I've never jumped out of a plane either. Honestly, I don't know if I'm scared neccesarily; but I'm just not too jazzed up about it.
Given blood. Now that's something that approaches fear. I hate going to the doctor, because I'm terrified that they're going to recommend I undergo some horrible procedure involving needles, narcotics, and a sledgehammer. The wife's a nurse, so she loves these gory-ass shows on DiscoveryHealth that show live operations and shit. Makes me want to ralph.
Joined the mile high club. But I don't think I'd really enjoy it all that much, because at 6'4 I have a hard enough time just pissing in the damn lavatory; let alone getting in there with someone else and dirtyin' them up.
Been so drunk that I pissed/shit the bed. I mean, who does that?
And since I missed Smut Thursday yesterday, here's an article on the social history of the blowjob. There's a Jenelle joke in there somewhere, but I just can't seem to put it together.
It’s worth noting that during the American Revolution, many colonists remained loyal to the British. I’m not talking about a few either, I’m talking between twenty and thirty percent. In addition, when the war was over, at least 70,000 of those losers left the country, most to Canada, but some to British colonies in the Caribbean and the England.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence, (I conjure you to believe me fellow citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake; since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of Republican Government.
........... George Washington, Farewell Address, September 19, 1796
I have never jumped out of a plane. My wife was big on it for a while, “You have to try it!” she said. “It’s incredible.” Sorry. Not going to happen. I’m ascared of that and I won’t change my mind no mater how many people try to convince me.
I have never ridden a horse. I’m not afraid, on the contrary, I think it would be great, but somehow the opportunity never came about.
I have never eaten turnips or rhubarb. I’m not sure they’re even real things.
On a somewhat related note, I eschew cream sauces.
Today marks the tenth installment of Cultural Friday here at SBD. Every Friday up until now I had effortlessly found a topic to work with. This week I was beginning to struggle. I’ve covered food, wine, etiquette, ballet, art and I think music and managed to keep the topics interesting. I’ve managed to avoid the ambien-like topics of poetry and the like, but today I face the fact that much of the low-hanging fruit has been harvested.
I even found myself checking” High Culture” on wikipedia for ideas and here’s what I found (I have marked the topics already covered):
“High culture is traditionally the milieu of arts and sciences fostered under the European Renaissance. Its ideal is the Renaissance man, whose knowledge leads him to a broad and deep understanding of life.
The following fields of experience and study were considered parts of high culture:
* Appreciation for good design, whether decorative or minimalist
* Etiquette
* Fine arts and patronage of museums
* Government, especially public speaking and informed debate
* Haute cuisine and fine wine
* International travel, especially the Grand Tour of Europe
* Life sciences such as botany
* Literature, and the ability to write elegantly as learned from Classical literature and
poetry
* Military service (as an officer) was once a central part of high culture. As war has
become more impersonal and technology-driven since World War I, this aspect has
waned.
* The more financially expensive sports, such as equestrianism, fencing, sailing, and
sculling
* Musical discipline, especially in classical music such as grand opera
* Philosophy, especially of the European tradition
* Refined grooming and haute couture
* Religion, specifically the more early modern forms of Christianity
* Theatre, especially ballet”
That was a lot more interesting than I thought it would be. Apparently I have a lot more material to cover than I thought. I had thoughts of putting this to bed but then I read further and found the criticism of high culture. That incensed me enough to forget the idea.
“Critics of high culture see its focus on the European tradition as narrow and possibly even racist. In addition, the education and talent required for much of high culture is seen as elitist, with time wasted that could be spent on more practical improvements to material society. Many critics of high culture hold up popular culture as a more easily understood and enjoyable lifestyle.”
Now that’s the kind of bullshit that makes my head spin. Suddenly I’m a racist for supporting the arts. Apparently I’m also an elitist because I’d rather read a book than say…watch an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Well, you know what? Then I guess I am a fucking elitist—and a proud one. I’m also not a big fan of “dumbing things down” so that the lazy bastards we all seem to be producing these days can tag along for the ride without contributing a single worthwhile thought to society. I’m tired of people who want to make everything easier. These are the same people who give trophies to every single kid at the end of baseball season instead of just giving them to the champions. Everybody expects everything to be easy in life and I’ve had enough of it.
In the next few Cultural Fridays will cover literature, grooming and international travel. I will also do a piece on self-defense, which replaced dueling/rapiers some time ago.
I will be ignoring religion and government because frankly, I find them both offensive.
If you would like to contribute a Cultural Friday article I would welcome them. Topics available: military (I would think honor and or basic field strategies), philosophy, equestrianism, sailing, sculling, life sciences, debate or more specific topics under the umbrella of those listed.
Submissions not guaranteed publication and editorial rights remain with me. What that really means is I won’t post complete shit, but almost anything else, and that I’d like to be able to spell check it and if need be work with the author on basic editorial changes, i.e., punch it up, if need be.
Every once in a while I come across something that makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. It's usually at someone else's expense, but hey, at least I'm honest.
Allow me to introduce you to Mariah, a young girl terrified of pickles. This chick fears pickles like little kids fear the bogey man. I love when she runs screaming from the pickle factory.
Somehow I think there are deeper issues here.
I don’t know if I believe in luck or not, but this week has been full of bad juju for me.
Yesterday after work I noticed my mailbox is falling down from wood rot and I can’t abide shit like that—another thing to fix. Then there was a power outage. Last night I was awaked from my slumber first by thunder, then a siren and finally a scared child. When I don’t sleep well I’m cranky. I’ll leave out the rest of the list but trust me; this is the work of the evil eye. Too many little things going wrong.
Today I began to take precautions. I don’t wear jewelry except for the wedding band and a watch, but I found what I was looking for in the safe at the back of my closet. An old family heirloom. I’m wearing it today, well hidden under my shirt so as not to arouse suspicion. The evil doer shall be repaid in the same coin, seven fold.
Of course all this can probably be chalked up to my obsessive compulsive tendencies, paranoia and a host of yet undiagnosed mental illnesses that I’m sure I harbor. I’m one of those people that locks a door, drives 300 miles and then starts to question whether or not I locked the door.
What many Blog War n00bs don't understand, is that a good strategist doesn't confine a blog war to the blogoshpere; just like a good general doesn't confine his battles to the cities and towns. No, we must seek out our opponent in their element, rattle them.
So as my first strike, I drunk-dialed the crap out of Jenelle last Friday. Now, I don't remember every single word that was said (as is the nature of the drunk dial); but I do remember having a good time. Which probably means it was torture for her; making the manuever an outstanding success. At some point she had to bail, I think she had to go to a History QuizBowl Challenge of the Champions or something like that, I don't know.
Whether you liked him or not, you probably read him at one time or another.
I'm pretty much speechless.
I just read this article about how people have fewer friends now than they did twenty years ago.
“Nearly a quarter of people surveyed said they had "zero" close friends with whom to discuss personal matters.”
I don’t discuss “personal matters” with friends. That’s why I have friends. I suspect that if I started calling them up and bellyaching all the time I would be a royal pain in the ass.
Yes, part of that is me being facetious, but there’s a lot of truth to it. I really don’t have many friends. I have, perhaps, six, close friends. Most of them I have known for over twenty years. I have a close friend that I met in kindergarten that I still talk to a lot—a guy that can be depended on in case of nuclear winter or other highly dramatic events where it’s kill or be killed.
