Susie is keen to know 5 weird things about me. Weird? Me? Just how am I supposed to narrow this down to five?! Okay, here goes...
1. I clean the toilet seat before I park my keister on it. Every time. No matter where I am, even my own bathroom that (ostensibly) nobody but me uses. This started as self defense. I live with three boys who have questionable aim and are all vertically challenged. Safety first.
2. When I stir coffee I move my hand instead of my fingers so the spoon stays perfectly vertical.
3. I drink milk with every meal. Okay, not every meal - occassionally it isn't available. But, if it is available, I'm drinking it. Others will complement their prime rib with a fine wine and their wings with a beer. Not me. For me it's milk at every meal.
4. I devour books. I take a book like a Viking raider. Broken spines, folded pages, split sections, cracked bindings...when I'm done with a book it looks like it has aged a decade. This is the main reason I love having my own books. I can't properly read a book that belongs to somebody else because I have to treat it like some virgin wallflower. Feh.
5. ??? You tell me. Points awarded for my best weird habits reported here in the comments. One each for actual ones I've reported to y'all over the years, bonus points for the best previously unknown* weirdities.
* i.e. real ones I never released here or ones that are simply made up.
Blue Velvet: On a scale from 1 to 10, this movie ranks as "Some seriously fucked up shit".
Welcome Christmas
While we stand
Heart to heart
And hand in hand
This year's naughty level is about 40%.
I don't like going to the doctor. It irked me when I was a kid, and it hasn't gotten any irkless since then. The horribly stupid, ironic thing is that I work in a hospital. What an idiot.
I went to the eye doctor today. I say eye doctor because I'm not sure if it was an opthamologist or an optometrist. He was, though, a bit of a prick; and because of that, I now have a combative relationship with someone who I'm supposed to trust my health with.
I walk into the office and fill out all the requisite paperwork for first-time patients. I turn it in and they call me back to the room. I sit in one of those big scary fucking chairs. It's got a lamp, a series of painful-looking implements, and something that looks to me like a face harness. I have no idea what it's for, but I hope they don't use it on me.
The medical assistant asks me a series of questions. No, I'm not suffering any symptoms, just want to get a prescription. I have no idea if I'm allergic to medicines, I don't take any. I have no idea if anyone in my family has glaucoma, because I never pay attention to anything they say. Diabetes? You can get diabetes in your eyes?
Then she says "I'm going to give you the glaucoma test." Great, sounds like fun; where do I stick my dick? "But don't worry, it's not the puff of air anymore. Let me give you these numbing eyedrops." I hate eyedrops. When something gets in my eyes, it's painful and it makes this throbbing noise in my head. However, it's got to be better than getting air shot into my eyeball; and it's sure as shit got to be better than having glaucoma.
I let her give me the drops, after which I cringe and snicker a little bit. "Did they sting?" No. Bitch you just put some shit in my eyes, what do you expect me to do, ask for seconds? But she was right, it wasn't as bad as the puff of air. Of course, unbeknownst to me she hadn't finished the damn test yet.
See, the reason she gave me the numbing eyedrops was so she could poke me in the eyeball with a stick. Yes, in these modern times, we've graduated from simply puffing air at peoples eyes to poking them with a fucking stick. She does so repeatedly until the stick beeps, then does the same with the other eye. I continue to snort and snicker a little.
"Everything okay?" Jesus woman, it's 8:30 in the AM and you've already put shit in my eyes, and poked them with some strange beeping implement. When do we get to try out the fucking face harness? Course, I never say a word to her, she's just doing her job. Her sadistic fucking craphole of a job.
After all this wonderful stuff, she asks me if I want to get dialated. I wasn't sure which opening in my body she was going to dialate, but I assume it was my eyes. No matter what, it doesn't really sound like fun, and I can only imagine what tool she'll pull from her medieval arsenal. "Nah, just need a prescription."
"Are you sure? We usually recommend our patients do it once a year."
I'm sure you do, you crazy, torturous madwoman. "No. It's really okay, I'm just here to get a new prescription for my glasses."
"Alright, the doctor will be in too see you soon."
I wait for an eternity. It must've been a good twenty minutes, during which I rode the chair all the way to the top (it had buttons on it) and back down several times, played around with a few magnifying glasses, and actually took a few hits off the eye drop bottles - nasal spray style. What a rush.
The doctor comes in and starts giving me shit about not wanting to get my pupils dialated. I don't argue with him, because doctors scare the shit out of me. As long as he's not lubing up his finger, I'll do whatever he asks. So, he tilts my head back and commences with a series of three drops in each eye. About halfway through the first eye, he can tell I hate eye drops. Which, it doesn't seem to matter to him - he just grabs my eyelid with his thumb and holds my head back. Yay.
Eventually I wrestle free of Dr. Fuckface's grip, and dab my profusely tearing eyes with a napkin. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes." Fuck you buddy. He flips the lights off and leaves the room before I have a chance to kick him in the balls.
Another eternity passes. But I'm not sure how long it lasted because I couldn't see anything. I started to get hungry too. I hadn't planned on this whole ordeal taking more than a half hour, and I'd already been here just over an hour. Or so I thought. It was like being in a French prison - no light, can't see, hungry as hell, never knowing when the next torture session would start. I consider phoning someone to come get me, but everyone went to the airport to pick up my brother. Solitary confinement.
