-01T20:26:00.000-04:00

I can’t be the only one who is absolutely mesmerized by one of Food TV’s rising stars, Giada DeLaurentiis.

Sure, she cooks some amazing Italian dishes, but soon after the two-minute introduction of the episode’s appetizer, main course, and dessert, I become entranced with the signature plunging neckline of her short-sleeved tops.

Has anyone else noticed the absolutely perfect b-cups that this beauty of nature displays, as she leans in toward the camera, dicing and chopping and stirring and whisking?

Talk about perky! Oh my…

Red Stripe....Horray Beer!

2005-07-27T13:45:00.000-04:00

A lot of people have heard of Hedonism but very few people have actually been there. Like Ecstasy, I believe everyone should try it at least once. I can promise you it will be a very different vacation than say, Disneyworld, or most places for that matter. The trip starts off a little shaky. Once you arrive in Montego Bay, you are faced with a 3 hour bus ride. During this bus ride you are sure to encounter a few things. Potholes large enough to fit a small child; the opportunity to buy pot (I once had a guy running alongside my window waving a bag at me. He was a nimble fellow and kept up with the bus for a good half mile) and chances are you may face death a few times as they pass vehicles with reckless abandon.

Once you arrive, and throw up from the ride, you will feel much better. Though it’s not the Ritz, rooms are generally clean and offer free 24 hour Playboy channel which is a nice alternative to the traditional terrycloth robe. The resort offers a couple of restaurants, a buffet area, a piano lounge, two beaches, 2 pools, 2 Jacuzzis and all of the sporting activities of your standard all-inclusive resort. But you don’t go to Hedo to play ping-pong.

The resort is separated into two sides. The nude side and the prude side. The prude side is where you must keep your clothes on, although if you want to keep your clothes on, then just go to Sandals. The beauty of Hedo is; you wake up in the morning, take a shower, and then walk right out your door and head to the pool. Clothes are an unnecessary inconvenience. Eyes be warned, 70% of the nudity you will see may be of the kind you wish you hadn’t seen. You get over that extremely quickly and soon realize that there is a certain ambiance here that is unmatched. People are friendly. Everyone is happy. Soon you are engaged in numerous conversations with people from all over the world and the fact that you have no clothes on doesn’t come in to play. Unless you want it to.

It is Hedo and their motto is “be wicked for a week” and believe me, you can be wicked here. During the day, you can partake in such games as naked twister, body painting, and the perennial favorite “find your mate”. In this game, they take one person, male or female, blindfold them and line up a group of the opposite sex in front of them. A random body part is chosen, say boobs, and the blindfolded guy walks down the line feeling each set in attempt to find his mate. And if you guess right…well, who really cares. Winning isn’t really the primary objective here, I think you get a free drink but all drinks are free anyway. You can’t do this at Yosemite or Six Flags!

There is lots of drinking and debauchery but it is all in good fun and completely voluntary. There is no pressure to step outside your level of comfort. My wife and I have been twice and we are not into the “lifestyle” but it is still a very unique experience. You will definitely come back with some interesting stories. Boy, I could tell you some stories…

So I got my haircut

2005-07-25T10:34:00.000-04:00

I generally put off haircuts as long as possible. For some reason I feel like a jackass sitting in that chair forcing small talk for thirty minutes.

The same chick has cut my hair for some years. It was a fairly painless ordeal that I was quite happy until two months ago. The chick moved to new salon in a very fashionable area of “the beach district.” When I went in for my last hair cut I felt underdressed. All the employees were very hot women, scantily clad and scurrying about while heavy bass music pulsed at ear splitting levels.

I was the only guy in the place, which I didn’t mind, but I was also the oldest. I was offered a glass of wine. The chick that shampooed my hair massaged my scalp for twenty minutes while her barely concealed breasts literally beat against the side of my face. It was an unexpected perk.

So there I was, with this hot chick’s breasts rubbing my face, music pulsing and the delicate smell of her perfume wafting around me. I was becoming aroused. When the scalp massage was over she lifted the seat back and started rubbing my shoulders. The other chicks were still walking around in time with the music, doing whatever it is they do. A beautiful brunette came walking towards me and asked me to follow her. Her jeans were cut so low that they seemed to start about two centimeters above her special area. Her top barely concealed her bosoms and protruding nipples. I was afraid that if I stood up the whole place would see the wood.

I imagined the whole place coming to a complete halt…music stopping and everything. I said to hell with it and followed. Another broad came running with my wine.

I eventually got my haircut. As I walked to the counter to pay I asked how much I owed.

“That’ll be fifty today, Sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s fifty for the cut.”

I paid and wandered outside, dumbfounded. Fifty bucks! I swore that was the end of that.

This Saturday I walked into Supercuts. A heavyset, middle aged woman asked how I wanted my haircut.

“Quietly,” I replied. She looked at me and went to work.

I sat there silently, not quite sure what to look at. After a few minutes she whipped the tarp off and I followed her to the counter. It was twelve bucks.

I keep my hair fairly short, so it’s hard to ruin it completely, but somehow I ended up looking like a dufus. Even my kid laughed at me. I really can’t win.

World’s greatest handyman dies

2005-07-21T08:38:00.000-04:00

Let’s face it. The original starship Enterprise was huge piece of shit.

It seems like in every episode the Enterprise had major problems: Either the shields were down, the warp drive didn’t work or they were running low on dilithium crystals. It never had enough power to pull away from a tractor beam. It’s a wonder that piece of shit could even maintain orbit.

If it wasn’t for Mr.Scott, there would have been no hope. Scotty held that ship together with duct tape and coat hangers. Typical dialog from any episode:

Kirk: I need more power Mr. Scott!

Scotty: She canna’ take it na’ longer!

Kirk: Mr. Scott! We need power now!

Scotty: Aye, Captain, I’ll draw it from the port side shitters on C deck!

And with that, he’d beat the generator with a wrench or cut some wires on an exposed circuit board and they’d make it, just in the nick of time. And when he wasn’t working on that junkheap he was drinking scotch and wearing a skirt.

In real life, James Doohan, the actor who played “Scotty” was no sissy.

“On D-Day, June 6, 1944, he was among troops to land at Juno Beach in France. That night he was hit six times by machine-gun fire, losing the middle finger of his right hand. He told a Toronto paper in 1998 that one bullet headed for his chest struck a silver cigarette case his brother had given him.”

Montgomery Scott was my favorite character on Star Trek, probably because he was the only one with a sense of humor.

Here’s to you Mr. Scott.

Patent pending

2005-07-20T12:08:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, my wife and I took a trip to Chicago. We had never been so we planned a short getaway to check out some museums, architecture and deep dish pizza. It was a pleasant Saturday early evening in the city. Temperatures were warm but not excessively humid. After a full day of walking and sightseeing, it was the perfect time for a late afternoon cocktail. On the northwest corner of Millennium Park, there is an outdoor bar located inside the area used for wintertime ice skating. The sun was setting; architectural scenery abound; and the friendly buzzing of weekend chatter filled the air. Life was good. Then, up walked a couple who bellied up to the bar next us and faster than you could say lemon drop martini, they lit up their cigarettes. Being downwind, we had a steady stream of smoke trailing across our sitting area. They didn’t ask us if we minded if they smoke. Not that that matters at all. Of course we mind. You are polluting our lungs. The question is so obvious it shouldn’t even be asked. It reminds me a Bloom County comic strip I once read. Steve Dallas sits down on a park bench next to Opus and asks “Do you mind if I smoke?”. To which Opus replies, “Well do you mind if I blow pastrami belches in your face?”. Same principle. It was at this time that my idea for a new invention was born.
You know those little hand held, battery powered fans? What if we equip those with a pouch of some kind of highly concentrated malodorous mixture? Then if a smoker sits next to you and lights up, you can turn on your fan and point it directly at them. I am envisioning the contraption will emit pulses of the stink and the fan will blow it in the direction you choose. I figure, if they are going to send me home smelling like an ashtray, I’ll send them home smelling like dog ass. What (passive aggressive) non-smoker wouldn’t want to buy one of these?! Now I just need to think of a name for my new wonderful invention and maybe get that girl who played Cindy Snow on Three’s Company to host my infomercial.

Privileged Guilt?

2005-07-18T20:26:00.000-04:00

So there I am, driving home from work in my air-conditioned SUV, listening to a couple of pseudo-intellectuals discuss Supreme Court nominees on the local NPR station. As I approach the red light at a busy intersection, I come to a stop directly behind a lawn maintenance truck that is filled with yard debris and hedge trimmings from a long day’s work. And yes, perched atop the pile of foliage refuse are five men, ranging in age from twenty to sixty years old. They look extremely tired, sweat-drenched, and dirty from toiling in the ninety-degree heat since early that morning.

Each of these day laborers is staring at me, boring holes through my lily-white skin that is staying nice and cool from the a/c bubble of my locked-door cocoon. I stare back at them, each one in a varied position of slumping, leaning, and crouching. I am physically comfortable, and they are not.

And then I start to feel a mix of pity and guilt. Jesus, how did I become so privileged, able to work in an air-conditioned office with nice-dressed, educated people? What decisions did I make that led me to a point in life where I can drive a nice car, wear good clothes, and eat to my heart’s content?

Guilty? Damn it, no! I am not going to feel guilty about the fact that I am a “have” and these poor day-toilers are “have-nots”. I am not going to apologize for being a WASP, graduating from high school, and bettering myself through hard work and study.

Too bad if these lawn trolls have it tough --- someone’s got to do the job, and I’m glad it’s them and not me.

We can now add hookers to the list

2005-07-18T09:49:00.000-04:00

A while back I wrote about my trip to the racetrack and how it looked like a band of hobos had set up a makeshift headquarters. Well, I made another trip on Saturday afternoon and by the light of day it was even worse.

There was big multi-table poker tournament starting at 2:00 PM and since my friends had appointments I had to go down there at noon and pay all of our entrance fees so no one would get shut out. After my last experience I didn’t relish the thought of spending two hours alone in that place with the degenerates, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

As I pulled into the parking lot I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. Every car in the lot looked as though they were ready for the salvage yard. Trash bags taped over broken windows, mufflers hanging down and the palomino look of primer and rust.