I’ve had a lot of acquaintances over the years. I guess I still do, but it’s not really the same. I was one of those people who knew “everybody” but I was never foolish enough to think most people were my friends. And once you leave high school and start working your way through the world you have a tendency to cut people loose.
The guy who always drank too much in college and was “a blast to hang out with” sometimes turns out to be a pain in the ass alcoholic in later years. There comes a time between high school and age thirty where people are forced to become responsible adults, earn a wage and stop playing quarters every night. And it has been my experience that a certain percentage of these guys never make the cut. They are failures as men. They either cannot or will not provide for their young families or stay locked in a time warp forever and expect you to do the same.
I had a very close friend that never grew up. First it was funny. Then it was a pain in the ass. Before long it was sad and eventually it became dangerous. I was forced to set him adrift with a hard kick in the ass. Many people are faced with betrayal from friends, be it in the form of girlfriend stealing or cash theft. Some people make the transition from friend to giant sponge.
I have never slept with a girl that friend was dating, though I was accused of it constantly. I did sleep with a girl who had a serious boyfriend but I didn’t know the guy except to maybe nod at if I saw him at a party. It’s an interesting story actually because she took advantage of me when I was buzzed and then started making appointments with me to have sex and it’s a long story but she would get off on me going into the bar she and her boyfriend worked at and talking dirty to me while the boyfriend was close by. Both she and the boyfriend were annoying and stupid and I extracted myself from the whole sordid affair when she attempted to give me a hand job while I was sitting at the bar and her boyfriend was across bartending two feet away.
But I’ve gotten off topic if there ever was one.
I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil yesterday. It’s one of those books everyone has read but me. I liked it a lot, probably due to the setting. I’m a sucker for Savannah. Definitely a city with feel all it’s own.
I bend myself back into reality as the ebb of my past tugs at my knees, shins, ankles, and away. I can practically feel the salt on my lips, the seabreeze on my face and the sand between my toes as the memory tsunami pulls back into the ocean.
Then I'm shoved ahead by the throngs trying to cross the street. A mass of corporate assholes so involved in their own career paths that they wouldn't even recognize their own suite-mate if they shouldered them out of the way in the crosswalk. God, I hate the city; but it's the only place I can be myself without having to 'fess up to being myself. My shoes are getting scuffed now, as I'm frog-marched across the street by an army of salesmen, brokers, traders, and other human diseases.
I'm practically shoved into the pretzel cart on the opposing corner as a tide of business people rush past. Literally, I can hardly move amongst the force of the several hundred brushed wool trench coats and Totes umbrellas that whisk past me.
I begin to suffocate. I'm going to be trampled to death here on this pretzel cart. I fold over and my chest presses against the corrugated aluminum surface as the pretzeleer(?) runs to escape the swelling rush-hour storm surge of Wall Street dicks making their Friday escape. The reek of steamed pork leavings fills my nostrils as my face is shoved into the piping hot water of the chafing dish that holds the weiners. Both hands grapple frantically for leverage but only find themselves in condiment trays or against the slick aluminum of the cart.
I'm drowning in the most disgusting sea of processed meat and sauerkraut one could imagine. It burns. And as much as I try, I can do nothing to improve the situation.
My lungs begin to burn, I can hardly feel my hands.
I'm passing out.
In an effort to infer that my intentions of blog warfare are simply a product of some sort of ailing social life (sorry, I don't know how she drew that conclusion either) the evil 'She Who Would Be Queen of the Mundane' (as I could only surmise from her posts as of late that exemplify the trivial) has asserted that I married the wrong woman.
In reality, what we're seeing here is a last ditch attempt to legitimize the hurt that she must feel; knowing that the one she held for herself during those private times really belongs to another.
I'm totally normal with it though, because I'm so used to being coveted by all my internet biatches.
I leave the bar and, stepping into the tea-colored cascade of evening sunlight that's spilling over the highrises across the street, adjust my sunglasses and begin walking the block south. I notice how my neatly polished shoes seem to leave ripples in the cracked and creased concrete sidewalk upon which they tread. Shiny black, almost wet-looking, breaking up the hard textured surface of the grey sidewalk. The more I concentrate on them, the more I fall into myself. It's happening; the memory tsunami.
---
I'm 13 years old again; full of energy and ready to expend it all as quick as possible. Surrounded by tall pines and a gently glowing fire, Luke asks me if I want to "Be a part of the group, man!" Yeah, hell yeah; I nod and follow him into the dark beyond the shed. Just as I pass the shadow cast by the structure I'm set upon by fists, kneecaps, and elbows that seemed to spring from the darkness itself. An unidentifiable force pushes me into the dampening grass, and I feel the weight of several people on my chest as punches and boot heels rain down on my shoulders, back, and buttocks. Then silence.
I lay for a second, just trying to put myself in a place where I can sleep through whatever comes next. Then Gary thrusts an open palm in mine "Get up dude, you're in!" I'm confused, In? In what? I brush off the pine needles and grass stuck to my shirt and jeans. Luke and the guys are standing around, smiling, laughing; Hahahaha, you did good man. You're in!
Heh. Yeah, cool. Sup fellas, yeah.
Alright dude, now it's your turn.
"My turn?"
Yeah, you have to go find someone now. Bring 'em back.
I'm not proud that it didn't occur to me that I'd been almost instantly co-opted by greed. I was happy to be part of the power elite. Who wouldn't be right? Hell yeah I'll go get someone. We'll jump 'em in; and they'll get it too, just like I did. And they'll be grateful.
I picked the wrong kid.
My face contorts in regret as the tsunami tide rushes back out to sea and leaves a trail of scattered flash memories stacked on top of each other. These horrible things are left to roast in the harsh, noon sun that is hindsight. I drag myself out of the detritus that is my past and convince myself that 1994 doesn't exist anymore.
So, Jenelle addmitedly wouldn't introduce me to her friends.
Well, I say fine. Oh and Paul, I wouldn't long so deeply for a photoblog issue of her swimsuit shopping. Let's just say I've got my confidential sources and it's not pretty.
And to think, all this time I was proudly showing her blog to all my friends. Well I bet she just saves my posts for late at night, when no one's around, and she can keep me all to herself. Either way she's a naughty, naughty little Spinster; and she's gonna get spanked.
The reason that a lot of Europeans think little of Americans isn’t always based on politics. Sometimes the truth hurts a little. When you consider the fact that most Americans who travel to Europe are stupid fat people expecting everyone to speak English and have early bird specials at all the restaurants it’s really no wonder at all. Go to the mall and look around this weekend. Then imagine shipping them off to represent you in Europe or anywhere else and tell me you’re not a little apprehensive. Sorry, folks, don’t shoot the messenger.
Take a look at this jackass.
He checked into a hotel in Germany for the WC and after the game he couldn’t find his hotel. He wandered around for six hours aimlessly with no hope. He didn’t know the name of his hotel or anything else except it was near a park and a Mercedes dealership. Do you know how many Mercedes dealerships are in Germany?
By three in the morning he went to the cops and pleaded for help and they drove him around like a child for two hours looking for his hotel in city of 500,000.
Idiot.
This week we’re discussing cuisine. I have a great love of haute cuisine when done properly and I loathe it when it’s a sham. Gastronomically speaking the French rule the world, whether you care to admit it or not. Over the years the French have truly made an art of fine cooking, sauces and pastry.