The doc comes back a while later. At this point I can see, but if anything gets too close, it starts to get blurry. Unfortunately for that doc (who I'm certain must have been a prison gaurd in his former years), I've got great reach. The doctor grabs a flashlight and a magniying glass and begins running me through ocular calisthenics. "Look straight up. Look up and to the right, look right, look down and to the right..." All the while shining this fucking light into my dialated pupil. I'm tearing up again, my eyes are blinking like crazy, and I can hear the blood throbbing. Then he goes for the face harness.
"Place your chin here, and look straight ahead." I do so, he clamps the fucker down on my face, and begins again with the "Look up, etc." routine. What a dillhole, I hope his dick is as rotten and black as his soul.
We go through this for about ten minutes, and then he decides we're done. "Your eyes look just fine!" Well, I'm glad we figured that out. I mean, not like I couldn't have told you that twenty minutes ago; you remember that? Back when I could see straight? Yeah, those were the good ol' days.
"So can I get my prescription now?"
The caption contest is complete!
Grand Prize: 5 points
Fluffy the Hutt was not at *all* pleased when Han Solo had to dump the load of Triskelian Mice he was smuggling.
Victor
First runner up: 3 points (Selected by the price of tea in China.)
Marlon Brando proving that re-incarnation is not a myth!
Rob
Second runner up: 2 points (Selected by Santa's elves.)
I swear I had balls when I went to sleep last night, what the f#&% did you sick bastards do with them and what the hell am I supposed to lick now?
phin
Third runner up: 1 point (Selected by Cartman.)
I'm not fat. I'm big-boned.
shank
The rules:
- In the extended entry are quotes from 13 movies. Your job is to identify the movie that each quote came from.
- Guess as many times as you want, just don't get silly about it.
- First person to correctly guess each entry gets a point. If there are any left after 24 hours they are worth 2 points.
- As people guess the films I will strike out those entries and note who got it first.
- NO cheating!!! That means NO: Google, IMDb, searching my archives etc.!
BONUS POINTS: There is a person common to all of these movies; somebody who I'm only two degrees of separation away from. Three bonus points to the first person to correctly identify who it is.
Had an email blasted to everybody in the office this morning. It was from our Executive Fembot Assistant:
Good morning,When utilizing the break room appliances (i.e. toaster) please do not put plastic utensils inside of them.
This can cause a potentially hazardous situation and can result in a fire.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Which led directly to this IM conversation:
CoolyCoo MoDee*: It frightens me that you have to actually tell people this.DeathAngel**: Tell me about it! Would you believe his is the 7th time I have had to remove spoons from the toaster?! What is wrong with these people?
CoolyCoo MoDee: Dropped on the head too often as children, no doubt.
DeathAngel: Can we do that now? What does the HR manual say?
CoolyCoo MoDee: I think it's allowed, as long as you don't say anything sexual or religious while you do it.
HeadDropper: Excellent. That's my new nic.
CoolyCoo MoDee: Um...
To cap it all off, when I went to take a leak I found myself faced with a wall plastered with boogers. I work with fucking pigs. Fucking moron pigs.
* What? It's an affectation.
** Name changed (slightly) to protect the guilty.
I hate it when you say "Merry Christmas" to someone and instead of an equally friendly reply; you get a scowl and any number of possible condescending comments:
"Hmph. I don't celebrate Christmas."
"Whatever, it's all been commercialized anyways."
Some people will even frown and say they're Jewish. Which really confuses me, because being Jewish ain't all that bad, so what's with the frown? But I suppose that's a whole 'nother subject.
A few years back, I came up with my own retort to these folks: "Don't be a dick." Look, if someone comes up to you and says "Happy Cinco de Mayo", non-Mexicans don't scowl and say "Whatever. I'm from Wisconsin." No. You say "Hell yeah! Let's go get some Coronas!" Same with Octoberfest. Granted, I've got German lineage, but my friends still don the lederhosen, eat a bunch of brats, down some Hefeweizen, and occasionally wake up next to a member of the '76 Olympic swim team. Why? Because it's just a fun celebration.
And this applies to us all. I mean, if someone came up to me and was like "Happy Kwanzaa" I'd be like "Thanks." I might even say "Let's go sacrifice some goats!" Just kidding, you kwazee Kwanzaa kids. Oh Christ. At any rate, if someone wishes you a "Happy Whatever" and it's not a holiday you celebrate, try not to be a dick. It only makes you look like a dick. And nobody likes dickotry.
There's this lady at work, Stella, who's probably old enough to be my mom. Apparently, she's a font of marriage wisdom. I'm not sure what makes her think she qualifies, but maybe it has to do with the fact that she's going through a divorce, and her current boyfriend has been so fleeced by his ex-wife that he sleeps on the floor of a single wide. I mean, between the two of them they have like...almost three marraige-worths of advice to hand out, right?
Anyways, she's constantly...berating me about the things that I absolutely have to do or my marriage won't last. I'm saying - it's like a barrage. She's waving her hands around and her eyes are giant dinner plates bulging behind her bifolcals. She's speaking loudly, emphasizing every other word, she should've been a televangelist.
She told me a few months ago that nothing else mattered, as long as I got a luxurious suite for the honeymoon. And draped rose petals all over the floor. And got the nicest bottle of champagne. It was just complete idiocy.