I opened the front door and there were the freaks. In all their glory. People who looked like they had slept in their clothes, rough and tumble alcoholics and your every-day common dirtbags. I paid the entrance fees and faced the realization that I had no one to talk to and nothing to do for two hours. I went outside and sat on a bench. A cab pulled up (there are no cabs where I live) and an old man got out carrying a brown paper bag. He took a big swig and walked right by the security guard and into the track. The security guard nodded as he went by. When it got too hot outside I went back in and sat on a bench by the doors. It was terribly depressing. By the light of day the place looked even more run down. All the bums seemed to know one another.

“Hey Joey! You working?”

“You know I can’t work. I’m on disability.”

Then why the fuck are you at the track? A lot of conversations were of similar color. It’s hard to feel sorry for people when they bring shit down upon themselves. That was the big question at the track. All the bums greeted each other the same way.

“Are you working?” No one answered yes.

After half an hour my cell phone rang.

“Where are you?”

“At the track.”

“How long you been there?”

“Long enough to get depressed.”

“I’ll be there in five.”

At least now I had some hope. Meanwhile the desperate side of society continued to trickle in. Aside from the standard down-and-out looking men were quite a few middle aged and older women that looked like retired hookers. Maybe retired. One came over and sat down next to me.

“Hiya, sweetie. Wanna buy me a drink?”

“Lady,” I said, “My wife’s just in the shitter over there.” I pointed towards the restrooms.

“Oh, sorry, hun.”

I got up and went outside. Here’s broad that’s probably fifty years old and looks every day of it trying to turn tricks before 1:00 PM on a Saturday afternoon. And I may not be Brad Pitt, but believe me, I don’t need to pay for sex from a saggy old hooker. I can’t imagine where we would have gone to consummate the act.

I looked up and saw my friend cruising around the parking lot looking for a safe place to park his new car. Each time he pulled into a spot he would sit there for a minute with the engine running and then back out and try another one that might somehow be safer from the hobos and door bangers. He eventually came walking up laughing. He had come from some appointment and the crowd of chain smoking bums were staring at him. He had taken off his coat and tie but he still looked out of place. The bums scattered as he shook my hand. They probably thought he was a gumshoe chasing bad debts.

We went in out of the sun and had a drink at the bar. More old hookers and men whose shoes were down at the heels.

By 1:30PM all of my friends had shown up and the place was filling up with more normal looking people for the tournament. Soon the bums were outnumbered by guys with hats and sunglasses waiting for the tourney to start. Some people watch too much TV. I don’t go in for the poker look. I can play just fine without the costume.

I made the final table and finished 5^th out of 100 people. Not bad but I should have won it. ‘All in’ with trip aces and I got blindsided by a full house. Can’t do much about the luck factor.

On the way out I noticed the old hooker was holding hands with a guy who had to be seventy years old. They were walking towards the parking lot and she was helping him step down from the curb. And as the sun set over the grandstands I drove away, toward the promise of cocktails, and the freedom from the bums.

Is it 5 O'Clock yet?

2005-07-14T16:39:00.000-04:00

Did you ever have those clockwatching days where the hours endlessly crawl by? Today is one of those days. Hence, a good thirty minutes was spent staring at my wall calendar. My calendar lists birthdays, holidays and festivals. Although my boss may not agree with the term “accomplish”, here is what I accomplished today.
From the world of figure skating, I found out that Michelle Kwan and Kristie Yamaguchi were born 5 days and 9 years apart. On July 3rd, Kafka would have been 122. Although I don’t recall the obituary, I am assuming he is dead. On July 6th, it was “the Dalai Lama himself” (thank you Carl from Caddyshack) born in 1935. Shifting to the film industry, the wonderful director Atom Egoyan (The Sweet Hereafter) is 45; Willem (not William) Dafoe is 50 and Donald Sutherland will be a robust 70 years old. Wow. Speaking of Donald, if you have never seen the movie Panic, I highly recommend it. It also stars William H Macy and Neve Campbell. Sutherland is absolutely fierce in it. In music, the nauseating Jessica Simpson aka Daisy Duke has turned 25. Give me Catherine Bach any day. Climbing up the talent scale, blues great Buddy Guy will be 69 on July 30th. Ok, I admit I don’t know if Buddy was all that great. I looked him up on a website and the website said he was great. Remember I said I know nothing about music. But I will be in Chicago this weekend and I will make it a point to frequent Buddy Guy’s Legends for a night of some blues. Rounding out the miscellaneous category, Ruud Van Nistelrooy, no relation to Joran Van Der Sloot, turned a mere 29 on July 1st.
If you happen to be in Pittsfield, Maine on July 23rd, make sure you stop by the Central Maine Egg Festival for a rowdy New England celebration. The theme this year…”2005 Theme: Mexican Fiest-Egg”. I shit you not. I have no idea when the Northern Maine Egg Festival takes place.
And with that, I think I need to take the day off tomorrow.

Getting to know you

2005-07-12T17:09:00.000-04:00

Here are a few things about myself. Maybe they will help with us getting to know each other better...

*My nickname in college was Highlander. Apparently some thought I looked like Christopher Lambert.

*Other than a misshapen spice rack, I have never built anything in my life. On a somewhat related note, I suck at the game Jenga.

*When watching a movie about aliens invading the earth, just once I want to see a movie where the aliens win. I thought we were headed that way with “Signs” but then they realized they could shoo the aliens with a cup of water. How clever.

*When I walk by an anthill, I instinctively demolish it. For two reasons; First, I always have ants in my house so it’s my way of exacting a little revenge. And second, I figure they are ants and they are bored so this massive reconstruction gives them a purpose.

*As a child, I once picked my cat up by her tail. To this day, I still feel badly about it. I am sorry Misty Lemon Puff. (Sidebar: I didn’t pick her name. I know she was grey and it was a misty day when we got her. Her tail was puffy. I can’t even guess where the middle name Lemon came from.)

*I can’t think of a movie with Ben Affleck where he doesn’t cry.

*On rare occasions, as I walk through the corridors at work, I wonder what it would be like to pick a random person, tackle him and just start whaling on him.

*The Adult Film Industry Expo in Las Vegas is every bit as fun much as it sounds.

*I recently switched to Splenda.

*My sister was supposed to be a twin but her womb mate got tangled in the umbilical cord and choked to death. Yet oddly, I am the one with a fear of neckties.

*On a recent trip to New Orleans, my wife flashed my hoo-hoo to a couple of cheerful Asian ladies with a video camera. Now I have a lingering feeling of panic that, somewhere in Japan, I am plastered on the cover of American Boys Gone Wild.

*I know everything about movies, some stuff about books and almost nothing about music.

Let’s bring back dueling...please?

2005-07-11T13:23:00.000-04:00

As Jennifer has noted, today is the anniversary of the Alexander Hamilton-Aaron Burr duel.

I’m a huge advocate of dueling and nothing would suit me better than if we made it legal. Let’s take a look at some of the details about dueling:

“A gentleman's honor was regarded as his most valuable intangible personal possession. If a gentleman had a dispute with someone beneath him in social class he would retaliate by horsewhipping or caning the offending party who apparently accepted this treatment as a part of his lot in life.“

I can’t see why anyone would object to this. If my honor is insulted, I’d like the option of horsewhipping someone who hasn’t the gumption to get a decent job. If he had gainful employment, then I’d just as soon settle the matter with swords or pistols.

Code Duello: The Rules of Dueling

There was an official rule book for dueling. I hadn’t read it until today, but I heartily approve. It’s full of good stuff like this:

“Rule 15. Challenges are never to be delivered at night, unless the party to be challenged intend leaving the place of offense before morning; for it is desirable to avoid all hot-headed proceedings.”

You can just imagine the hot-headed proceedings.

Here’s another:

“Rule 23. If the cause of the meeting be of such a nature that no apology or explanation can or will be received, the challenged takes his ground, and calls on the challenger to proceed as he chooses; in such cases, firing at pleasure is the usual practice, but may be varied by agreement.”

Firing at pleasure. Can you imagine?

“Rule 22. Any wound sufficient to agitate the nerves and necessarily make the hand shake, must end the business for that day.”

Ends the business for the day? I guess you just pick it up in the morning where you left off.

And if for some reason there is a dispute over the dual and the seconds can’t straighten it out, they get to dueling as well:

“Rule 25. Where seconds disagree, and resolve to exchange shots themselves, it must be at the same time and at right angles with their principals…”

Now you’ve really got some action, although those small bore pistols, being fairly inaccurate, might leave few safe vantage points for spectators.

As you can see we’ve been missing out on some great stuff. Horsewhipping, swordplay and pistols at dawn. It’s time to bring this distinguished practice back and put an end to all this costly litigation in today’s society. First up: me vs. the jackass two offices down. And I hope he wears his fucking sweater vest.

Happy endings (I am talking about movies)

2005-07-11T10:30:00.000-04:00

War of the Worlds. Dare I call it the “feel-good movie of the summer”? Nothing uplifts the heart like a father and his estranged son coming together. Sure…40 million people world wide were vaporized, cities demolished, families ripped apart – but doesn’t it leave you with that warm fuzzy feeling when Tom Cruise’s son finally acknowledged him as “dad”.
It brings back memories of that other feel good movie “The Sum of All Fears”. Baltimore had just been flattened by a nuclear bomb; the stench of charred human flesh still lingered in the air. I think you can still see trails of the mushroom cloud in the background as Ben Affleck find true love while enjoying a picnic in the park with his new girlfriend. I love happy endings.

Kill your television

2005-07-07T12:56:00.000-04:00

Here is a commercial I recently saw on TV;

Woman (sitting on the hood of a car looking through binoculars) - “Orca! Orca! Oh, I love Orca.”
Man (dopey looking, sitting adjacent to her) - “I thought you liked humpbacks?”
Woman – “I recently switched.”