Some people are enamored with nouvelle cuisine. A lot of people talk about California cuisine and new names for cooking styles spring up every week. There’s an entire TV channel devoted to food, though most of the time they cater to the mundane. In case you don’t know, Rachael Ray is not a chef. Sometimes I’ll tune in so I can picture her naked in a tub of cling peaches in heavy syrup, but she may as well be an army cook as far as cuisine goes.
A lot of people don’t know good food from bad. I know plenty of people who go to expensive restaurants and pay $35 for an entrée and think it’s wonderful, when it’s really slop. I know an over-rested steak when I get one. I generally don’t send food back because I know what happens when you do that. Nor do I blame the servers for dry meat or shitty food in general. I take it in stride. That’s why I go to the same places a lot. When a great chef is running a kitchen you get consistency.
I lot of people see lamb on a menu and order it not even thinking to ask if it’s domestic. Most of time it’s not. How do you think it was preserved on it’s trip from Australia? A lot of people still order Swordfish in restaurants, even though it’s been known to harbor foot long worms. Have you ever seen a chef order Swordfish? Somewhere along the line Chilean sea bass became a big deal. I don’t particularly care for it, but the bigger question is why would someone in a coastal city order a most likely frozen fish when they’re sitting on the fucking water in Palm Beach? Local produce and especially fish are better bets in almost all cases.
I once traveled in the Midwest for business and I guy I was with kept ordering clams and fish in every restaurant we went in. And while fresh seafood is available away from the coast you really have to think about the individual restaurant and how many times a week they order fish. Don’t even get me going about ‘the specials’.
But back to haute cuisine. It can be decadent. I’ll probably die of a heart attack from eating Foie gras, but it will have been worth it. If you’re not familiar with Foie gras, it is a pâte made from the grossly enlarged liver of a force fed goose. Those livers can weigh three or four pounds. It’s very expensive, the texture is smooth as silk, and it’s quite rich. Also, animal rights people go ape shit whenever they hear the word. For me it’s like heroin; a dangerous addiction that will probably kill me, or least give me the gout.
It’s also used in a lot of very complicated dishes, like Wellington. Haute cuisine is a complicated affair in general. A lot of dishes take a great deal of time to prepare. Demi-glace is a perfect example of a classic French sauce that’s so time consuming to prepare that few restaurants do it from scratch anymore. It entails roasting veal bones in an oven for hours, preparing an Espagnole sauce, making a roux, adding wine and reducing the shit out of it until you’ve got liquid gold. I’m a sucker for a good demi-glace.
Traditional French meals, as well as some Italian, serve the salad at the end of the meal where it belongs. Then comes the cheese course, another favorite of mine. A good cheese menu is rare these days and in America you’re stuck with pasteurized cheeses only, which is a terrible shame.
There’s no reason to be intimidated by fine food. There’s nothing I enjoy more than fine food, good service and a selection of great wines and cognacs. The ride home will entail a good deal of flatulence, but it’s a small price to pay.
So The Wife and I are in the store this evening, doing some grocery shopping. We're picking through the produce, roma tomatoes to be exact, and we caught an interesting little peice of info:
"Dollar seventy-four!?" The Wife and I turn around to this woman, mid fifties maybe. "Is that a dollar seventy-four each, or just per pound?"
"Mmm, per pound," says The Wife.
"Well, one day they'll be a dollar seventy four each," asserts the weird lady.
The Wife and I exchange a momentary glance, "Yeah, I try not to think about that day," says The Wife.
"Well, you should be. Because the Lord is coming."
I'm staring at my wife, wondering what the price of roma tomatoes has to do with the second coming of Christ, the End of Days, and how exactly I'm supposed to be preparing for that. The Wife's staring back at me, and the batshit crazy woman is staring at the both of us; I'm assuming she wants a response. I have no earthly idea how to follow that kind of lunacy so I lean in close to her, squint my eyes and whisper "Not if I can help it," and stalk off into the frozen section.
I mean really, what the hell was I supposed to say? What would you have said? I thought I was on some fucking hidden camera show, for fuck's sake. They're letting anyone into the grocery store these days.
I found myself sitting alone at the bar in a dimly lit dive off the alley between 41st and Washington. It was one of those places shoe-horned amongst taller, more modern buildings; and I got the distinct impression that there were sections of the place that hadn't seen sunlight since the Roosevelt administration. It must've been early evening, because the only light coming through the front windows was that odd orange color, and it fell at a steep enough angle that I could watch the cigarrette smoke twirl and billow in the air. I looked down at my empty highball glass, my hands, examined the bleach white cuffs, pressed and starchy, poking out underneath the grey herringbone wool of my jacket sleeves. My cologne was beginning to fade, and I could feel my skin abrsorbing the smells of the bar. Smoke, stale beer, spilled whiskey, that stagnant moist tinge that hangs in still places.
"Another?"
I'm reeled out of my daze by the bartender. "Mm-ph," I barely mumble with a nod of my head. She pulls the Dalwhinnie down off the shelf and pours me two thick fingers. Twenty-nine years of peat, spring water, and oak barrel aging begin wafting around me. I pick up the small, gently sweating pitcher of ice water to my right and tenderly introduce a few drops, watching the alcohol and water dance around each other in the highball glass. Raising the drink to my lips, I savor the experience with my eyes closed as layer after layer washes over me. Mmm, quittin' time never tasted so good.
I spend about thirty minutes sitting in this empty dark dugout that passes for a bar, taking in the tired parade of commuters walking, riding, driving or biking down the street outside. The regular sounds of city transit buses push through the front wall of the bar in a muffled cadence, the occasional frustrated peal of a car horn, fragments of conversations held waiting for the 'WALK' light; and keeping time for them all is the rhythmic chorus of a homeless man begging for change.
Silently, my mind wanders. Seeing, hearing, wondering; but never interacting. Simply absorbing and coallating, organizing these shards of the human experience in an effort to...to do who knows what. Make a collage I guess. I swallow the last stringent dram from my glass, fish a few spare dollars from my coat pocket and place them on the bar. It's time to get going.
I can’t believe companies are actually doing this.
One in five companies let's you take your pet to work?
Let’s face it; most people can’t take care of themselves let alone their pets. I love animals but I don’t need a petting zoo down at the office. I don’t want to smell dog while I’m negotiating and I don’t want to hear barking when I’m on the phone. I may not want to pet someone’s dog that hasn’t had a bath in weeks.
Just because you know how to train and care for animals doesn’t mean everyone does. How’d you like to walk into the building and have some dog start humping your leg? What if the animals don’t get along well with others? What happens when your dog jumps on me and starts scratching at my expensive suit?
The problems are endless and people have allergies and all kinds of shit can go wrong. And I'm not even addressing people bringing howler monkies and gibbons.
The policy has drawbacks, she conceded. "I'm talking to you in the bathroom because I don't want my dogs to start barking and interrupting our conversation," she said from her home office in Cape Coral, Florida. "They can get a little loud."
Yeah. I’ll start making my calls from the shitter. I can’t spend enough time in a small room while people are taking dumps. Maybe I’ll move my desk in there full time, huh?
Idiots.
How hard can it be to cancel an AOL account?
One man's frustrating call, caught on tape, resounds in the blogosphere
This is absolutely incredible. I’m not surprised at all, but it still leaves me incensed. A guy tries to cancel his AOL but it plays out like he’s trying to leave the Church of Scientology. Unfortunately for AO-hell, the guy recorded the conversation.