This morning she starts telling me the following:
"Shank, listen me. NOTHING else you do will matter so much as asking her if you can help her out."
"..."
"Around Christmas time, women feel all this pressure. We have to make cookies. It's stupid, but we just have to make cookies!"
I start making a weird, tight lipped grimace. It's because I can't decide if I want to scream or double over in laughter. My options are to start fucking with her, or just sit through this latest episode.
"If you just ask her 'Hey, is there anything I can do?" Even if there's nothing you can do, she'll appreciate it so much. Because the cookies andthepresentsandthedinnersandthecardsit'sallsostressful!"
I decide to commence the mind fuck. "Stella, you got to lay off the cookies."
"I can't."
"Besides, I'm not good at anything so I never ask to help. Furthermore, I would hate for her to actually say she needed some help, because God knows I'm not interested in helping her."
"But you should ask anyways." God, she so self-absorbed I can't even get her to bite at the sarcastic bait I'm throwing at her. Instead, she launches into this story about how her daughter, sick with a cold or something, asked Stella if she could help make cookies. Apparently, it made her day. Blah blah blah blah blah.
Look, if the secret(s) to maintaining a happy, lasting marriage could be codified and boiled down into a few little pearls of wisdom - your ass wouldn't be divorced. If it's just that fucking simple. Look, I got some advice for you. How 'bout, when shit needs cooking or cleaning, whoever has the time does it. How 'bout, when shit is piling up around the house, you take care of that shit together, ya know as a couple, instead of enabling your obviously lazy husband to sit on the couch and watch you work yourself into some kind of Yultide panice attack.
I mean, fuck. If you hate feeling stressed about the obligations of your role in your marriage, maybe you should try changing that role, instead of giving people advice that directly promotes such restrictive gender boundaries...bitch.
They would start on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast
Which was something the Grinch couldn't stand in the least!
***Update***
It's come to my attention that some people don't realize this is a picture of the pope.
Jen is closing in on her quarter millionth visit. That's almost as many site hits as donuts on Michael Moore's brunch buffet!
Jen's also giving away a bucket to visitor number quarter millionny. Not just any bucket, mind you. Jen's bucket is full of buckety goodness.
She'll be hitting the magic number today. Who will win the goody bucket? Could it be you?
I’m starting to get a lot of emails about Christmas and nary a one has been positive. Christmas stress can be high level.
Trying to live up to past holidays. The huge expense and time commitments. Facing the holidays alone, losing relatives, owning up to failed relationships…it all adds up.
Most of my Christmases have been very good. Some were fantastic. Two of them were train wrecks beyond comprehension.
Some of you may remember this post.
And when I say ‘some of you’ I am referring to the point whores. The vigilant point whores. Here’s how it is:
Write a caption for the picture. Win fabulous prizes!*
The contest will be open until it closes, probably some time on Friday.
* Best caption gets 5 points with another handful thrown around to the rest of the best.
I've been pretty quiet lately so I figured I'd pipe up and let y'all know what's current.
Monday was our seventh wedding anniversary. I took Lovely Wife to the newly opened Georgia Aquarium. Highlights included skipping the 2 hour wait for security by taking advantage of some severely harried guards, smuggling in contraband and drinking beer with lunch. No, those last two aren't related - they sell beer at the aquarium café. Unfortunately they don't sell fish there. They could make a killing if they sold some fish fry. After looking at fish for a couple of hours I was dying to eat one.
Dinner didn't work out as planned. We were out of the aquarium earlier than we expected so we went Christmas shopping. Our travels ended up putting us quite a distance from our target restaurant when the hunger finally hit. We opted for a shorter journey to a different restaurant that we'd been meaning to try. We hunted for it, finally surrendered and called 411 to find it, arrived and found it closed. Closed as in "out of business" closed. That was a bummer. We ended up at our family favorite restaurant.
I'm currently reading A Feast for Crows, a Christmas present from Helen. Helen continues to kick ass in a seriously hardcore way. Thanks, Helen! :-)
I continue to despise taking a crap at work. My bowels tell me that I'll be doing so a bit later this morning. Feh.
The boys visited the dentist. Bear has an extra set of teeth up top that'll need to be removed. He also had two adult teeth coming in but trapped behind a couple of baby teeth that refused to relinquish occupancy. Tooth extraction was scheduled. Over the weekend I offered him $5 if could remove one (it was wiggly) before the big day. He took the challenge, earned himself $5 and saved us $80. The other tooth turned wiggly too so we cancelled the extraction and will let nature take it's course.
Work continues to be demanding. I'm taking over four projects from a coworker who's a bit overloaded. Oddly enough, two of them are ones she took over from me several months ago when my mega project became too demanding.
After Friday I'm off for 10 days in a row. Ten days in a row? Damn, I haven't seen that since high school. To be specific, ten days off and then having a job at the end of it hasn't been seen. Ten days off due to job loss has happened a couple of times.
Dopple-G and his fiance came over last night bearing gifts. The boys were thrilled with their presents and spent the better part of an hour finding plastic toys and bottle caps to wrap up in order to return the favor.
That's about it for the moment. More later. But probably not today.
My buddy Dave has a mother who was once a nun. He comes up to me in the bar the other night, and we start telling each other jokes. You know, you tell one; then the other says "Nonono, I got one for ya." And so on until Dave says, "Okay skippy. I got one for ya. How do you get a nun pregnant?"