Then the Avis corporate logo floods the screen and the voiceover talks about renting a car. What the hell was that? How is that in any way related to renting a car? Was there really a team of advertising executives that approved this rubbish?! I don’t watch a lot of television and the barrage of these nonsensical ads is part of the reason. I wish they didn’t irritate me so. But they do. My only defense, aside from never watching television, going to a movie, reading a magazine or driving by a billboard, is to make a mental note of these annoying or offensive ads and refuse to buy spend money on their products. No more renting from Avis. Hello Thrifty.
Yesterday, there was a commercial with Lance Armstrong. It is a clip from the press conference when he announced he had cancer. I admire Lance so I watched to see where it was going. He tearfully explained how the cancer has spread to his abdomen. Words displayed on screen then inform us it has also spread to his lungs and brain. Cut back to Lance telling us that he will beat this horrible disease. And the BAM! - It hit me like a side of beef to my solar plexus. The Nike swish. It was a shoe commercial. Oh Lance, how could you. I don’t want to make a big deal of this but it really irked me. No more Nike’s in my closet.
As my list grows, I realize I will eventually systematically preclude myself from purchasing almost everything out there. However, my one man boycotts have done little to bring these corporations to there collective knees. Since I started this course of action several years ago with Blockbuster, I haven’t seen a huge downward spike in their sales. In fact, they seem to be doing pretty well, with Blockbuster rivaling Starbucks for most locations per square mile. Oh well, fight on!

Just like Monte Carlo. If Monte Carlo were full of hobos.

2005-07-06T07:44:00.000-04:00

Last week a friend asked me to go play poker with him at the card room at a local racetrack. It was quite an experience.

I’ve spent a lot of time in Las Vegas and over the years I’ve gotten use to a certain opulence in casinos. If someone is going to take my money, I’d prefer it to be in a nice glitzy setting with hot cocktail waitresses. Unfortunately, the racetrack was not opulent. In fact, it looked and smelled like a team of Budweiser Clydesdales had marched through there peeing all over the carpets.

When I opened that door and looked around I was astounded. It looked like a hobo convention. Most of the people in that place were repulsive. As we stood in line at the chip cage I took a good look around. Degenerate gamblers, drunkards, people with the shakes, 800 pound sweaty guys…you name it. A lot of missing teeth. There were a few normal looking people but they were clearly the minority. And there was me. Overdressed, due to my shirt having sleeves.

My friend handed me a beer and I got my chips. Somehow, there was a certain romance to the whole thing. I felt like an outlaw in the old west. And with our names on a waiting list, we walked over to the bar and sat down.

“Just like the Bellagio, huh?” I said.

“I told you it wasn’t like Vegas.”

“Dude, look at the carpets.”

My friend looked down and started laughing. They were stained and tattered and the bare concrete underneath could be seen in places.

Every few seconds some old ginbag would bump into me and I’d check to make sure I still had my wallet. There were TVs everywhere simul-casting horse races from all over the country and a large crowd of the unemployable stood watching them with glassy eyes and rolled up tout sheets. None of them looked well off enough to be betting on anything. I haven’t been to the track in a long time, but I used to enjoy it. Of course, I always sprung for three bucks to go into the clubhouse where you could get a steak and people wore sport coats. I had never been to the hobo level before. It was like a scene in Escape from New York.

I was suddenly struck by the fact that these people were losers. Actual, cut-from-the-cloth losers. The type that never win at anything. It was written all over them. I would have felt sorry for them, but they were fucking obnoxious. Just then I felt something on my leg and when I looked down it was bum, crawling along the floor picking up losing tickets and checking them for who-knows-what.

The thought occurred to me that with such a large crowd of desperate low-life’s hanging around, how safe was my money? I mentioned this to my friend.

“Think we’ll get robbed in the parking lot?”

He was nonplussed.

“Dude, look at these people. Surely they’ve pawned their weapons by now.”

They finally called our names and when we got to the poker table I was pleasantly surprised to see some normal looking people, a couple of drunks and a borderline midget. We were assigned seats and I was somewhat taken aback. The dealer knew everybody at the table except for my friend and me. They were talking about poker hands they won or lost with recently. I started to get the feeling I was going to be outclassed.

As the first cards were dealt I leaned back in my filthy chair folded my first hand. The betting was heavy and I was wondering what I’d gotten myself into when the winner laid down his cards. He won with Jack/Two, having bluffed a guy who played seven/three. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was at a table full of morons. Wild bluffing, calling with any face card…it was like they had never played poker before.

Three hours later we left with our winnings and went to celebrate someplace that didn’t smell like mildew. I think we’re going to be regulars.

Tea Bag Tripping

2005-07-04T10:04:00.000-04:00

When my Honky Friends and I started this blogging thing, I vowed to never whore my funk-rock band on the blog. In light of the extraordinary events that took place at a private party I played last Saturday night, I am compelled to share with Four Honkies’ readers a distilled rendering of the night. As promised, I’ll refrain from whoring my band.

I was the first of the band members to arrive at the home of one of our long-time fans for his 35th birthday bash. As I pulled my car into the driveway, a 20-something hottie came prancing out the front door wearing nothing but an ultra-skimpy thong bikini. This young woman sported a flat tummy with a pierced navel and beautifully bronzed ass cheeks. “Hey! Come on in”, she invited.

As Thong Girl and I entered the house, I received an excited welcome from the Birthday Boy himself. There were a half-dozen others inside, escaping the early evening heat. It was obvious that everyone had already clocked-in with beer, cocktails, and bong hits. Before I could even say hello to Birthday Boy, he drew his arm back and smacked Thong Girl on her ass as she passed him by. It was a loud smack, and she leapt a few inches off the ground with a playful yelp, placing her own hand on her bare ass cheek to smooth out the sting. “Just shake it off!” quipped one of the stoners.

As my band was getting ready for a quick sound check, Thong Girl approached us, dripping wet from a splash in the swimming pool, and asked if we’d do a shooter with her. You see, Birthday Boy had ordered a huge ice block for his party; a deep-frozen rectangular mass about 4 feet tall, 2 feet wide, and 2 feet deep. After a team of eight guys mounted the ice block at a 25-degree angle on top of a table, Birthday Boy chiseled a smooth serpentine channel into the face of the mini-glacier. This channel would be the source for dozens and dozens of free-flowing shooters of booze that would be poured from the top of the ice block into the waiting mouths of squatting lads and lasses.

Thong Girl was ready for her third shooter from the ice block, and wanted the band to join her. “Hell yeah!” exclaimed our guitarist. It was early, and one shooter to loosen us up for the incoming crowd seemed appropriate. Thong Girl squatted in front of the descending ice plume and waited for the Goldschlager to run its course from the top of the snaking channel into her mouth. Kaboom!! The chilled liquor hit her square in the mouth, and she tried her best to take it all in. She managed to gulp it down, licking her lips as she stood up and enthusiastically hugged our drummer.

People started arriving en masse around 8 PM, at which time my band launched into the first of two extended sets of our crazy brand of funk-rock and trip-jams.

These party hounds were out of control. Sensemilla blunts were raging everywhere, with the sweet smell of high-grade ganja permeating the air. Guys and gals were lined up for ice-flume shooters. Young women were stripping to their bras and panties to splash in the pool, which was right in front of the band. Yep, we had a great view of girl-on-girl pool wrestling and chicken fights, paired with displays of tender hugging and hot lesbo kissing in the shadows of the backyard.

What really made the evening interesting was the fact that Birthday Boy was passing out hits of mescaline. That’s right. Not just liquor and weed, but full-on hallucinogenic drugs! I hadn’t seen anything like this since college.

As my band mates and I became aware of the tripping audience, it explained much of the wild behavior we witnessed, and we supported it by getting into several extended trip jams. There were pods of girls and guys surrounding the pool, swaying and bending and twirling to the music, sometimes falling into the pool, oblivious to their surroundings.

A stripper who had swallowed a hit of mescaline, smoked half a blunt of high-grade sensemilla, and drank copious amounts of Goldschlager from the ice flume, mounted a pole in front of the band, performing for the crowd like the whore she is. I later found her puking her guts out into an outdoor planter next to my SUV.

In between sets I ventured into the house to refresh my cocktail and to cool off in the a/c. What I saw made me feel dirty. Thong Girl was totally naked, sprawled across the sofa pillows that were piled on the floor, writhing in self-pleasure, moaning and touching herself. A young and naked lad of no more than 25 years began tea bagging her face. A small crowd had gathered to cheer this guy on while he straddled the naked girl and slapped his testicles across her eyes, nose, and mouth. Thong Girl tried to lap his scrotum with her tongue a few times, but Sack Man was too quick for her trippin’ state of mind.

Later that night, I found Thong Girl inside the house, sitting naked and shivering in a corner, curled up into herself, mumbling nonsensical phrases to herself. She managed to ask me for a towel, and of course I obliged. Before the night was over I witnessed a few testosterone-induced fights, and by the time three Sheriff cars descended upon the party to shut down the band, the place was out of control.

Sure, it’s always fun for my band to play in the bars and clubs, but nothing will ever substitute for a good old-fashioned house party!

Say Cheese

2005-06-30T09:37:00.000-04:00

I just discovered an amazing invention called the web cam. Ok, maybe they have been around for a while but when it comes to the world of technology, I am light years behind. Like Homer Simpson once acknowledged, “Oh, I see they have the internet on computers now.” I do have a computer but I know very little about them. How they work, the inner hidden mechanisms, what makes a good computer, etc. Sadly, I am still surfing on dial up. This past weekend, my wife and I had to housesit for her parents. Saturday night, after dinner and a movie, we decided to spark up the in-laws desktop. They have DSL which I believe stands for “dial-up sucks.” (The L doesn’t stand for anything, like the S in Harry S. Truman). What a difference. We started buzzing around websites checking vacation plans, mortgage info, sports scores (mine), day spa prices (hers), etc. Shortly after, I noticed this miniature camera mounted on the desk. A web cam. Hmmm, this gives me an idea.

“Do these things really work?”
“I don’t know. I would assume so.”
“I say we check it out.”

And let me tell you, they do work. It was like being on the Jetsons. We naturally wandered into an adult chat and after finding a handful of chubby naked men with a rabid desire to flaunt their hoo-hoo’s, we eventually found another couple. They kept their faces off camera but were at least pleasant looking from the neck down. I believe they were from Canada, which has no bearing on this story other than I was going to title the post “Yukon Ho!” The female was sitting on a bed filing her nails. I typed a comment to see what would happen.

“Any chance she can put down the nail file? It’s kind of spoiling the mood.”

Seconds later, the nail file was placed on the end table. Success. Ok, let’s try again.

“Can she give us a better view? Facing the camera.”

Again, she obliged. Like the trooper she is, my wife chimes in…

“A different view, please. Maybe something from behind.”