You really need to read the transcript of the call because it’s priceless.
“I think I could've put up with everything, but at the point when he asked to speak to my father, I came very close to losing it at that point,” said 30-year-old Ferrari.
Actually, I think the call itself is out there somewhere but I’m way too lazy.
Meanwhile, AOL goes crazy when the guy posts this and sends him an apology telling him how sorry they are and how that should never happen. You know what happens next:
To put this claim to the test, CNBC reporter Matt Lefkowitz called again. Here is a rough transcript:
CNBC: I want to cancel my AOL account.
He was promptly disconnected.
He tried again.
CNBC: I need to cancel my AOL account. I never really use it. ... Well, if I can cancel it anytime, why can't I cancel it now? Can I just cancel my account?
It took him 45 minutes to finally get his account canceled.
Maybe they share a building with the scientologists.
Update
***Update***
Here's the blog, which has a clip from him on the today show.
***Update***
When I'm not working, sleeping or eating I'm doing this (totally work safe BTW). Or at least making plans for the next time I can make it to the Tail of the Dragon.
I'm not the kind of guy who gets hung up on convuluted morality or religious doctrine. If you want to stay in bed on the Sabbath instead of...doing...whatever it is any given church might expect you to do, I don't have a problem with that. If you're pro-choice or pro-life, I don't care. And if you don't want to eat unclean animals or drink beer, that's fine too. I mean, you might be missing out on the glory that is an ice cold Bud Light and a handful of spicy pork rinds; but I'm totally cool with that.
However, I hold a special place in my heart for liars and thieves. Understand here, that I'm talking about pure liars and thieves too. Not someone who downloads free music or sneaks into a movie theater. I'm referring to Ken Lay, Micah Wright, anyone who's ever broken into my home (even that bastard that stole my bike when I was like 14), and cheating spouses. Granted, if you're going to cheat on your wife or masquerade as an armed services vet; I'm not neccesarily going to get worked up about it. I will, however, reserve for you the lowest of regards; and may attempt to kick your ass, depending (variably) on proximity and drunkedness.
Why? Because liars and thieves represent the worst outcome of what many consider to be a noble species. Whether you agree with the whole 'noble man' thing is up to you I suppose, considering man's propensity for violence. Considering that though, violence is a somewhat natural and universal horror - all animals are capable of and exhibit it on occasion. Lieing and stealing, on the other hand, decieve with the intent to control or possess - two urges that many animals (with exception to survival of the fittest) have no appetite for. Granted, animals will lure in prey or fight over food supply - but those are survival conditions. In the cases I'm referring to; humans lie, cheat, and steal because they're greedy, manipulative fucks. They're furthering their political agenda, they're attempting to skim millions (in addition to their multi-million dollar salary) from pensions, or they're taking shit just because they can. And that last one is probably the worst reason to do anything. But that's probably a whole 'nother post.
Whenever the Germans accumulate in large numbers you have to be careful. It must be something in the blood.
Here’s the interesting part:
“Cologne’s police chief confirmed that the incidents had been sparked by a group of known German football hooligans who were drinking in the Kulisse bar on the Café Alter Markt. Klaus Steffenhagen told The Times: “Our spotters recognised 30 category C football hooligans, some from Cologne and some from other parts of Germany.”
Spotters recognized thirty “category C” hooligans? Have they so many hooligans that they have them categorized? And not only do they have a shitload of hooligans, obviously of varying degrees, but they can recognize thirty of them in a crowd!
Do these people list “Hooligan” as their occupation on tax returns and whatnot? Yeah, I do like to use the word hooligan, so sue me. It’s because I’m fascinated. I wonder where the “category A” hooligans hang out?
***Shank's Update***
An explanation of the hoologan rating system.
Jennifer Aniston has been on my list for about ten years. This morning I finally got a look at her ass. Scroll down past the Ryan Seacrest gay debate and you can’t miss it. It’s a clip from The Break-up.
The other day I posted my feelings about New Orleans, which can be found here. A guy named Jaime from New Orleans took issue with what I had to say and left a comment, more of a post actually, about the situation down there.
I found it to be an eye-opener in many ways. It’s so well executed that I’m posting it here because I think it needs to be read. I’m not going to put it italics as it’s too distracting for a long a piece, but here it is verbatim:
"
The other problem with your thinking is that right now we are not an American city. We are a shell of what used to be a city in what is evidently, by many, not actually considered to be part of America (I don’t understand that but it comes off that way too many times). Most of the houses are still unoccupied – many people have never returned and most of the residents that have come back live someplace other than where they were a year ago. We have what amounts to 120 square miles of urban ghost town the likes of which have never been seen before, anywhere. I saw Colin Powell make a speech this month at the dedication of the National WWII museum / awards ceremony for some standout 1st responders. During his keynote he said that he had seen many types of distruction before. He has been through a lot of war zones and has seen several major disaster sites (his last official visit overseas was Indonesia after the tsunami’s). Just like every one else he had closely followed the coverage of Katrina on television. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for what he had just seen while touring the devistation within his own country. That was a few weeks ago, more than 9 months after the levee’s broke. To get back to my point – this is a little different than dealing with crime in an American city for a number of reasons.
You say “we’re not talking about stealing anymore…” but we are. Looting is called burglary again but it is still looting. One of my in-law’s neighbors in Lakeview has been killing himself trying to get his house into shape so his wife and kids could return home once the school year ended. He had finally finished and the day before the move he discovered there was no water. A quick inspection revealed that his entire plumbing system had been stolen for the copper pipes. That’s another deduction from insurance and at least another month without his family and who’s to say it won’t happen again. As fast as people can get appliances delivered they are being stolen. Another big thing is stealing the architectural details that make New Orleans unique. Shutters, pocket doors, mantles, crown molding, decorative ironwork, gingerbread details and other such things are vanishing right before our eyes. You can’t sell the shutters for much but they cost over $300 each to replace. Vultures (many from out of town) are picking us to pieces and it has to stop so we can move on.
There is no one to see suspicious activity and report it so it continues. That takes a lot of patrolling – much more than could ever be done by a police force under normal circumstances. That is what the guard has been called in to do. To help safeguard our personal reconstruction - Thank God!
Now, on to violent crime. Along with the many, many good people that have come back we also have the scum. Some are home grown and some are imports but they are here fighting for turf and power in the ever-popular drug trade. Most of the murders are gang bangers killing each other off for an edge in what basically amounts to an open market. All of the lines that had been drawn between gangs were washed away and the age old game has started from scratch. You are right when you say it is tombstone. No city has ever faced 5 or 10 or maybe even 20 rival gangs all in a rebuilding mode at once. Picture what it would be like if all the mafia bosses had to start their “family buisnesses” again from scratch. It would not mean a hit or two – it would be scores of them. That is what we are going through. The members just need an empty house to set up shop (we have plenty of those) and then they just start fighting. . Our police need to concentrate hard on this so it can be stopped before it gathers more momentum.
You say that things are picking back up. It depends on what corner you are talking about. My in-laws live in their trailer about 50% of the time. There is one other person living on their entire block. Another is there most days working on his house – that’s it. No one lives on the block behind them at all. At my mothers the street is empty as well - it still does not have power. We could not store everything we recovered from her house at our place so we have moved some of it back into the gutted part of the house. I will be glad to have the National Guard in the area. It makes me very nervous that my in-law’s live in a ghost town. If someone showed up and tried to hurt them there would be no one around to hear a thing. I will feel better knowing that the guard will be pass by their house a few times a day as well."