I look at Dave. "I honestly don't know dude."
Just once I’d love to hear the chairman say, “And tonight’s secret ingredient is…salt!”
Remember this SnoozePoints™ post from back in June? It's the one where y'all told me what presents you'd like if I won the lottery. I've kept it open pending my buying an actual lottery ticket. I've come to the conclusion that if I haven't purchased a lottery ticket in five and a half months it is pretty unlikely that I'll buy one in the next two weeks. Therefore I say screw the lottery and award the points!
There are seven winners in this contest: two each in three categories (3 points for winner, 1 for the also ran runner up) and the overall best (6 points). Without further ado, here they are:
Category: Real Presents
Winner, RP with a puppy.
Runner up, Rachel Ann with books. Lots of books.
Category: Humorous Gifts
Winner, Phin with porn sheep, evil clown and casual wear.
Runner up, Jeff with a baby buffalo for companionship and sustenance.
Category: Alcohol Related
Winner, Margi with tickets to Atlanta and beer.
Runner up, Simon with beer company stock.
The overall, number one winner
This was a runaway (bouncing) victory. Tiffani, with a boob job.
Congratulations all! With the SnoozePoints™ season coming to a close we've got quite a bit of movement on the back stretch. I'm considering accepting bribes.
The scene: Post dinner, pre-bedtime. Some time during the day the boys had caught an episode of Dora the Explorer
Bear: Daddy! Listen to this! Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco. That's how to count to five in Spanish.Me: Wow. Pretty good, Bear. Can you go higher?
Bear: Yeah, but I forgot. Can you go higher?
Me: I think so... Six, siete, ocho, nueve, diez. I'm much better in French.
Bear: Cool! Tell me in French!
Me: Un, dous, trois, quatre, senq, six, septe, huit, neuf, dix.
Bear: Wow. Can you speak in any other languages?
Me: Just cuss words mostly, but I'm fluent in Canadian*.
Bear: Can you teach me how to speak Canadian?
Me: No problem. Just say whatever you want in English but pronounce it like a question and add an "eh" at the end. Like this: It's getting close to bed time, eh?
Bear: Can I watch TV in bed, eh?
Me: Not quite. They don't use questions since every sentence is a question anyway. Rephrase that question as a statement but state it like a question.
Bear: I'll watch some TV in bed, eh?
Me: Much better! And the answer is no.
Bear: That really sucks, eh?
Me: You're a natural! Now take off hoser, eh?
* I joke about Canada because it's...Canada. Serious though, I love Canada. It's one of my favorite states.
Last night I found this true story about the worst Christmas party I ever attended. In the end I triumphed. Sort of. It was dated December 2003 and I’ve no idea if I ever posted it or not. Reflecting back on those days, a case could certainly be made that I was an asshole.
”White House Hosts American Proctology Association”
But you’ll never beat mine.
With all the brouhaha about Christmas displays this year, here is a change in pace:
Murderous Santa display outside Manhattan mansion draws stares
Jason, Michael, and Freddy meet Santa, anyone?
California is looking to take the cigarette tax crown from Rhode Island. Rhode Island, at $2.46, currently has the highest per pack tax in the nation. A ballot measure in the land of nuts and money would raise California's per pack tax to $3.47.
Funds raised would be earmarked for health initiatives:
"It distributes the funds in a well-thought-out and comprehensive array of health programs that will make a frontal assault on the major diseases and causes of death in California, maintain and expand access to health care, and improve the health of all Californians," said Jim Knox, vice president of the American Cancer Society, one of the measure's sponsors.
Well hot damn, what a great idea. Cigarettes are bad for you, right? So the gub'mint puts an onerous tax on them and applies these gains to addressing health problems. As a side benefit they drive down the sales of the offending product and hopefully, in time, drive the offending companies out of business. Sweet.
Early yesterday evening I realized I was completely out of scotch. My wife was out Christmas shopping so I called her to ask if she would be kind enough to make a stop on the way home. She didn’t answer her cell phone. Since I was already undressed I was dreading the thought of having to go out and procure my own liquor.
At 6:30 PM she walked through the door, arms full of purchases. And I mean loaded down with bags full of stuff. I had two important questions to ask:
1. Will you please go buy me some scotch?
2. What the hell are you using for money?
I didn’t want to know the answer to number two so I asked about the scotch.
“I’ve just completed the Christmas shopping. It’s done. Finished. Without you going anywhere, do anything or even offering suggestions. Tonight completes a week long endeavor and I’m not going back out. Go get the rest of the shit from the car.”
I couldn’t really argue. I contributed nothing this year except the cash and I expect that ran out earlier in the week.
Then she added, “I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
She pointed at me. “If you go to the liquor store dressed like that, I’ll do anything you want.”
I looked down at myself. I was wearing Snoopy pajama bottoms. Goofy looking, sky blue, ankle length pajama bottoms. Snoopy was printed all over them, wearing a nightcap and carrying a candle. I hate peanuts and I hate Snoopy…the origin of the things are another story.
To compliment the bottoms, I was wearing a wife beater and a pair of sad old slippers. I’m a pretty big guy (not fat) and I looked like a real asshole.
“What do you mean you’ll do anything I want?”
“Whatever weird, perverted, sexual thing that you’ve ever wanted but were afraid to ask for, I’ll do it. All you need to do is go to the liquor store dressed like that. Exactly like that. You can’t take the slippers off.”