And there she went turning around for us. This is great. It’s like that subservient chicken website but with more nudity and less poultry. Soon we graduated beyond views and moved into actions. Let’s see you guys do this...do that. Sure enough they would. They followed instructions with amazing accuracy. And yes we would reciprocate for them. Turnabout is fair play which has even more meaning in this regard.
What a great way to spend an evening. Cheap and entertaining. Had it not been the web cam, our second choice to pass the time was playing Scrabble. In retrospect, I feel we made the correct selection. We are home now back with the antiquated dial-up. I currently have a call in to my cable company asking about any upcoming DSL specials and a call to the in-laws to see when they need us to housesit again.

I'm Gumby, Dammit!

2005-06-29T09:06:00.000-04:00

People who are filthy rich are not better than you. Many believe they are, but the truth is, even billionaires are made up of the same carbon-based molecules as you and I. They are restricted by gravity, the laws of thermodynamics and in rare instances, even the law.

I can’t help but notice that Oprah is splashed all over the news today because she was denied entry to a high-end boutique after hours. I wish someone could explain to me, in simple terms, why this is news, and why anyone is even aware of it.

Apparently she rolled up to Hermes in Paris and demanded entry after the store was closed. She rattled her jewelry against the glass, but it did no good. There was a private showing or some other jet-set shit going on in there and she was turned away. And man is she pissed. According to Oprah, it was “one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.”

I wish my life was full of indignities like that. Unfortunately, mine don’t revolve around shopping on the Champs-Elysee.

The store was closed, lady. There was a private public relations event taking place. Being rich does not entitle you to do whatever the fuck you want. You are not the empress of all that you survey. The fact that this woman couldn’t buy a $16,000 hand bag after hours is of little interest to me. In fact, I’m indignant that anyone, anywhere gives a damn.

I was even more shocked to learn that the race card has come up. Reading this article I was amazed to see that so many people are up in arms because she was denied entry for being black. Since I’m not a racist, I don’t think that way. My first thought was that the store was fucking closed. A private event in progress. Sorry.

Then, for a moment, I thought it was discrimination. Americans haven’t been treated well in Paris for years, and it has certainly hasn’t gotten better recently. But it never occurred to me that she was denied access because she was black. Nor do I think it’s true. What I do think is that she didn’t get her way…and that was so goddamned shocking she believes it had to be something more sinister.

I’m white and somehow I don’t think my experience in that situation would have ended any differently. Being rich and famous does not give you the privileges of a 14^th century monarch. Unless you’re in America.

Me, my ipod and life’s sweet pleasures

2005-06-28T13:29:00.000-04:00

This thoughtful post about music struck a chord with me. There was a time when I too, took music for granted. Oddly enough, the ipod has taken me in a different direction.

I’ve always been a music snob. Being a musician myself, I felt I had the right. I dismissed 90% of what I heard on the radio as complete shite. I still won’t back down from that because it’s still true; however, seeking out what I thought to be great music was an enjoyable path. When I bought something and really fell in love with it, it was like kissing a woman. It was a supremely enjoyable, experience.

Over the years I somehow drifted away from enjoying music. Along came a family and TV eventually replaced music each evening. Somehow we’d drifted apart. The only place I could really enjoy music was when in was alone in my car. About a year ago I rediscovered the joy music due to a bazaar sequence of events, but the car was still my only sanctuary. And that sanctuary was in great danger.

My moods change constantly and I have an eclectic taste in music. I could never find anything. I had CDs everywhere. One Saturday morning I washed my car and when I cleaned out the all the CDs I found I had over fifty of them in there. Not a single jewel case held the correct disk. I could never find anything I wanted to hear.

I might set off to work in the mood to hear The Ramones and by lunch I was completely over it. I needed to hear authentic tango music. Of course I couldn’t find my authentic tango music. I’d come across the Brandenburg Concertos and it would have to suffice. On the way home from work I might want to hear Coltrane. Or need to hear Coltrane. I could never find it, and I’d settle for Miles or Chet Baker. Every day it was torture, trying to find the music I wanted at that very moment. I’m a very passionate guy. Sometimes I don’t want to hear something…I need to hear it.

Along came the ipod. If I could just figure out a way to get it working in my car. Being the tenacious bastard that I am, I found an adapter to hard wire it into the car so I could listen to it through my system with no loss of signal. I installed it myself, much to my own amazement.

And now I have it all. Mozart, Billie Holiday, Alex Chilton, Beatles, Foo Fighters, et al. Before I leave for work I set up my ride music. Before lunch I choose a set for the drive and before I leave for home everyday I set up exactly want I want to hear on the way.

Do I rely too much on instant gratification? I haven’t given it much thought. I’m far too delighted to worry about it. And with this new found freedom I’ve become less of a music snob. Hell, on the way back from lunch I preempted The Goldberg Variations to hear Fox on the Run. Yes, it’s tacky and horrible, but it took me back to a time and place that I rarely visit these days. But the mood was right and I had instant access.

Sometimes, life can be very sweet.

Star of "Cocktail" Kills Oprah

2005-06-28T09:07:00.000-04:00

Its true and it's here.

Ladies, it’s time to reevaluate

2005-06-27T10:14:00.000-04:00

I know a couple of women who are still single in their mid-late thirties despite trying to land a man for the past fifteen years. These women want very much to get married. And they’re attractive. Nice bodies, cute and neither show outward signs of mental illness.

They have no idea why they can’t hang on to a man for more than a few weeks. Both are serial daters and have no problem getting first and second dates. The problems usually start between dates four and seven. These women are not always the rejectees. It’s about a fifty-fifty split over who decides the other partner is not a good match.

I’m sometimes privy to conversations regarding these phenomena, and though I’m not in a position to voice an opinion, I’m quite sure I have identified the two main problems.

First of all, both set standards that the average human male could never meet:

He drinks too much/too little: Fair enough. They don’t want to be saddled with a drunkard. They also don’t want a complete teetotaler. Both women have established that three drinks are the magic number. Not four, not two. On a standard dinner date, one more or one less drink will disqualify fucking Brad Pitt.

Next, he has to have hair. It doesn’t matter if he’s met the three drink requirement or if he’s a billionaire philanthropist, if he looks like his hairline might recede in the next ten years he is out the door.

The applicant is allowed one friend. This friend must also meet the three drink requirement and should be married. Under no circumstances may the applicant have several friends.

The applicant must not have been in a nudie bar for the past five years. Bachelor parties may be exempt if the applicant claims to have been bored.

Applicant may have no more than a casual interest in sports, preferably restricted to the NFL.

Applicant must express a desire to have children.

Applicant may not have any gray hairs.

Applicant may not have any piercings.

Applicant must be between the ages of 30-40 (both women are 37 themselves.)

Applicant must be able to achieve and maintain an erection (you can’t fault them there).

Applicant must never allude to a possible threesome in any manner.

Applicant must not participate in pari-mutuel wagering, poker or sports betting.

Applicant must have a current, active gym membership and may not be overweight.

Applicant must have gainful employment. They don’t aspire to marrying rich, an ordinary job will do.

There are many other requirements too numerous to address and are beyond the scope of this piece, but you get the idea.

The second major problem both women have is their inability to enjoy or accept a pause in conversation. They’re always talking.

Example:

“Well, I was going to buy the green one, but that particular shade of green reminds me of this girl back at college who always wore green—in college I always wore black—but that was back when everybody wore black, except this one girl, and she was really snotty. She was dating this guy who limped for some reason and was totally into Madonna, and for a guy to be totally into Madonna, well…I don’t know, but I didn’t buy the green one. So this limper guy got really drunk one night and crashed the chick’s car and when the cops came they arrested the guy because he had a bunch of warrants or something, but the girl was kind of creepy anyway. She lived on my floor in the dorm and she had holes in her underwear and she used to drink Zima. Do you remember Zima? I never had a Zima but once I saw this guy drinking Zima and all I could think about was, what kind of guy drinks Zima, you know?...”

I may have understated the above paragraph but it was exhausting me to write it. It’s also exhausting to listen to someone talk like that for three straight hours. I don’t care if I’m sitting across from Carmen Electra on roofies, I can’t take it. Nobody can take it.

I estimate that over the past ten years these ladies have dated just about everyone in the same county that even come close to their criteria. Soon they’ll have to move to a new city and start all over again. One of them already has three cats so you know where this is going.

Somewhere between an almond and cashew

2005-06-24T13:44:00.000-04:00

This is hysterical. Especially coming from a guy who could really benefit from a good prescription.

I love this woman

2005-06-24T13:00:00.000-04:00

De does extensive research on the Honkies.

Lost in the New Jersey wilderness

2005-06-24T12:01:00.000-04:00

I realize that most people’s idea of New Jersey is Newark and the refineries; the shitty area that borders NYC. But you’d be surprised to know that a lot of NJ is rural farmland and woods.

I flew up there to spend a few days with a friend of mine one summer and we decided to go fishing. Since I’m not the type to sit around watching a bobber float in a pond, I said I would go if we went somewhere I could fly fish.

“I have a great idea,” he said. “I know where there’s a natural trout stream …it’s one of the few natural trout streams left in the whole state. I have a detailed map.”

The next morning we set off before first light. We drove about two hours before we got to the area. I was looking at the map and realized something was seriously wrong. It was a reprint of a map dated 1893. I suspected this might be a problem.

We parked somewhere on the side of the road, based on what I don’t know, and after twenty minutes of bickering about which way to walk we set off. We went straight up into the hills wearing fucking chest waders and carrying all our shit. We walked for two straight hours before coming across the stream and it didn’t look promising.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that it was 12” wide and 4” deep. It was so narrow that my foot wouldn’t fit into it. We had been walking for over two hours, uphill through the woods, wearing fucking chest waders. For nothing.

We were on a steep incline in a thick wooded area. The ‘natural trout stream’ could easily be forded by a crawling infant with no fear of drowning and we were sweating profusely. We weren’t exactly sure where we were or where we parked the car and we were using a 109 year old map for navigation. Tempers started to flare.

“We should follow the stream up to the top of this hill,” my friend said. “It’s probably just an offshoot from the real stream. Grab your shit and let’s go.”

Since we had driven so far and walked for so long I decided to press on. Instead of following the stream directly, we took a route parallel to it which wasn’t quite as steep. Unfortunately, we were still in thick woods full of briars and thorny vines. An hour later we realized that we’d lost the stream completely. Every ridge looked the same. We were both hot and tired and didn’t give a shit about anything but going home. Out came the 100 year old map.