Thanks, Jaime. Very well done and point taken. Hats off to you.
Most people are ineffectual by nature. And by ineffectual I mean lazy, lollygagging dullards. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to surpass them. I suspect an hour a day of solid work is all you need to look better than them.
People who call a lot of meetings fall into these categories:
a.) Can’t or won’t make their own decisions
b.) Believe in decision by committee
c.) Are out of their league intellectually
d.) Are seeking other people to do the heavy lifting
Most people attending meetings are trying not to take on any action items. Your job is to appear busier and smarter than anyone else in the room without talking too much.
Rule #1: Never be early or late to a meeting.
Too early and you look like you’ve got nothing better to do. Also, people could ask questions that if you answered with the room empty become someone else’s ideas when the room is full. Being late is never a good idea either.
If you stroll in five minutes early carrying a grande latte or whatever the hell those things are you look like your relaxed and at ease—and that’s not good. You need to look like you’re working your ass off, not standing in line for expensive ersatz coffee.
Rule #2: Ask for an agenda.
How important can a meeting be if there’s no agenda? A lot of people calling meetings don’t publish one and it makes them look idiotic when you ask. After all, you’re busy and have little time for small talk.
Rule #3: Keep looking at your watch
Don’t overdue it, but you have to look like you have responsibilities and deadlines. I walk around looking like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.
Rule #4: Ask the question
“Who’s going to publish the minutes for this meeting?” It’s always the first thing I ask. By asking who will do it you remove yourself from the equation. It’s also a good idea to let the blowhards know that if they commit to something in that room they will be held to it.
Rule #5: Speak up
Important phrases to use at a meeting:
“I think we’re getting off track here.”
“I think that’s beyond the scope of this meeting.”
“Enough with the abstract, let’s talk about what’s practical.”
The idea is to keep this shit moving, because to most people, a meeting is just a place to sit down and bullshit/pontificate/theorize.
Rule #6: Your opinion
One sentence: “The concept is fundamentally sound.” You really can’t go wrong with that one.
If asked for suggestions I usually let other people speak first and watch the reactions they get. I never look directly at the speaker; I watch the face of the highest ranking officer. If someone starts sinking I’ll usually let them kill themselves unless I smell haughtiness, in which case I’ll jump in and really point out their stupidity.
Rule #7: Things you should never say in a meeting
“I’d like to be more involved with this project.”
“I can expedite some of the paperwork.”
“Jane’s tits can’t possibly be real.”
Need I elaborate?
Rule #8: What not to wear to a meeting
You never want to look too prosperous. Meetings, and the workplace in general, is not a good place to wear a Rolex. Get the idea?
Rule #9: Act like a professional
Gum chewing, pen twirling and leaning back in your chair are not good ideas. Most importantly, for the love of God, don’t keep scratching you head and your ears. You look like you’ve got fucking lice. I sat through a meeting this morning and watched as two separate people dug at their scalp and their ears with total abandon. I was sooo close to screaming at them.
Rule #10: Navigating shallow water
This really entails a full post. Evaluating the battle lines is crucial. Which faction is stronger or more important plays a key part in your strategy. The outcome of most meetings is predetermined anyway. Rarely do people seek honest council in a conference room. The scene played out is usually to reinforce policy or to put pressure on a group to deliver more. Sometimes it’s pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey or hot potato. Who’s budget is getting hit with what, who’s to blame for the Mongolian Cluster in Chicago, etc. It’s best to determine what the purpose of the meeting really is before you get there.
I went to New Orleans once, about ten years ago. Frankly, I thought it was a seedy shithole. I saw people peeing in alleys in the French Quarter, drunks everywhere and a general disregard human decency.
Let me say that I am not a prude. I enjoy a few drinks. Maybe more than a few on occasion. I’ve been known to visit rowdy establishments, roadhouses and strip joints. And even though I haven’t done those things in quite a few years it’s not because I’m against them, it’s because I outgrew them, more or less. But when I was in New Orleans I saw the worst of the worst. The place was pretty gross.
Then Katrina hit and it was a terrible tragedy. I donated money along with everyone else. Things are picking back up now, but since that fateful event the city is still getting plenty of attention from the media. The result is that people from all over the place are now seeing what’s always been there.
Now the National Guard has been called in because the fucking place is like 1881 Tombstone, Arizona.
“…five teenagers in an SUV were shot and killed in the city's deadliest attack in at least 11 years. Police said the attack was apparently motivated by drugs or revenge. Also, a man was stabbed to death Sunday night in an argument over beer.”
It’s hard to believe that that idiot was reelected mayor, but he was. And now he needs to find himself some lawmen because it’s like the wild west.
I’ve been to some wide-open towns before. I’ve partied in places you can’t imagine in both America and overseas, but that place always struck me as being a cesspool. When was the last time the National Guard had to restore order in an American city? Aside from this one? I know what you're going to say. "They don't have as many cops as they used to before the storm." That doesn't mean people have to kill each other. We're not talking about stealing anymore, we're talking about murders.
I’m not one of those people that think NO got what it deserves when that storm hit. I’m not a racist. I’m not a born again—I’m all about debauchery.
I just never liked the place.
Last week I told my kid I’d get her a little something because her behavior has been so incredibly exemplary lately. Beyond belief, really. Somehow I’ve produced a smart, sweet, quiet kid that never seems to do anything wrong. Very spooky considering my own childhood.
Anyway, on Saturday we went to get her a little something. I still get excited when toy shopping because I still love toys. I was hoping to steer her towards a Lite Brite or something else I could play with.
The first thing you notice in a toy store these days is the complete and utter lack of toy guns. When I was a kid the toy gun aisle was the biggest in the store. I would hang out in that aisle for an hour before making my choice. These days there is no gun aisle and it breaks my heart. And just for the record, even though I played with toy guns throughout my youth, I have never shot anyone with a real gun. That wasn’t asking for it. But I kid. I’m a kidder.
She ended up with some popular little doll figures. I spent an hour trying to get her to change her mind. I stumbled into one aisle that all kinds of games I remembered from my own childhood.
“Look honey, it’s Don’t Spill the Beans!”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a game I used to play when I was your age.”
“I don’t want that. Can we go home now?”
I really wanted it. Don’t Break the Ice was there too and I really wanted them both. After a fruitless attempt at getting her to switch she finally dragged me away. Later that night I told my old lady the story.
“She wasn’t budging from the doll.” I said.
“Don’t Spill the Beans? No shit? You should have gotten it for us! Man, I could really go for a game of that right now.”
This morning she called me at the office about something.
“Are you going anywhere today?” I asked.
“I have to go to Target.”
“You have to get Don’t Spill the Beans!”
“Good idea!”
Hopefully by the time I get home she’ll have it ready to go. My life is so sad.
Honestly...who doesn't like midget wrestling?
More midget wrestling videos can be found here.
Why I hate the ballet.
Actually, I don’t hate it, I just don’t enjoy it. It’s one of those things I just can’t get into. Like German opera and conceptual art.
I can appreciate the ballet. I realize the skill sets and strength required is extreme. I don’t associate it with effeminate men in panty hose. I don’t have any hang-ups about the pomposity of the whole affair (there’s no denying the pomposity). I just find it repetitive and boring. And the music tends to affect me like Ambien.