I walked into the bedroom and put on some jeans. There was no way I was going out looking like that. Not to the liquor store I go to. I guess that makes me a wimp. That’s what I felt like. But you know, I really couldn’t think of anything that perverted we hadn’t already done. In hindsight, what I should have done was asked her to throw something out there on the table. I can't believe I let that get by me. Christ, I’m slipping.
At work, we have an administrative resident. It's basically a position for folks who've just completed gradschool; they work closely with senior leadership on various projects. Similar to an internship, but it lasts for a year and it pays.
So anyways, the resident and I work close, and she kind of identifies with me since we're the same age and all that. She asks me for advice sometimes, since I'm a little more familiar with the unspoken mores of the organization. Today, she came to me complaining about this specific AA who's notorious for trying to throw people under the bus. She's always handing off challenging work to others, playing stupid, and yet somehow manages to enjoy decent job security. I hate this bitch, because she's tried to dump on me several times right in front of her direct report, one of the VP's.
So the resident's like "You're never gonna believe what happened today."
"Shoot."
"The bus driver is making me take minutes at the senior leadership meeting."
"She's not the bus driver, she's the person throwing you in front of the bus. And she shouldn't be making you do a goddamn thing, since she's not superior to you."
"Whatever. She said 'The residents used to do this, but I've been doing it for the past few years. I don't know why, but I'm giving it to you.'"
"Horseshit. The reason the residents quit doing it was probably because it was a waste of their fucking time as future CEO's and shit to take minutes."
"I know."
"So what the fuck does that bitch do for a living now? Answer the phone for 40k/year and full benefits?"
"I know."
"So did you tell her to fuck off?"
"No! Dude, I'm trying to get a job offer out of this gig."
"Well, you fucked yourself. You should always have a busy response."
"A busy response?"
"Yeah. As soon as you realize this bitch is trying to throw you in front of the bus, or get you to do her goddamn job for her that she's been doing for the past few fucking years; you cut her off mid-sentance with your busy response. Like so: 'Yeah look Helen I've got (list several projects here, make some up) the labor reqs to take care of, supply budgets for sixteen units, PAF's to clean up, operational budget variances are stacking up on my desk, and next week the VP of (any department will do, except the one the bitch works in) Strategy and I are presenting some AD/C data to the CEO. Just can't do it. Hey, would you mind chucking something in the interoffice mail for me?'"
"Wow."
"Works everytime. But be sure that what she's actually asking you to do is horseshit. As a matter of fact, you need to get a job offer somewhere else, just so you can someday bask in the pure pleasure of telling her she's full of horseshit."
"Dude. You're the man."
"Fuck, you're the one who got the residency. Now get out there and administrate."
That's me. Fostering educational growth and career expansion. GO TEAM!
I really appreciated the emails, trivial as they might seem. Today, I'm in an unsually good humor; probably because of all that light beer I drank last night. Turned me into a right pussy I'd imagine. At any rate, I decided to make a note of the folks who sent me Friday Greetings, and say a nice little blurb about them. I figure it's a nice thing to do (see! Unusually good humor. Odd), plus my blogging consultant once told me that "everyone likes to see their name in lights". Yes, I have a blogging consultant. I didn't develop from 20six.co.uk to SBD in a year because I'm charming (obviously), it's just good management.
Victor - Vic really loves rats. Granted, rats may seem a little grody to some of you, but a life without passion is no life at all. Besides, anyone who can set aside the social stigma and love the hell out of some rats probably ain't a bullshitter; and as Martha would say "That's a good thing." Now get over to his site and help him win a bucket of Iowa crap.
Tiffani - Tiffani is probably a hottie. With a name like Tiffani you just can't go wrong. Additionally, Tiffani leaves her work email attached to her comments, plus she puts her work signature at the bottom of her emails. Tiffani is an unabashed office blogger. A hot, (possibly) well-dressed, office blogger. I'd hit it.
I’m old enough to remember when office Christmas parties were actually fun. Most people would get themselves all liquored up and do incredibly stupid things. Like make out with coworkers, vomit in front of the VPs and blurt out inappropriate comments about all kinds of stuff they'd later reget. Unfortunately, those days are over.
“Gone are the nights of photocopying one's bare buttocks, groping interns and hauling home a gift bag full of goodies.”
It’s that time of year again. In order to make things easy on you, and insure that I get exactly what I want, I offer the following shopping guide:
I need some decent earphones for the iPod. The stock earphones are uncomfortable and lack the required dynamic range for maximum enjoyment.
Sony Fontopia MDR-EX70LP Earphones
Price: $49.99
These are available online from many retailers so order now to avoid an uncomfortable wait on my part.
I’d also like something to help me wind down from a hard day at work. There’s an add-on to Rome Total War, the video game I have driven into the ground. It’s called Barbarian Invasion Expansion Pack, $24.99 on Amazon.
If you could make these two happen I’d be happy.
Aside from that, you could always make a deposit into my ‘special account’ at the bank, you know the account number.
Last, but certainly not least, can we just buy this damned thing and get it over with? I swear by all that is holy that you can drive it on Saturdays.
Please have the courtesy to make a similar list for me. We don’t want a replay of the shoe incident, do we?
True Story (from my original blog):
The women’s shoe store. We were Christmas shopping together and she took me in and pointed them out. I looked down at them.