Whatever landmarks and old barns that were there 100 years ago were long gone, but we refused to panic. Both of us had some experience in the woods and we both had survival training. In our opinion the situation wasn’t dangerous, it was fucking annoying.

We needed to get to the car and a tavern as quickly as possible. It must have been around noon so the sun was no help in navigating, but we knew that lichen only grew on the north side of trees. Once we established which way was north we just stared at each other. It meant nothing to us. We parked the car on a winding road and took off into the woods. We had no idea which direction we were walking when we set out. We decided to backtrack and try to find the stream again thinking it must end somewhere, most likely a lake or a pond. Or a road would cross it. Two hours later we were just as lost and a lot more pissed off. We came to a clearing and sat down. After a few minutes my friend held up his hand.

“Listen! Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s a plane! Look!”

Sure enough there was a plane flying over us. Somehow I missed the importance of the event.

“See which way it’s flying?”

“What the fuck does it matter? You wanna walk to Philadelphia? You want to start hiking to fucking LaGuardia or what?”

Obviously we knew if we walked long enough in one direction we’d find something, but Christ, it could take another three hours if we picked the wrong direction. We needed a road.

An hour later we came up on the stream again. It was even smaller here, only about 9” wide and maybe 6” deep. I stared at it for long time watching the tadpoles and wondering when I was going to get a goddamn sandwich or something. I was just about to go into another tirade when I heard my friend hollering from where he was up the stream.

It turns out that he found a trout. It was the size of a canned sardine, no bigger than four inches. “It’s a natural trout!” he said as he pointed into the tiny stream.

Indeed it was. Unfortunately, it was probably the last of the Mohicans, because the four inch wide stream probably couldn’t support another one. “Why don’t you rig up your pole?” I asked. He didn’t reply.

While he tried to catch it with his hands I trekked up the hill to look around Now that I knew there was some life in the water I was confident the source was wider upstream. When I came to the top of the incline I had a pretty good view of the surrounding area, including the Ford dealership and the county road we parked on.

What a fucking day.

My Mom's Caregiver

2005-06-24T06:59:00.000-04:00

Jesus, I don’t know where to start. We hired a caregiver a few months ago to live in with my Mom. We’ll call her Gloria. She was a friend of a neighbor, and was qualified. We hired her in spite of the fact that she was morbidly OBESE! I’d imagine she dresses out at over 400 lbs. In my book, if there is “Big Girl’s Division”, they would have to add “Ultra Big Girl’s division for her. She also has some sort of growth hanging from her left elbo. My brother calls it her glibbitz. The glibbitz must weigh almost a pound if you were to cut it off. Oh, I forgot, she is missing a couple of back teeth.

Gloria broke 3 kitchen chairs, before we got her a really heavy duty one. Well last time I was over there, the wheels on the front 2 legs were crushed. She keeps blaming it on the chairs. This was in addition to breaking the bed that she sleeps on. Now the box spring and mattress sits on the floor (inside the frame). I’d imagine that she has to roll off the bed into doggy position to herself up. She blamed that on the bed (it wasn't put together right)

This behemoth cleans any leftover food right off my Mother’s plate. My 14 year old daughter slept over last weekend, and said that a half hour after dinner she ate a huge yougurt and then got a big bowl of cottage cheese and added green tobasco and proceeded to hammer that down.

Then she complains to my Mom that she’s a 45 year old virgin. What guy in their right mind would even be able to get it up without a crane for this bitch? To make matters worse, she blames it on slow metabolism.

Music and Fishing

2005-06-23T12:21:00.000-04:00

Last week I decided to resume taking music lessons. Problem is, my music teacher can only see me at 11 AM on weekdays. I took lessons from him before, for about a year, leaving work at 10:30 in the morning to drive a half-hour for the hour-long lesson, grab a bite to eat, and return by 1:30. Wasn’t a problem; I just told my former boss that I had a series of appointments that I needed to go to, and being the really cool guy that he is, he didn’t have a problem with it.

Now it’s two years later, and I’ve got a different boss. An older guy in his 60’s who's basically a pain in the ass. I sent an email to him briefly describing my desire, stating that I have a series of appointments scheduled over the next few months, and that I’d be taking a long lunch hour once every other week. He immediately scheduled a meeting with me to discuss my request.

During the meeting my boss said that he needed specific detail about the nature of the appointments I had scheduled, to which I replied, “If you don’t mind, it’s a private matter”.

Boss man wouldn’t let it go at that. He kept prodding and prying, giving some lame excuse about adhering to policy and procedure. So I gave in, but in my own twisted way.

Sighing heavily while putting my face in my hands, I looked up at him and began. “Bob, it all started when I was 13 years old. I’ve been to several psychologists over the years to try to resolve my problem, and I think I’ve finally found one who can help me.”

“What’s at issue here?” he asked, prodding deeper into my personal life.

“I went on a month-long summer vacation when I was 13, to visit my cousins in Illinois. Part of the time was spent on a remote island at a fishing cabin in Canada, and it was there that I was physically assaulted in a sexual manner by my uncle and his fishing buddy.”

The look on my boss’s face was priceless at this point.

I continued. “Each afternoon, after we finished fishing, my uncle would send my cousins back to the cabin to help my aunt prepare dinner while my uncle, his fishing buddy, and I stayed out at the dockside fish-cleaning house to scale and gut the day’s catch. What happened those afternoons was horrible. They made me pull my pants down, then positioned me on the fish-cleaning table and jammed cork bobbers and slimy plastic worms up my butt. They would laugh and slap my little butt while they assaulted me.”

“Okay, okay. That’s enough. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say”, said my boss.

I had worked myself into a fake state of shaking, and my boss was visibly upset by the story I had just told. He apologized for asking such personal questions, and vowed he would tell no one of my situation.

My first music lesson is scheduled for tomorrow, and I can’t wait!!

Dancing with The Stars

2005-06-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

I can't believe that I'm actually watching this show, but I find it compelling. Did anyone notice that some of the couples are starting to look like they might be practicing more than dancing? The Soap Opera chick is waaaay hot!

Open mouth - insert foot

2005-06-22T14:12:00.000-04:00

More ramblings from the cubically divided corporate world environment.
I just got up to stretch my legs so I decided to head to the break room to refill my water. Just outside the kitchen area, I passed by a co-worker. I noticed a 20 ounce bottle of coke in his hand and remembered that he has been absent from the gym lately. I couldn’t resist a little light-hearted ribbing.

“You know you haven’t been working out lately. You really shouldn’t have that.”

“It’s just a coke.”

“All that sugar?! Come on. You are going to get fat drinking that crap.”

I made the comment as I passed by him and right at that moment I heard the tumbling clank clank of a soda can dropping in a vending machine. I entered the break room and there stood a stout doughy female, the left hand reaching for her Mountain Dew; a bag of Cheetos clutched securely in the right. Like a deer in headlights, she froze briefly upon seeing me only to then give me the frowning of lifetime. She obviously heard me and it was pretty clear I offended her. Even though I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, I am willing to bet she didn’t enjoy her snack to the extent she originally planned so I felt bad. To quote Colonel Jessup, “Well, don’t I feel like a fuckin' asshole.”

Tomato...To-mah-toe

2005-06-20T10:22:00.000-04:00

I am not a big fan of bumper stickers yet I enjoy amusing T-shirts. Go figure. In high school, I had a T-shirt printed that said “I Hate People” on the front and “I Hate You” on the back. From laughter to disgust, it prompted a wide range of responses. A couple of weeks ago in Key West, I passed by a female strolling solo down Duval street. She was wearing a T-Shirt scribed with big bold letters “Eat Pussy. It’s good for you.” Funny, and informative. I had no idea pussy had nutritional value.
Yesterday, while waiting for my in-laws at the airport, along came another interesting one. Again a lone female, pleasant looking, maybe in her mid-thirties, sporting the T-shirt “You say tomato...I say Fuck You!” The lettering size was far from subtle. Now I am in no way a prude but that was a bit much. It would be fine for the Friday night club scene but what if she was sitting on the plane next to little Johnny who wanted to know what her shirt said. I don't know. Still, you have to admire the balls to wear something like that.

Terrible Peeing Incident Just Happened—Exclusive!

2005-06-17T13:34:00.000-04:00

Have you ever waited too long to pee and then ran to the bathroom only to reach for the zipper and realize you’re wearing button fly jeans? And you can’t get the damned thing out fast enough and you almost pee all over yourself? Well, let me tell you what just happened.

My wife thinks I look good in a certain type of Levis and she insists that I wear them. They are button fly. Since it’s Friday I wore the freakin jeans to work today. I was sitting through one of the most boring meetings I’ve ever endured and I had to pee for about twenty minutes; I was waiting for this thing to wrap up so could I run to the bathroom. I usually just get up and pee during meetings but I had left to take two phone calls earlier and I was pushing my luck.

So I’m sitting there doing the hokey-pokey in my seat waiting for the drone to stop talking and before I know it I’ve got an emergency on my hands. I was just about to get up when the meeting was put to bed. I left my stuff in room and sprinted out the door. People were waiting for me but they almost got pushed to the ground. I had no time for pleasantries and post it notes…I needed to fucking pee.

So I ran down the hall, threw the bathroom door open and shot to the closest no- neighbor urinal. There was one other dufus in there at the far urinal and he starts asking me a question, but there was no way to even scream at him; my hands were on the way down. That’s when I realized I had to undo the buttons. I was in panic mode already and that put me over the edge. The first button’s never so bad but the next couple are challenging under the best of circumstances. The only way I can really undo them is to stick my butt out and kind of bend forward and wriggle whilst trying to work them. I got the next two and I tried to get my hand in to free my wang but the jeans were too damned tight.

So now I’m in full emergency mode and the other guy’s still talking to me even though I look like I’m fucking masturbating because of the herky-jerky act and finally I whip it out even though I didn’t get the next button. It was painful alright, but what was worse was that I barely got the sword from the sheath before the stream started and since my entire special region was all bunched up and the denim was constricting my efforts I started to pee in a very thin, high arching stream. I jumped back, because the pee was going to either come right back down on me or the splashes from the wall above the urinal would get on me. At this point the other guy shut his mouth and hauled ass without washing his hands. But he saw me pee on the wall. And I’m pretty sure he thought something really fucked up was going on, making it a high-value story for the entire department. Anyway, the pee lasted forever and there was no way to adjust myself until it was over so I’m standing back about four feet from the urinal when the next asshole comes into the bathroom and sees the giant arc of pee and just starts laughing. He has no idea what the story is or anything, he just thinks I like to pee from far away or something, and now he’s laughing uncontrollably like a jackass. My mind starts processing what’s going to happen when the pee stories start around the office before I’m even finished with the pee. In the end I just buttoned my pants, washed my hands and left. The guy was still laughing as walked out.