The first time I saw the ballet entailed a huge fight with my wife. I just wasn’t interested in putting on my finery and sitting through an extended night of slow string music. I tend to zone out and have surreal, morphine-like daydreams. She won the fight and I was forced to pay an extravagant sum of money for tickets. And on the night of the performance we walked into the place, my wife excited about seeing the Bolshoi or whatever and I desperately hoping they had a bar in the lobby.
The first thing I noticed was the median age of the audience, which I estimate was 94 years old. I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered two drinks, and as an afterthought I asked my wife if she wanted anything. The old people milled about slowly greeting each other. Many of them were carrying opera glasses. I started having flashbacks of the Three Stooges ruining a stuffy affair like this and it broke me from my daze.
When the curtain went up I was absolutely amazed. It wasn’t at all what I expected. In fact it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. It was brilliant. The grace and strength of the dancers was breathtaking and I settled in to enjoy the performance. The next act was still pretty amazing but I was getting antsy. After fifteen minutes I’d seen it all. I wasn’t astute enough to notice all the details or anything and the music started to lull me to dreamland. I wanted another drink. I wanted to go home. And most of all I wanted to physically punish the golf clappers.
The scariest part of the whole thing was the makeup the old ladies in the audience wore. A lot of thick, white pancake makeup is not a good look for a 90 year old woman. All that’s missing is the casket and flowers. Trust me, it’s seriously unsettling.
At intermission I loaded up on scotch. I had seen the ballet. It was amazing all right, but I didn’t have the endurance or the medication needed to sit through another. Since that time I have managed to avoid the expense and punishment of the ballet.
Heed my words.
Seven minutes of bike crashes; or, "Darwin's Theory of Evolution: The Irrefutable Proof".
Another loser enters the political arena. At least they'll be among peers. Note: PhatFree is an awesome sight, click around; it's hilarious.
And because so many people have expressed interest...
And people say the Internet is a cesspool. Tsk, tsk.
There are times when it becomes painfully obvious to myself that I must look like the biggest child at work. It doesn't help that I'm the youngest by a wide margin, and that I'm one of the only males; but firmly clinching the title of Child in A Man's Body doesn't really bother me too much. I find it funny for the most part.
For instance, my desk is littered with toys. I've got a couple Tanlges, a rubber/bendy thingie, a couple flexible action figures of some cartoon characters, a table-top football setup; and the wall behind my chair is papered with photos from racing events, Vegas trips, and the like.
My wardrobe is probably a joke amongst my co-workers as well. Although I usually where dress shirts and slacks, I only occasioanlly wear a tie or designer shoes; and I only shave like every three or four days. I looked down at my shoes this morning, and as I was coloring in the worn spots on the black leather with a Sharpie I realized that I've had these shoes since I was in college. I mean, I've got a nicer pair of shoes, but I don't want to fuck them up, so I don't wear them every day. If I come to work wearing my Florshiems, a silk tie, and a fresh shave; it means I'm going to be sitting down with the million-dollar club and hashing out strategy. Unfortunately that doesn't happen as often as I'd like; but I'm working to change that.
And then there's my personality: highly informal, colloquial and humorous. I tend to fun around with my higher-ups when most other people wouldn't. Not in a disrespectful manner or anything; some of them just have that open-door type of style and don't mind a little back and forth. Plus, those guys are really funny if you can get them going; so I don't rib them unless they're in that comfortable mode.
So basically when you put all this together, I look like a typical kidployee. I suppose it would strike some people as highly unprofessional behavior - except I tend to produce satisfying results. I get lots of accolades and praise, but part of me wonders if that's just because they don't expect good work from a dude that looks like Shaggy most days. I'm pretty sure the praise is just their way of trying to motivate me to dress more for the office instead of the playground, and for the love of Pete, put the goddamn toys away. Personally? I get a kick out of it.
Since I have nothing of real value to offer:
Al Gore, renowned inventor of the Internet and part-time politician; has decided to take his brand of devastatingly sharp intellect into climatology. Where, apparently, he's been trumped by some people who - well - actually are climatologists.
And remember those debit cards that were handed out by FEMA to displaced Katrina evacuees? Turns out, more than a billion dollars-worth of that loot was spent on porn and debauchery. Sadly, some of us are not surprised.
In health news, head lice have evolved from a mere pest to a super-resistant organism. Hippies everywhere are being forced to either wash their hair, or get carried away by head lice the size of NFL linebackers. Yes folks, it seems Mother Nature herself has found a way to select hippies out of the gene pool - militant lice.
And even though this link is absolutely pointless, I just wanted to say that I can't wait for this woman to fall off the face of the Earth. Or at least walk into traffic and get railroaded by a flaming tanker truck. I mean, how is this even on CNN? She's newly single and this network decides that needs to go on their front page?
To my wife:
On Mother’s Day, you refused to give me a list, insisting that I come up with gift ideas on my own. You know what torture that is for me. Then this week you ask me for a gift list for Father’s Day. WTF?
Well, here it is, but you’re going to have to work for it. Decipher the clues to find out what I want. One or two of these is enough, some are expensive.
#1. Some stuff is just not available on iTunes. This album was released in November of 1971 by a band that I enjoy and you don’t. Additional clues: croquet, hogweed.
#2. Small bottle of that cologne that I like.
#3. Another CD (double), same band as above. Released in 1974, deals with a tired mammal in NYC. You really hate this one.
#4. Another CD, same band again. Four CD box set released in 1998 and deals with older material only. Careful, I don’t want the three CD box set.
In other news, Shank apparently went on a sugar and booze bender last night and posted like, fourteen times. And in yet other news, I’m still watching this every fifteen minutes or so and laughing myself into coughing fits.
I bring you, blog reviews in 15 words or less:
Protein Wisdom: Remember that kid in highschool who was always stoned, but aced those AP classes? Yeah, his name was Jeff Goldstein, and he's breakin' down the science for all your dumbasses.
Instapundit: He started this gangsta shit. Which is why you should read his thought provoking book. Of course, that's IMO; which probably means it's a step above pop-up-books for some of you.
*Random Note* Right now, as I type, the austic kid that lives behind us is whooping it up. Hell, we don't even make that much noise when we come, and we're newlyweds. At least he's having fun. It sounds like he's quite literally bouncing off the walls. Am I missing out on something? That sounds like fun? Do they have a sky bouncer over there or what?
Anyways...
Spinster: The only blogger with a comment-to-view-ratio lower than anyone here, including the three people who blog in this mofo. Even though we comment at her site all the time.
Oorgo: Because the 'Canes are going to bring that trophy back the US, and that's just got to piss off those flip-top head having, beady eyed Canucks.
Well, I know that's lazy, but I'm out of here. It's getting rainy and I want to take my new beater out for a drive in the mud, photos later?
Wiscounsin, huh?
I think the annoying bastard deserves it.
If I could blog this good, I'd have a 'Beer Fund' tipping jar too. 50 trackbacks? When my ego has a wet dream it doesn't get that good. Some really wasted dude in Iowa is at a bar right now, telling all his friends about how he made beer money on the internet. So at least I know it's possible.
This news report from Alabama (go figure) focuses on a group of people who swear they have a leprechaun living in a neighborhood tree.
It’s got it all. An amateur drawing, crazy people…you really have to see it to believe it.
I literally couldn’t stop crying. Don’t miss the classic line, “I want to know where the gold at.”
This has got to be the funniest thing on the web.
***Update***
I can't stop watching this and shaking with laughter.