"Look closely."
"Okay," I said.
"Do you see the heel?" she asked.
"Yes, I see it."
"And the toe? See the difference?" She held up another shoe.
"Don't worry. I understand."
We left the mall. Several days later I went Christmas shopping alone. I had bought her every gift on her list. Only the shoes remained. I went back to the store, back to the exact spot where the shoes were. But they all looked the same.
Granted, I tend to tune out when people talk to me. I'm in my own world most of the time. I guess I wasn't paying attention. And now I'm looking down at these shoes and every pair looks the same. I tried to guess the exact spot I was standing in when she showed them to me, thinking I might find the right ones by dead reckoning, but I had no distinct landmarks. Meanwhile, it's a few days before Christmas and the place was packed. These things were flying out of there. Women were grabbing shoes and holding them up over their heads yelling sizes. I had been at the mall for a long time. I was hungry. I was tired. I had no hope. I picked a pair and bought them. I was certain I had narrowed it down to two pair and I chose one.
Fast-forward to Christmas day. All the presents opened except for one box. She opened the box and took out a shoe. Not only was it the wrong one, but it was the one she used as example of what she specifically did not want. She went berserker. I thought at one point that she would actually beat me with the shoe.
That was about five years ago. She still reminds me of it constantly. She uses it as an example when she points things out in stores now. And every time she brings it up, it is with the same intensity as that first time when she opened the box.
You really can't imagine.
Just used this handy little utility to put up shank's email addy* in spamproofed format. It's over there on the sidebar in the "Authors" section now.
If you want to put your email address out there for people to use but hide it from spambots I strongly recommend running it through an encoder first. This one is the best that I've found.
* Everybody should send him a happy greeting.
Right now.
Really.
Copy me on it and I'll give you a Snooze Point**.
** Offer limited to one point per person. Void where prohibited by law. Odds of winning are approximately 1 to 1. Offer expires when shank threatens me with bodily harm.
So, as much as I hate to say it - they should let Tookie Williams live. Yes, he killed four people, yes he was a bad motherMM-MM back in the day. He's completely given up that life though, and has committed himself to destroying the glorified gangster image. Who knows how many people he could positively effect. He's certainly made an impact on many already. Yes, he will never be able to erase gang life or the Crips from the urban environment. But you know, maybe that's his real punishment. Knowing what he created, trying to destroy it, and knowing he'll never succeed.
The Miami Airport bomb incident - Lessons Learned:
1. Don't travel anywhere with a loved one who's off their meds - unless they're bound and gagged in the backseat and you're on the way to the doctor's office.
2. Don't yell "I have a bomb", unless you're looking for a permanent solution.
3. The only way to get blood off of the carpeting in a jetway is cold water, an oxidizing detergent, and light scrubbing with a bristle brush.
Additionally, any man who wouldn't sleep with Ann Coulter lives a life FAR too driven by prinicple, and not enough penis representation on the conscience committee.
And Iran's new president, whose name I won't waste the time trying to correctly spell, believes not only that Israel is a "tumor" on the middle eastern map, but further alludes to the idea that the Holocaust never happened. How do these people get into leadership positions? Muslim nations want to be taken seriously in the modern world, but they elect leaders with this kind of twisted worldview?
Also, hit CNN, some plane just crashed the shit out of an intersection in Chi-town. Relish this, because events don't usually get that current here at SBD.
Furthermore - has anyone noticed the duality of SBD? Silent But Deadly? Snooze Button Dreams? Oh yeah, you're thinkin' it, I know ya are.
Last night I was forced to sit through an episode of America’s Next To Model. I was offended on so many levels.
I don’t know what the hell the world has come to but I’m embarrassed by it. And rather than waste my time and yours describing why I hate this show, I’ll simply make a better offer.
America’s Next Top Plumber.
Instead of being hosted by some daft model (I refuse to use the term supermodel) it will be hosted by a plumber. A really successful plumber, who will give the candidates advice on winning, and on plumbing in general. You know, so America’s young people know what to expect as they try to realize their dream, because plumbing is a cut-throat business.
“It’s all about how you load the truck, Bobby. You need to know exactly where those fittings are. You can’t just throw 2” fittings in with the 1” fittings. It just won’t work.”
And instead of getting runway instruction from a large black man dressed like a woman and wearing a hat constructed from waxed fruit, the contestants will be given help in specific areas of plumbing application and general public courtesies. The contestants will visit a uniform consultant and will be fitted for appropriate work clothing. Butt cracks will be eliminated. Tools must be kept clean. Taking sports action from customers would be frowned upon.
Weekly competitions will vary, but may include:
Proper installation (and pronunciation) of a bidet
Changing out a residential toilet
Commercial urinal replacement
Snaking a line clogged up by tampons
Septic tank leak repair
I don’t know if I could actually sell this treatment to network, but I’m certain that I could sell my next idea. That entail’s combining the two shows. You’d have some hot chicks learning how to install copper pipe. Tyra Banks would get to stay on as co-host. She could make sure the girls use the right kind of eye makeup and how to up-sell decorative faucets and sinks. On the flip side, we’ll get a top-notch plumber that can really show these girls around a shitter. How to adjust a ball float, replacing the tank gaskets and changing-out the flapper.
I’m thinking Fox would be all over this.
It works both ways, you see.