Do I need this shit?

An open letter to all news media outlets

2005-06-17T10:33:00.000-04:00

Tom Cruise is reaching MJ, Spears, Hilton status with me. I don’t give a shit what he does on talk shows. I’m not interested in his stepford-babble and I certainly don’t care where he proposed to his latest beard.

If you must keep dragging him into the news everyday, the least you could do is refer to him as, “Tom Cruise, star of Cocktail,” in all mentions.

Thank you in advance.

Shit On by the Boss

2005-06-16T21:24:00.000-04:00

As you know, I toil in a less-than desirable workplace. The large windows near my cubicle are ready to fall out of the decaying plaster frames that attempt to hold them in place. Water seeps into the seams of these windows during rainstorms, making puddles on the stained carpet directly next to my cubicle. I worry about black mold.

This week, a lady in another area on the floor reported rodent droppings on her desk and computer keyboard. Because she complained of respiratory problems, the droppings were resolved in quick fashion.

Which brings me to the subject at hand. This afternoon, a manager with whom I occasionally speak told me a story that had me laughing in tears. Here goes his tale.

Seems this manager had water seeping into his office from the ceiling. Happened for a few days, intermittently at first, and then with increasing frequency. He called the maintenance team, and some jackhole named Clyde finally arrived on the scene with his butt crack exposed and handheld flashlight ready to investigate the dripping substance.

As my manager friend pointed out the problem to Maintenance Man Clyde, another stream of liquid spewed from the ceiling onto said manager’s face. He quickly wiped it away, pointing to the source of the spewage.

Clyde mounted a ladder, pushed away a ceiling tile, and shone his light into the dark abyss. “There’s an outtake pipe that’s leaking here”, said Clyde.

“Okay. What’s that mean?” asked my friend.

“You know, the executive bathroom is directly above your office, and I believe his shit is drippin’ into your office.”

My manager friend told me that Butt-crack Clyde immediately got on his two-way radio to tell his maintenance crew buddies that the CEO’s crapper was leaking shit into some pretty boy’s office, chuckling as he told the story over his walkie-talkie.

My friend said he took three showers that night, paying special attention while scrubbing his face.

Che Guevara of Billboards

2005-06-16T08:43:00.000-04:00

Check this out, this guy takes over roadsigns. Here is his blog The Legend of Mark Michaels.
Calls himself the "Che Guevara of billboards". I wish I had this much time.

Quiet please

2005-06-15T16:51:00.000-04:00

My wife and I went to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith the other day. I see A LOT of movies and I am generally opposed to action films but I was in the mood to shut off my brain for a couple of hours. (A brief sidebar here: If you are going to have a movie with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, why wouldn’t you have them naked for at least 20% of the movie? It would be a welcome distraction from the simplistic dialogue.) So we arrived early, shut off all cell phones and sat quietly in our seats like all good moviegoers should. Minutes before the previews started, something bad happened. I could hear them enter the theater and the noise grew louder. Screams, yelps and growls coupled with talking that was completely unintelligible. Teenagers maybe? No, something doesn’t sound right. And then they appeared. It was a field trip of roughly 11-12 kids and they were all mentally handicapped. (If this is no longer the politically correct term, kindly disregard and insert the new phrase of choice.)
With the help of three chaperones, the gang took their seats close to the front. Shortly after, a diminutive little boy on the end was up and running for the exit. He was corralled and returned to his seat but not without a raucous protest. The girl next to him thought it was funny and began a fit of screaming laughter. And so on. This went on throughout the entire movie. Now, I have no problem shushing people in a movie if they are being ignorant. I want to hear the movie not Joe Sixpack behind me provide a running commentary. I once had to slap a lady on the knee to get her attention to be quiet. Another time I was left with no choice but to grab this guy’s cell phone and hang it up for him (of course I made sure he was much smaller than me before I approached him.) But what could I do in this situation? I could complain to management but any way I worded it, I would come off looking like a jerk. “Look, it’s not that I think mentally challenged people shouldn’t see movies, just not when I am in the theater, you see?”
So I sat back and tried to block it out. Unsuccessfully. The average scene went like this:

Angelina – “We have to get the bombs and guns to kill the bad guys.”

Retarded kid (over Brad Pitt’s response) – “aaiiyyeeee whoop whoop hrrrreeeoeo”

Me – “What the hell did Brad just say? I missed it completely.”

I appreciate the irony of me complaining about simplistic dialogue and then bitching that I can’t hear it but I did pay my money so I wouldn’t have minded hearing what they were saying. It may have improved on the overall movie experience. The result was we sat through the entire movie listening to these kids, whenever the explosions on screen weren’t loud enough to drown them out. All the while I was feeling equally annoyed and ashamed. Annoyed because I was looking forward to going to the movies that day and it was ruined because of a group of loud people. Ashamed because I bet any one of those kids would trade places with the rest of us where the toughest obstacle of the day was dealing with a little noise in a movie theater.

How many idiots does it take to screw in a light bulb?

2005-06-14T12:40:00.000-04:00

It doesn’t matter, we have an infinite supply.

Exhibit A:

A young black man on the Motown label scores numerous commercial hits and along with his brothers, becomes a smashing success. As a young adult, this fellow becomes a solo artist and sells even more records. He breaks records by releasing one of the biggest selling albums of all time.

Somewhere along the line he begins to morph into a white guy using plastic surgery. He eventually has so much surgery that his nose falls off. He then begins sleeping in an O² tent, befriends a chimpanzee and creates a small amusement park and zoo at his estate. Somewhere in this timeline he purchases the bones of the Elephant man, the entire Beatles catalog and becomes a recluse.

He then starts to befriend young boys, starting with actors like the Home Alone kid, Corey Feldman and Emmanuel Lewis. He lavishes gifts on these young boys and has them sleep over at his house. At the time, I believe that said fellow was in his thirties. No one thinks this is strange.

The sleepovers turned out to be interesting, as the small boys shared a bed with this adult. Once a little boy began to reach puberty, our protagonist gives them the heave-ho and replaces them with younger small boys to share his bed. Again, no one thinks anything of all this. I guess to most people, this all seems fucking normal.

Eventually, the parents of the small boys begin to get nervous, but the cash is good so they keep their mouths shut. However, when a couple of kids get the puberty hook, the parents begin to get pissed off. Suddenly, they have the insight to see the truth. With the cash and gifts no longer flowing they begin to get angry and they start thinking, perhaps my boy was being diddled while I was down on Rodeo Drive shopping and tossing back white wine spritzers. A short time later, accusations start to arise. Then threats. Then payoffs. Meanwhile, the supply of young boys continues to flow. His nose is now held onto his face with surgical tape and a medical version of silly-putty.

Some folks start to come out of the woodwork once the smell of a payoff is in the air. Hints about inappropriate behavior between the adult and the little boys begin to surface along with some pretty wacky tales of weirdness, and eventually kidnapping. Or hostage taking. Whatever.

Meanwhile, most of America and the world continue to idolize our protagonist. He is simply beyond reproach. Why? Because most people are complete and total morons. He’s a star, he’s rich, he dances like a wee fairy…ad nauseum. Even after said man marries a series of beards and dangles a baby from a hotel window, the crowds continue to cheer.

Eventually, charges are brought against this man. Plenty of witnesses come forth and it looks like maybe he was juicing up the kids with cabernet. One day a warrant is served and the cops find a wide assortment of p0rn in the guy’s bathroom and some very strange alarm system rigged to his bedroom. And Vaseline pretty much everywhere. Apparently, this very rich man knows nothing about water-based lubricants, but that’s beyond the scope of this piece.

Eventually a trial is held. Since good lawyers make a lot of money with private firms, the lousy ones who can’t get a job have to work for the state. A couple of these folks began the prosecution of our protagonist. I might add that if the prosecutors of the OJ case couldn’t get a conviction with a bag of DNA evidence, there was no way these lawyers could convict this freak. The trial was a grand affair with three rings just like under the Big-Top. The con artist witness/victim, the celebrities and the inept prosecution.

And of course, the jury.

We couldn’t really expect the Home Alone kid to admit he was involved in some wacky mutual masturbation scene with a freak—it’s just too embarrassing. No celebrity would come out on that one. The victim’s family had zero credibility, evidence was disallowed and fans of the freak were camped out at the courthouse. Our hero kept making trips to the emergency room and couldn’t seem to make it to court every day. In the end the whole lot of them turned out to be daft: witnesses, mothers, the prosecution and the jury. Did I mention the artist’s rendering of the weirdo’s pecker? Because I’d hate to leave that out. Anyway, when the smoke cleared the protagonist walked away free. Not even convicted on the alcohol charge.

I have no doubt that the State’s case was a poor one. I have no doubts that the victim’s family was just not that credible. I have no doubts that the jury was drawn from a pool of halfwits. But I find it hard to believe that anyone thinks this guy is innocent. And when the verdict was announced hundreds cheered in the streets. And those people vote. They shop in grocery stores. They drive cars, right along side you and I. Those people work in your building and live next door.

There truly is no hope.

Will Tom Cruise will be the end of Scientology?

2005-06-14T08:24:00.000-04:00

Given the fact that all Cruise can do lately is bellow the merits of Scientology, I can’t help but think he’s waking the common man up to the fact that he’s a gullible idiot. Not a day goes by where I don’t read a story about him and Scientology. Yesterday it was announced that his beard of a girlfriend was converting.

Here’s a cult masquerading as a religion, invented by a nutcase of a science fiction writer. Do you know the story of Scientology? It has to do with aliens from far away galaxies planting H-bombs in the volcanoes of earth 75,000,000 ago. You may think I’m making this up, but I’m not.

Most Scientologists, however, don’t know that. You see, they have to pay between $300,000-$500,000 and go through an arduous process of brainwashing before that secret is revealed. If they hear it too soon it could be dangerous for them. But I’m going to do you a big favor. I happen to have a link to the special secret science fiction religion’s biggest secret. Here’s the real story of the universe.