If you're still getting 50% or more of your news and events info from the television; you're just taking in the modern version of Entertainment Tonight. Not only is the majority of it completely irrelevant and partisan (depending on your channel of choice); but watching this crap is the equivalent of choosing to communicate with friends and family via the US Postal Service in lieu of telephone, email, or chatting.
Well, another hurricane season is upon us; and with it no doubt will come all the frantic insanity and sensationalist hyperbole we should all expect from the media. Take Alberto, the storm's practically a flash in the pan and Drudge pulled out his flashing siren for it. I can fart harder than 70 mph; but I digress. Having lived in several hurricane-prone areas, and seen the extremes at both ends of the spectrum; I thought maybe I might have something to offer. As it turns out (and you may have guessed) I don't; so I asked Paul to add something to the post that might have merit. If you can tell who wrote which peices of advice, I'll send you a special gift in the mail; free of charge of course.
Gut Busting
A guy ate 47 grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes this weekend. No mention of if he’ll need to use blasting caps to take a dump in the coming days. I just don’t get it.
Sports
In soccer news, Persia got their asses kicked. I think they threw it. That skid mark of a president kept threatening to attend the games like Hitler at the 1936 Olympics. The big difference is that this guy likes to stir the pot at every opportunity and Hitler was less arm waving and more action. Give it time, I guess. This guy’s obviously a big fan of Der Führer and he needs to get whacked.
Terror
Al Qaeda in Iraq announced Zarqawi’s successor as if were a posting in the WSJ. I don’t know about you, but if I headed a terrorist organization I wouldn’t be announcing or posting promotions and roster changes. It just seems…like the stupidest thing I could ever imagine. If the guy exists at all and if he’s not a red herring.
Obits
The guy who wrote (I think) the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey is dead. He did for kettle drums what Einstein did for physics.
Opinion
I’m having new flooring installed at the house and it’s been a goat-hump from the get-go. The thing I really don’t understand is why these people can’t just show up at the time they say they will? Is it really so hard?
When they do show up one of them stays on his cell phone the whole time, often disappearing for hours and the other guy doesn’t speak English. Or Spanish, German or French. I have no idea what it was but I couldn’t fucking parlay no matter how hard I tried. Am I expected to know Albanian or Serbo-Croatian or whatever it was? Meanwhile the work’s not getting done and I’m getting antsy and this bastard goes around my house fucking whistling all day. Literally. And I don’t want them using my toilet anymore.
Not much of a post, I know. Spare me the critique.
Ever notice a TV show character completely vanish from a popular show and they’re never heard from again? I had no idea it had a name, but it does. Chuck Cunningham Syndrome. You can scroll down and see a list of popular shows where this phenomenon took place and little bit about each one.
In more heinous news, there’s also Cousin Oliver Syndrome. Remember that little bastard? Scroll down and see a list of other shows that played this card to keep the show afloat long after it was clinically dead. I actually shuddered at some of these.
I should hat tip someone here but I honestly can’t remember where I saw it. Probably Dlisted.
This week we’re on to part two of etiquette. Part one can found here.
We left off talking about handshakes. We’ve covered “the boneless shake” and “the double pumper” so now we’re on to the last two.
The bone crusher. I don’t know what motivates people to pull a bone cruncher. If it’s to intimidate, it rarely works. When someone gives me the bone cruncher I always know I’m dealing with an asshole. In rare cases it can actually be painful and in those cases it is socially acceptable to break his wrist, throw him or double grab and head butt, however, these are rare circumstances and we’re getting off course.
The last abominable handshake is when they just hold on too long. Any handshake that lasts longer than two seconds is over the line and I’m taking my hand back one way or another. Caveat venditor.
Let’s move on to general behavior. Having little education is not a breech of manners. According to Post:
People who say “I come,” and “I seen it,” and “I done it” prove by their lack of grammar that they had little education in their youth. Unfortunate, very; but they may at the same time be brilliant, exceptional characters, loved by everyone who knows them, because they are what they seem and nothing else.
This has been a pet peeve of mine for a long, long time.
There is no such thing as adding “II” to your name. Does everyone understand that?
You’re “Junior.” I’m sorry, but that is a fact. I know that you don’t want to be called junior. You don’t want “Junior” on legal documents. I can understand that. You’re a big strong man. You’re James Theodore Winthorpe II.
But you’re not. And you’re not fooling anyone. Not me, anyway, ‘cause I know how this works. If you have the same exact name as your father you are “Jr.” There’s no such thing as II. Some try to sneak by with 2nd. Pleases stop the bullshit. When the elder dies, you are promoted to “Sr.” Does that help? Because you’re making an ass of yourself trying to pull this off. People are laughing much harder at “II” than they are at “Jr.”
Get used to it, Junior.
Primarily in the U.S.A. (and never in the U.K.), boys who should be styled junior are sometimes incorrectly labeled with the suffix ‘II’, particularly if there is a third or fourth with the same name. Even if a legal title, this is socially incorrect; strictly speaking, ‘II’, pronounced the second, refers to a boy who is named after his grandfather, uncle, or cousin. The suffixes ‘II’, ‘III’, etc. are also correctly written 2nd, 3rd, etc.
I see plenty of bloggers are excited about the World Cup.
If you’re a soccer fan, you probably don’t live in America. If you are a soccer fan living in America: I pity you. If you are a blogger who doesn’t even know how many men you need to field a team, let’s just be honest about it from the get-go. I suspect many bloggers will jump on this bandwagon because it’s the only one on the prairie.
I’m an unabashed soccer detractor. I fear things I don’t understand. If it were up to me, I would beat soccer to death with a stick—like a garter snake on the patio.
I’ve had a bottle of Dom in my fridge since New Year’s Eve. It was a leftover, of sorts, that has been waiting for a proper occasion. I’ve been tempted several times since than but I’ve held out.
And this morning I wake up to find that that goddamned, sub-human cockroach has been stamped out—sent to hell on the express train—courtesy of a couple of five hundred pound bombs. I haven’t been this happy since I discovered masturbation as a lad.
I’ve never been one to celebrate death but there are a few exceptions, such as this one and that Serbian asshole and a handful of others. Well, quite a few others, I will admit. So tonight I’ll pop the cork and celebrate the extermination of that fucking vampire. That maggot encrusted, shit-filled bag of diarrheatic pus.
Burn, baby, burn
Disco inferno
Burn, baby, burn
Burn that mutha down
….The Trammps, 1977
The other day I heard that the median I.Q is 100.
That scares the hell out of me. That means that one half of us have a double digit I.Q. No wonder everything is so jacked up.
They say that 100, plus or minus 10, indicates average intelligence. I’m not so sure about that. Seventy-five is the beginning of retardation so I’m not sure I’d count ninety as average intelligence.
Where do you think people in the 75-90 range work? If you’re thinking garbage men, or landscapers you’d be wrong. My suggestion is to stand up and peer around the other cubes. Take a walk down the hall and get some water.
I rest my case.
So, today and tomorrow we have these management training seminars. They're pretty interesting, but they're mostly geared to folks who aren't business school grads; so I spend most of the time passively paying attention. By that I mean I doodle. I'm a really good doodler, to wit (click for bigger):
Hey, everybody's got a gift right? Anyways, I have some serious ADD, so it actually helps me concentrate on the speaker or discussion if I've got something low-level going on in the background. Anyways, I'm into my fifth or sixth hour of this boredom born masterpiece when a woman next to me leans in and whispers "Fill me in the diddle with black." Excuse me? For a second there I'm pretty sure this woman wants something that I can't give her.