Kettle robbery suspect found dead
Lee J. George has been mugging Salvation Army fund raisers (the folks with the kettle on a tripod and that annoying bell*) since November 28. On Monday they found him dead in his car, which was overturned and at the bottom of a creek.
* A kinder, gentler Army. This weekend we saw a bell ringer at Wally-World without a bell. She had a red sign with big white letters saying "Ding!".
Man, do I hate Ashton Kutcher.
Once in a blue moon I’ll try to sit through an episode of Punk’d when the remote is out of reach. I find it unbearable. How many times can they threaten to tow somebody’s car?
My dream is that someday when he comes running out at the end, grinning like a fucking idiot, the “celebrity” won’t know or care who he is and proceeds to beat the living shit out of him. I’m talking on the ground, trying to cover his face and head while somebody’s posse keeps on kicking and kicking him.
At least I’m honest.
It’s been more than a week now and I have not smoked. One thing nobody told me is that when you stop smoking, you lose the ability to poop. Well, I’m here to tell you, if you stop smoking you will stop pooping.
My other addiction is still raging out of control. iTunes. I can’t stop downloading songs. It always starts off innocently enough. I just listen to the 30 second sample. But, shit, to me, that’s like snorting heroin. It’s not enough to keep the buzz going. I need the full-on injection.
I find myself reliving my youth through iTunes. I seek out various obscure songs from my youth that invoke memories. Album sides that I used to make out to. Songs I was embarrassed to listen to even way back then.
I’ve been downloading songs from iTunes for a long time. Hell, I didn’t even have an iPod when I started downloading. I remember the day someone first told me about it.
“You can kill hours there, man, just listening to 30 second clips of songs you haven’t heard in years.”
And it was true. By day three I was downloading songs and burning CDs the old fashioned way. It wasn’t long before I just gave up and bought the iPod. And now there’s no stopping it. I “need” the songs. I’m a musician and a music snob so I really go the extra mile to seek out remastered stuff—from classical and Jazz to The Pixies.
There ought to be some kind of twelve step program for this shit.
I guess we're all addicted to something.
Last night we went to this local Asian market because we were cooking Thai with some friends. Apparently, between the leaving the market and getting into our car, the fiancee unknowingly drops her cell. About two hours later, we get ready to leave the house to meet our friends.
"Where's my phone?"
"Iono. Lemme ring your bling." I dial, the phone begins ringing. The fiancee runs hither and thither trying to find it or hear the ringing. Then someone picks up. It was a little weird.
"Heh-ro?" Thick Asian accent.
"Um. Where are you?" The fiancee is giving me the fish eye, she's only hearing my side of the convo, and she wants to know what's up. I'm now having two conversations with one mouth. "Someone has your phone."
Asian stranger: "I have your phone."
Me: "Yeah, um. Are you at the Saigon Market?"
Fiancee: "Who is it? Where are they?"
AS: "No, I have a meeting."
Me: "Can we meet you somewhere to pick up the phone?"
F: "Where will they meet us?"
AS: "What? I have a meeting?"
Me: "She has a meeting or something. I have no clue what she's saying. WE CAN MEET YOU AT THE SAIGON MARKET." I'm beginning to think some village in Korea or maybe on the high steppes of China has lost their idiot; an idiot who has managed to find this particular cell phone. I have an epihpany: When Rube Goldberg died, God made him fate's architect.
F: "What the fuck? She has a meeting? She's got my damn phone! We can meet her at her meeting." We begin speeding through the city streets toward the Asian market, just to see if the owner has it, or anyone said anything to her. I have a hunch it's probably not the owner of the market, but I'm willing to satisfy a little curiosity.
Me: "We can meet you at your meeting. Just tell us how to get there."
AS: "What? I can't hear you. Why do you need to come to my meeting?" She said it pleadingly, like, 'Why are you torturing me?' Almost like she was complaining.
Me: "Because you have our phone. Where can we meet you then?"
F: "She won't meet with us? Jesus! She's stealing my phone."
AS: "I can't meet you tonight. I have a meeting, it's going to be late. Call me tomorrow." She's still complaining, like a kid who wants some candy and you won't give it to them. She hangs up.
I look back at the fiancee and she's ratcheted up somewhere between 'Pissed' and 'Murderous Rage'. "That bitch won't give us the phone? Why the fuck did she answer then?" She's flying around corners, I think we just knocked a delivery boy off his moped. We're driving down the shoulder, straddling the curb. Pedestrians on the sidewalk throw their belongings in the air and dive out of the way. It's complete bedlam.
One of our friends calls me. "Dude, I just called your fiancee's cell, and some weird Chinese woman answered. She started asking me whose phone she was talking on."
Fiancee: "Who's that? Is that the bitch who stole my phone?" We fly through an intersection, narrowly missing a school bus, and pass an ambulance with it's lights flashing.
Me: "Asian."
Friend: "What?"
Me: "Nevermind. Yeah, some lady picked up her celly and now it's like, too much of a pain in her ass to give it back to us. I gotta call you back."
Friend: Laughing. "Ha! What? Well, good luck with that, the Chinese are a hard-bargaining people."
Me: "What?"
My friend hangs up on me. That's two hangups in a row.
We arrive at the Asian market and speak with the owner. She obvisouly doesn't have the phone, and no one said anything about it to her. She wishes us luck. Damn. Back in the car towards our friends' place.