And if that’s not enough, you can peruse these pages until your hearts content and take satisfaction in knowing that you’re smarter than some really rich people. Brainwashing, nutcases galore and 600 FBI files await you.

Scientology. It’s beyond fucked up.

My lucky shirt

2005-06-13T10:42:00.000-04:00

I’ve always had a problem with my clothes disappearing. It started back in high school. One day I noticed that my “Friday night shirt” had gone missing. I loved that shirt. I looked fucking great in that shirt. That shirt was my whole life in the 12^th grade. And then one day it was gone. I didn’t notice until about 7:00 on a Friday evening when I was getting dressed to go out and I was frantic. I ran through the house looking for my mother.

“Where’s my shirt?”

“What shirt?” she asked.

“My shirt! My Friday night shirt!”

“What shirt are you talking about, dear?”

“The shirt I wear every Friday night. The one you always said was hard to iron.”

“Oh, that old thing? It was threadbare.”

I was heartbroken. Being obsessive-compulsive, that shirt was important to me. Here I was on my way to a beach party without my lucky shirt. As far as I was concerned it was that shirt that allowed me to get my hands on the exceptionally fine bosoms of Deborah Seewell. I firmly believed that that shirt was the reason I had made out with Linda Strohmeyer two weeks earlier. That shirt was the catalyst that sent her hand down the front of my pants as I was pawing at her in her father’s Buick on a previous encounter. That shirt was somehow aligned to my destiny in the universe. I was devastated and depressed.

That shirt was eventually replaced by another soon after the incident. I no longer remember the shirt or the incident that deemed it worthy, but I’m sure I was wearing it when some minor sexual incident took place. Anyway, over the years I developed an affinity for some articles of clothing that had more to do with superstition than with good fashion sense. Somewhere along the line I gave up on lucky shirts. Now, when I reflect back to those days I think that some of those shirts may have actually been unlucky.

Linda Strohmeyer gave an almost painful handjob. It was like she was trying to pull a carrot out of the ground. The fine bosoms of Ms. Sewell sparked a fight between and friend and myself and many of the other incidents resulted in bad blood, accusation of cheating or some other type of misery.

Of course, the shirts may have just been shirts. Cotton or silk garments that had no magic powers or special alignment with the universe.

But I can’t bring myself to believe that.

Apropos of nothing, remember hickeys?

Are they serious?

2005-06-10T11:32:00.000-04:00

The name has been changed to protect the misguided but this is part of an actual email I received from a well known internet travel service.

“Dear Binx,

Over the past 18 months Travelopolis has been thinking of one thing--you. (How thoughtful) We've focused all of our energy on developing industry-leading customer championship and answering the question: what does it mean to be there for our customers in every possible way, at every stage of travel?

Today I'm proud to announce our answer to that question and the result of all of our hard work: the new Travelopolis Guarantee.
The Travelopolis Guarantee assures that everything about your booking will be right, or we'll work with our partners to make it right, right away.

We've invested millions of dollars in our business to make this promise of our customer championship true.”

Um……… They spent millions of dollars and came up with “we will now do our job better and if we screw up will try hard to fix our screw up”?! Brilliant. The alternative to this million dollar think-tank strategy could have been to ask a seven year old.

Sling Blade

2005-06-08T10:53:00.000-04:00

Two weeks ago I had surgery on my right shoulder. For the next six weeks, I am confined to a sling. Today, person number 54 quipped “what..did your wife beat you up?” It astonishing how uniformly uncreative people can be. Here I am walking around looking like half a T-rex and that is the best the masses can come up with?! Come on people. Let’s use some grey matter. Expend a little energy.
Lame jokes aside, having never been without the use of an arm before, I am quickly appreciating the fact that our second arm is certainly not superfluous. Of course there are the obvious bathroom and self pleasure concerns. But it goes well beyond that. Simple things become challenging. For example, trying to eat the last few bites of cereal in the morning. The final few flakes avoid my spoon like Kirstie Alley avoiding health food. Round and round we go as I skim and the flakes escape, creating a dairy whirlpool in the bowl. I suppose I could just dump the breakfast dregs but when I finally capture the bran, I feel triumphant and it motivates me to carry on. Oh, the hardships! When I tied my shoes for the first time (after surgery), I wept openly.
Another challenge has been combing the right side of my head. Forget tricky, it is downright dangerous. For some reason, my depth perception gets thrown all out of whack while reaching across my head which has resulted in frequent eye poking and ear gauging. I am lobbying to have baseball caps incorporated as acceptable business attire. Speaking of attire, putting on pants is no picnic either. I look like an idiot practicing the latest Wiggles dance. Step in, pull left side, protrude knee to hold in place, pull right side, shimmy shimmy shimmy, zip up a little, shimmy some more and hope you can manage the button. Lobby number 2 for business attire…. kilts.
Well, I am off to physical therapy now in hopes of one day rejoining the ranks of a double armed society. Take a moment today to appreciate all the little things that take two hands. Turn some socks inside out, blow your nose and play a game of patty cake.

More on Poop or Moron Poop?

2005-06-07T21:21:00.000-04:00

Since Wolf has us on the poop topic, check this out.

According to this report, if you drink a lot of Grape soda or Kool Aid your shit will turn green. Now my wife can't say I don't make plans for the weekend.

Freaks, Tutus and Halitosis

2005-06-07T09:44:00.000-04:00

This weekend I attended the dance recital of my five year old. Let me say upfront that I’m all about my kid, so I don’t mind this kind of thing. But I wasn’t prepared for this. It was three hours long, and we had to have the kid there an hour early.

While my wife took the kid backstage I found our seats and sat there like a mook with no one to talk to for twenty minutes. That’s when I started to smell shit. There was an old couple behind me and I pegged them as the shitters right away. The weird part was that the smell was coming and going, it wasn’t a constant reek. It was terribly unsettling.

Finally my wife came out and sat down.

“Okay,” she said. “She’s going to be in the third number.”

“Good, then we can get the hell out of here.”

“We can’t go anywhere! She’s in the grand finale too.”

“You mean to tell me that she comes out for two minutes and then we sit here like idiots for another three hours to see her again?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll never make it. Do you smell shit?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you smell shit; yes or no?”

“No, I don’t smell shit. Why?”

“Because I smell shit.”

Suddenly the lights went down and the music started. When the curtain went up there was a line of little girls maybe three years old. None of them knew what to do. A couple of them started dancing and a few others followed. One just stood there crying. I have to say it was cute. The crowd was laughing sympathetically and I began to relax. That’s when I smelled the shit again.

I whispered to my wife, “Do you smell shit now?”

“No! Will you stop with the shit thing, please.”

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it because it was nauseating me. I couldn’t possibly sit there for three hours with that smell. I was literally breathing through my hand.

Finally my kid was on and she was great. She’s a ham, just like her daddy. The instant the music stopped I got up from my seat and ran out of the auditorium. I ran straight through the lobby and out into the fresh air. I had just sat down on a bench when a shadow fell over me.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m getting some air. I can’t believe you don’t smell shit in there.”

“Again with the shit? Look, I can sit with Debbie’s mom for a while. Why don’t you stay out here and come back in at intermission.”

It sounded good to me. I actually drove around for a while, put gas in the car and got myself a Mountain Dew. When I got back to the gig it was intermission and there was a big crowd out front. I milled around looking for my wife but she was nowhere in sight. I was beginning to think how surreal the whole scene was when I was interrupted.

“You like boats?”

I looked up and there was a guy fast approaching my personal space. He was wearing a thin gauze shirt. His nipples were showing.

“Boats! You like boats?”

I didn’t know what to do. Why was this idiot addressing me? I couldn’t think of anything to say so I just nodded. His cell phone rang and when he answered it I moved on quickly. It was a disturbing scene. There were a lot of grandparents there and old people in general can look pretty fucked up. Most people don’t realize that even when an adult’s bones stop growing, the ears and nose do continue to grow. That’s a medical fact. The end result is obvious—a lot of old people look like caricatures. Apparently, they also go colorblind, because most of them look like they’re wearing 1930s golf outfits. A lot of colorful pants. Plaids and outrageous patterns like gaudy Scottish tartans. Add varying degrees of hunch and thick glasses and you get a picture of what I was surrounded by. At least three of them were riding those electric motorcycles.

I was brought out of my trance when my wife found me. It was time to go back inside. We sat down as the rest of the freaks poured back into the auditorium. The woman sitting behind my wife tapped her on the shoulder and told her she had dropped her purse on the floor. And there it was. The horrible shit stench came from the woman’s mouth. It was her fucking breath. Suddenly, my wife understood why I was going on about the smell of shit. She grabbed my hand and we found some new seats. It was arguably one of the worst nights of my life.

Belly Shirt License

2005-06-04T18:10:00.000-04:00

2 out of 10 girls belong in a Belly Shirt. I can't understand for the life of me why pudgy bitches wear Belly Shirts? Don’t they know that they look like a tin of Grands, after you bang it on the edge of the counter and it pops open?

Maybe they are trying to show they don't give a shit. I feel like saying to these slobs, "Hey, please put on some Mexican peasant Blouses or something that hides your flubber a bit.

The amount of skin shown is usually inversely proportional to the desire by others to see it. Do I ever get to see any of the hotties from my Gym struttin’around in a belly shirt, NO! I get to see the messy female that downs 6 Mudslides on Friday & Saturday that hasn’t seen the inside of a gym in 10 years.

We need a Belly Shirt License!

Toxic Mold at Work

2005-06-04T08:40:00.000-04:00

As a follow-up to I Hate My Cubicle, a horrifying discovery was made yesterday in my workplace, adjacent to my cubicle. I wrote the following note to the secretary who is responsible for the area in which I toil; I think it paints a pretty bleak picture.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Hi Susan. I believe that Lisa Demarco asked you to initiate a work order to repair the drywall/plaster surrounding the windows by us because water was literally pouring in on Wednesday during the heavy rainstorm.

Well, it appears even worse now. Plaster has fallen/peeled off, and it looks like there's a good amount of mold that's been growing inside the damp walls for a while. I mention this to see if you can expedite the work order to get this cleaned up and repaired.

I'd hate to think this is toxic mold, but it may be. If it is, I'm not sure if OSHA or some other agency needs to get involved. Several people in the area, including myself, are complaining of head/nasal stuffiness and other maladies that may or may not be related to the exposed mold spores.

Thank you,

R. Jones

American I-dull

2005-06-03T16:59:00.000-04:00

I am not a fan of reality shows. I think they are all pretty much pointless (with the exception of Real World/Road Rules Inferno 2 which kicks ass. Tell me you aren’t hoping that Dan goes down in flames this week!). But what do I care if some jerk named Rob from Boston wins a million dollars by eating goat semen faster than Sue, the elderly yet plucky police officer from the Midwest?! I’m fairly confident I will not see any of the cash, no matter how hard I rooted for him. The other night, the Daily Show had on that Bobo or Bilbo guy from American Idol. I listened to Jon Stewart interview him and quickly surmised that this guy is kind of a doofus. Apparently he has a decent voice. Fine. But he wasn’t funny, charming, entertaining, intelligent, quirky, etc. This would be someone I would want to avoid at a party out of fear I may get sucked into a conversation with him. Yet so many have wasted countless precious hours of their lives watching this guy sing and Simon applaud. I try and dissuade people at work from becoming reality junkies. Do something productive. Read a book. Take up a hobby. Visit friends and family. Build something. Fix something. Learn sign language. Create your own chili recipe. Anything.
It doesn’t take much effort. For example, the other night, using only thumb and index finger, I pulled an absurdly long hair from my left nostril. It was freakishly lengthy. If this nasal anomaly had a partner, they would have been braid worthy. I kept it, showed some people which inevitably sparked some conversation and in the end created a memory for me. And what is life but a collection of memories. (Sorry, I went a little Hallmark there.) The point is, to me this was a more productive evening, than sitting through prime time watching Bing-Bong belt out another Leonard Skynard cover. However, since every news outlet feels the need to report on these shows, I fear I am in the minority.

Nobody reads blogs on a Friday

2005-06-03T09:51:00.000-04:00

If there’s one thing I hate about blogs it’s those damned memes. I have noticed, however, that when you’ve got absolutely nothing else to post they’ll do in a pinch. And they play to the ego.
This one’s from Jim at Snooze Button Dreams.

1. Total Number of Books I’ve Owned:

Holy shit, that’s tough. Easily upwards of a thousand. Maybe more than two thousand. I can’t live without my books. I had to move to a bigger house because of my books.

2. Last Book I Bought:

Massacre at Fort William Henry by David R. Starbuck.

3. Last Book I Read:

Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. I dismissed it three quarters of the way through. It’s a series of essays, not unlike blog entries, except they drag on long after you’ve lost interest. First of all, they say you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, but that’s not entirely true. Once I saw the picture of the Über-geek on the back of the book it was ruined for me. I know it’s wrong, but at least I’m honest. Then I started reading I realized I could have done a better job with it. One whole chapter revolves around the authors thoughts on the TV show Saved by the Bell. I don’t know how he got the damned thing published. I will say that there is one very, very funny part when the author writes about Christmas in other countries, specifically in the Netherlands, where they believe Santa Claus is the former Bishop of Turkey who comes to children’s homes and either leaves candy in their shoes, puts them in a sack and takes them to Spain or pretends to kick them.

4. Five Books That Mean a Lot to Me:

The Last of the Mohicans by James Fennimore Cooper. I read this as a child and fell in love with it. Regardless of the criticisms this book has drawn over the years it remains (for me) as the first great American novel. The most famous of The Leatherstocking Tales, this book has been transformed into some very shitty movies, including that abortion by Michael Mann that I refer to as “Adirondack Vice” starring Daniel Day Lewis. The only thing that that movie has in common with the book is the title. It’s a completely different story.

The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas. This and it’s sequels are without a doubt the best adventure novels ever written. The language is spectacular and they’re all extremely funny.

Post Office by Charles Bukowski. The book that changed my life. Outrageously funny and devoid of all pretension to literature, this book showed me that writing can be very direct and straightforward…and that there were no rules.

Roots by Alex Haley. An odd choice perhaps, but this book inspired me to take up genealogy.

Chiefs by Stuart Woods. I love books that span decades in a small town.

5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blog.

Like Jim, I cannot bring myself to pass on a chain letter. Do it or don’t.

I Hate My Cubicle

2005-06-02T19:36:00.000-04:00

I spend a good portion of each day working in a cubicle not much larger than an airline pet carrier. Last week my boss asked the team to put together a list of things that we’re unhappy about our work environment.

The following items were my contribution to the list.

1. People with chronic bronchial, sinus, and nasal drainage problems should excuse themselves to the bathroom to perform their disruptive coughing, snorting, snuffling, and head-sucking noises.
2. Inconsiderate co-workers who use the speakerphone instead of simply picking up the handset are disruptive, self-centered and obnoxious.
3. Too many humans packed into too small of a space. This is actually a microcosm of the city in which we live, with people living too close to each other, resulting in road rage, neighbor-on-neighbor violence, angst and ill-will toward our fellow man.
4. Constant food acquisition and eating it in the cramped and tiny cubicle confines that we exist in. The odor of these foods (greasy breakfasts, leftover oxtail stew, canned anchovies packed in heavy olive oil, burnt popcorn, etc.) permeates the airspace and is borderline nauseating. People should eat in the break room or the cafeteria.
5. Butt holes turning on their computer speaker and letting silly little sound effects chime, beep, whistle, toot-toot, and chirp all day long.
6. Although not immediately disturbing, the black soot that spews out of the air conditioning vents and settles in visible layers on desktops, bookshelves, and cubicle dividers is probably not very healthy for humans.
7. Inconsiderate people leaving their cell phones on audible ring mode. The ridiculous ring tones (for example, the Sanford & Son theme song) are distracting and irritating, especially when some individuals’ cell phones ring ten to twelve times per day.
8. Self-absorbed people talking loudly "over the wall" to co-workers on another aisle is extremely rude and disruptive. Either get up and walk to the other person's cubicle, send an email, or pick up the phone.

I just about shit myself

2005-06-02T15:28:00.000-04:00

This is hysterically funny.

Scopes confirms that it's true.

Corn Festival

2005-06-01T19:08:00.000-04:00

I went to the Zellwood Corn Festival. Zellwood is a hick town about 20 miles from downtown Orlando, FL. They used to flood the shores of Lake Apopka, a once pristine fishing lake to grow corn. Well it seems the dumb rednecks backflushed the lake with fertilizer for years and killed the lake. Now they can't grow enough Corn to supply even their Festival, and the lake looks like a giant Pea Soup from the air.

Okay, so we decide to go to this thing and I know its going to be loaded with rednecks, but nothing prepared me for this. Its like they unloaded every trailer park within 100 miles and brought them there. First of all belly shirts and the women that were loaded into them. Don't they look in the mirror and realize that they look like a blivit (10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag? For Christ sakes, tell your old lady she might want to change before leaving the doublewide. There were t-shits and tatoos of the Confederate flag all over the place.
The shitty country band, Aaron Somebody was Damm proud to be an American!! I ate my food, and got the hell out of there. I wanted to head North on 95 back to NJ.

Fly the Friendly Skies

2005-06-01T13:28:00.000-04:00

I don't fly first class. I can't afford it. So on an airplane, I am stuck in Slumville with the majority of the passengers. Now, I am no Yoa Ming but even being of average height, the precious few feet of personal space I am allotted is important to me. Inevitably, the person in front of me decides that by reclining their seat the maximum 4 inches, they will enter a world of comfort. Since I find this act extremely rude, I will not do it to the person behind me. So there I sit, nose to back of seat, from take off to landing. Lately I have incorporated several techniques which I hope serve as subtle hints to the person in front of me. 1) If I am reading a book, every time I turn the page I make it a point to bump the book (preferably a hard cover) against the seat. Unfortunately, I am a slow reader so the bumps tend to be infrequent. 2) If flying on Jet Blue or Song, they have little touch screenTV's on the back of each chair. By firmly poking the screen, you can change channels at the speed of an ADD teenager thus creating a modern rapid Chinese water torture effect for the perpetrator. 3) And finally, I have resorted to picking my favorite Rush song, Tom Sawyer works fine, and pretending I am Neil Peart live at the Meadowlands, lightly drumming as I hum along to the words. People are generally too passive to turn around or too ignorant to say something but at least I feel a little better knowing I am probably annoying them as much as they are annoying me.

Attack of the Agave Cactus

2005-05-31T13:03:00.000-04:00

As a general rule, I don’t drink tequila. It has a tendency to affect me more like a hallucinogen than a simple alcoholic beverage. Yesterday I bent the rule a bit when I was offered a margarita whilst floating in the pool.

Yesterday’s heat could only be described as equatorial and even in the pool I was sweating. The drink went down easy. Too easy. Before I knew it someone was standing at the edge of the pool with carafe in hand and I succumbed to another. It soon reached the point where I was demanding more and more margaritas. When I was told there was no more Patron Silver left on the premises I organized a detachment of volunteers and sent them out for more.

Long story short, five hours later I was completely trashed and horribly sunburned. I slept for several hours and when I woke up I didn’t know if it was day or night or which day of the week it was. I haven’t had an incident like that in ten years and I don’t ever want another one. They should really put a warning label on that shit.

'Wonderwall' Tops Best British Song Poll

2005-05-31T09:34:00.000-04:00

I dont understand those Brits, Oasis was ok, but not even in the top 10. And who the hell is Robbie Williams????

Best British Songs, as voted by Virgin Radio listeners:

1. Oasis - Wonderwall
2. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
3. Led Zeppelin - Stairway to Heaven
4. The Beatles - Let It Be
5. John Lennon - Imagine
6. The Police - Every Breath You Take
7. The Jam - Going Underground
8. Verve - Bittersweet Symphony
9. Robbie Williams' - Angels
10. The Stranglers - Golden Brown

Flags and Trash

2005-05-30T11:44:00.000-04:00

I didn't intend for my first post to be of this nature, but I'm compelled to share my morning rage with you.

Today is a national holiday here in the United States, a day in which we remember those who have died while serving in our military. Why am I the only one on my entire street who flies the American flag on a day like today? It's not the fact that I'm the only one on my street flying Old Glory that bothers me so much, but what really irritates me is the following.

What idiot doesn't know that the garbage men won't be coming today? It's a bitter slap in the face to not only see a lack of flags flying proudly from homes, but to then see these butt nuts' trash containers out at the curb, letting everyone know, without a doubt, that they have no clue that today is a National holiday.