We decide to call back the Asian Stranger who's falsely imprisoning our phone.
"Hi."
"Hello? This your phone?"
"Yeah, look we can meet you anywhere. We've got to have the phone back tonight." I begin to tell her a lie about us getting married tomorrow. I really get myself worked up good. She's ruining our wedding. Our day, you cold hearted beast, you. I imagine myself accepting an Oscar. I cry, I thank Jesus and my children. The music begins playing...
"I can't hear you. Fine. I meet you at ten."
"Okay, well, where at?"
Hangup number three for the evening. I'm having a swell half hour here.
The fiancee has finally peaked, and upon attaining 'Violently Irate', she begins spewing death threats, curses upon future descendants, plagues, and all manner of grotesque physical injuries. I try to call the cell back, but the Asian Stranger has turned the phone off. I mumble something about this newest development and we damn near slam into a telephone pole. The fiancee's anger is now so powerful, that it has become it's own entity. She has become so filled with rage that it begins to manifest itself physically. His name is apparently Vincenze. He calls himself a businessman in a way that makes me think he's a hitman. It's appropriate anyways.
We call periodically over the next few hours, just to see if maybe the Asian Stranger has gotten out of her meeting early. It's straight to the voicemail every time. We never hear back from the Asian Stranger.
We eventually went to the Cingular store this evening, having given up on ever seeing our little lost celly again. She got one of the Razor V3's. It's frickin' awesome, and I am highly jealous. I can't get an upgrade until January, maybe the fiancee will let me borrow hers until then. I promise to give it back.
Five days ago I quit smoking. I can’t adequately describe the discomfort, both mental and physical, that accompanies this endeavor. It really ratchets up the pressure. Last night I had a huge fight with my wife and demanded we start divorce proceedings. In the end I decided to just pick up my socks and put them in the hamper, which started the whole thing. I wish I was exaggerating. I’ve got an uncomfortable patch on my ass that does absolutely nothing to stop the cravings.
I’m thinking heroin might be a good substitute for nicotine at this point. At least heroin addicts get methadone.
On another note, I’m anti-Podcast. All of a sudden everybody’s David Sedaris. Personally, I could never do it, even if I had something to say. In my case it would just be me reading my posts off a sheet of paper. Hemingway would never have gone in for that crap. Then again, he put his brains to the wall with a twelve gauge.
I’ve listened to a few bloggers Podcast and it was universally depressing. Nothing to say, no style and no charisma. They were doing it simply because they could. Secondly, once I heard their voice it was over for me. Too squeaky. Too flat. Too slow or too fast. A dull monotone with no dynamics. It completely destroyed my image of them and put me off their writing. (I’m not talking about you.) I know that’s wrong, but it’s true.
Maybe I’m too old-fashioned. Or just too old. When I was growing up Abercrombie & Fitch sold fly fishing equipment. They sold clothes too, of course, but it was nice stuff. Kind of out-doorsy business casual clothes, but with more class than the khaki pants “uniform” most people are wearing now. I still have some nice ties from there. Now it caters almost exclusively to the FWRA (Future White Rappers of America) and I’m afraid to go in there without knowing the proper gang signs. Not that I would ever wear anything they’ve got nowadays. I’ve moved over to Brooks Brothers. I’ve got suits or Levi’s and not much in between.
I was thinking last night, as I convulsed from nicotine withdrawal, that some people have really fucked up haircuts. Donald Trump comes to mind. Here’s a guy who’s got more gold than the Vatican and he can’t get a decent haircut. Imagine going into a hair salon and saying, “I’ll have the Trump!”
“One Trump, coming up!”
“How much will that cost?”
“$15 for the cut and $46 for the hairspray.”
And while we’re on the topic of Trump, I think he’d be less of a dickhole if he took a few bong hits once in while. I haven’t hit a bong in fifteen years, but if memory serves, it was the great equalizer. I’d love to see that guy take his coat off, mess up his hair and lay into a pound of fudge.
I'll just tuck this in the extended entry, because it's not a happy thing.
The best thing about Wednesday is that there's usually no turds waiting to greet me in my toilet when I get home. Two out of the three boys have "flushing issues" (guess which ones). On Wednesdays my Lovely Wife takes the kids to a neighborhood homeschooling thing so they're not in the house much. Plus, the chief perpetrator (guess which one) makes it a point to poop over there.
Robitussin messes my shit up. I've got a bit of a chest cold and took some before bed last night. The objective was to prevent coughing so I could sleep. Wrongo. It worked on the coughing but I journeyed through the evening in and out of sleep, coming out of and back in to a seriously freaky dream about linear scaling and druidic ceremonies.
My biggest project is losing its chief architect. The guy who designed the entire system that it's being built on. Just as it's starting to get built. The guy who's taking over is very good too, but doesn't have nine months invested in crafting the application. If that isn't enough to bother me there's the fact that today is his last day and I found out about it yesterday. From my client. I'm finding new levels of pissedoffedness to master.
I had six days off in a row (Thanksgiving through Tuesday). Out of a "to do" list a half yard long I accomplished...nothing. Curiously, that gave me a wonderful sense of accomplishment.
It's "World Aids Day". How are you planning to celebrate?
Yeah, that was pretty cold of me. I just lost all respect for these things when they added "Pretzel Appreciation Day", "Hotrod Month" and "Give NAMBLA a Try Week".