"What?" I whisper back, still not paying attention to her.
"Fill in the middle black." I'm still a little confused, then I realize that this nosy wench is trying to tell me how I should doodle.
"Nah. Nothing else is filled in."
"Yeah! Fill it in, make it black."
"Nah, nothing else is black." I try to chuckle, because chuckling when people say something stupid to you usually seems to make them back off. I'm surprised that this woman is so invested in the elements of design; but I refuse to ruin the fruit of my labor.
"Well, do we have another color?" Sweet Jesus woman!
"It wouldn't look right, everything else is lines." She gave up here which is good, because I was fearful that I might have to start explaining positive and negative space to her; and that would just be too much work for a doodle. But I'll be goddamned if someone whom I'm unacquainted with is going to try and critique my doodling. That's just plain rude.
Talent is a funny thing. I know I’ve talked about this before but my fascination hasn’t subsided.
I don’t have a lot of ideas. I’m not what you would call “an idea man.” That doesn’t make me an idiot. I have a more than respectable job and a fancy title and a lot of responsibilities—far ranging responsibilities. I’ve come to the conclusion that the farther one moves up the corporate ladder the less specific their responsibilities become. And while I’m supposed to be running a lot of different things, what it really boils down to is that I am Winston Wolf.
"I'm Winston Wolf. I solve problems."
There’s nothing more fun than a couple of wiseasses pulling a Bill Nye.
The vast majority of television programming is recockulous. It's worthless shite aimed squarely at a severly retarded audience. I got bit by a shark this weekend, and as a result I've been forced to spend much time on the couch, layed up watching TV*. It's been horrible, but lucky for you; I'm willing to wade into the sewers and bring you back warning of what lies beneath.
The Real World - This show used to be my guilty pleasure, but after watching two or so hours of it on Sunday afternoon, I'm a changed man. All these monkeys do is get fucked up and start arguments with eachother. Every episode was the same damn thing - get money, get drunk, get pissed at a roommate. I mean, these people are supposedly trying to get a business off the ground, but all I ever see them do is get plastered and scream at eachother. At least back in the day, there was a little fucking going on. How the level of programming over there at MTV has slipped. Sigh.
Wife Swap - I finally thought the censors had allowed hardcore porn on TV. Man was I disappointed to see this garbage. Okay, two husbands trade wives for a week or something, and then at the end, the wives get to dole out prize money. First off, what kind of dumbfuck signs up for this? I'm guessing one of these people who's up to their eyeballs in unsecured debt, and whose only recourse is to pimp his wife out to someone he doesn't even know for the entertainment of the American public. At any rate, these women get shipped off and exposed (inevitably) to some strange family that's completely opposite of their own. Madness ensues, tantrums are thrown, the parade of the absolutely pathetic marches on.
Deal or No Deal - No deal. Really Howie, pack your cueball haircut up and move to the gameshow channel you washout. Remember "Bobby's World"? That was the shit man, now look at you.
Reality TV in general is a cancer on society. Half of MTV's lineup is reality TV and each show stars the same lameass, wastes of a twentysomething losers as the next. Not only are they on Real World/Road Rules Challenge 42, but it's the same people that were on the original shows. I think I saw a dude with a cane and a colostomy bag on the last episode. Again, amazingly pathetic. I can make an exception for something like American Gladiators, or it's new incarnation 'Pros vs Joes'; because at least it's pure competition. Don't give me this rehersed, recycled, scripted drama bullshit.
Hell, worthwhile television can only be found on a select few channels:
Discovery Channel - Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some.
History Channel - It's like regular TV drama, except it really happened. Which, you know, makes regular TV look like the History Channel's dorky little brother who's always trying to be like him. God, what a loser.
National Geographic Channel - Watching a Mara River crocodile pick off some unsuspecting wildebeest never gets old. Plus, they air a bunch of shows on everything from weather to UFO's.
Speedvision - Roadracing. Watch, learn, practice on your hometown streets.
Comedy Central - Although I wish they'd bring back a lineup that was heavier on standup comedy, as I regard standup as probably one of the most entertaining artforms; they still have some decent programs. I watched Ron White do his new thing with the Rednecks of Comedy Tour (or whatever), and it was an absolute rip. If I was a comedian I'd be Ron White; which is why I'm glad he's doing it. So I don't have to.
I went to my kid’s dance recital on Saturday. Four hours in all, of which she was on the stage a total of three minutes. I was medicated, but not nearly enough. Some of you might remember last year’s affair, where stuck in those small cramped seats I had to endure the smell of shit for several hours. This time wasn’t much better.
You’re only allowed to leave the auditorium between dances and they had Gestapo posted at all the doors insuring the mandate was enforced. There were 45 individual songs/dances of which my kid participated in one, plus the finale. That guarantees the seats stay full to the end. My kid went on, like third, and then we had three more hours to kill before we could retrieve her. The trouble started early.
The idiots who were sitting next to us had set up camp and we had to get through them to get to the aisle. I sat in my seat with my camera and program on my lap. In contrast, the buttholes had four bouquets of flowers, a handful of programs and two backpacks all laid out on the floor at their feet. And I had to pee.
I held it until our kid was done and then we planned our exit to the bathroom. The problem was that between the dances they turned all the lights out completely. It was like being at the bottom of a well. You’d think that the red exit signs mandated by law would throw at least some light but you’d be wrong. Also, the time between dances was like one minute, so you had to act fast.
The lights went off and I bolted up, carrying my shit with one hand and grabbing the old lady with the other. It was hopelessly dark…I really couldn’t see anything. I said, “Excuse me!” at the top of my voice, but the assholes sitting there didn’t bother to move. Again, “I said, excuse me!” Still nothing. I was standing there in the dark like a jackass and I’d had enough.
I started stomping through. The first thing I felt under my right foot was a bouquet of flowers. There was no room to walk normally so I had to side-shuffle, and in doing so felt my left foot smash the remains. Then I hit a backpack, but felt it lifted from my path, with a great sigh. Like I was putting these people out or something. “Excuse me!” I shouted again because I was trying to be polite, but he was still unrepentant as after moving the backpack he was just sitting back in his chair. The rest of his brood was just as useless. I plowed over more flowers, ice skated on his programs and stepped all over his feet. I got by him, but not before he took a head shot from the camera. He actually yelped when I clocked him. I was still dragging my wife by the hand so whatever I didn’t completely smash she surely did.
I heard her saying excuse me as well but these people just didn’t get it. By the time we hit the aisle we had steamrolled over four people and their possessions. The doors were closed, the lights were up and we hadn’t gotten out. I was standing to the side now and looked over at the assholes. They were watching the performance like nothing had happened. Smiling.
I could have beaten the whole family to death at that point and not lost any sleep. With the lights up I could see the damage we’d done getting out. All the flower bouquets were completely destroyed. Flattened. The programs were torn up good and had giant, size twelve footprints on the remains. The best part was the giant bag of Cheetos that were completely and totally demolished, I’m assuming by my wife, because I never felt them. Have you seen a big, stepped on bag of Cheetos recently? It’s quite a sight.
We stayed outside for about an hour and we knew we could ever return to our seats down front. We stayed up in the nosebleed section for the remainder where we had some room and could chat without disturbing others. It was a wholly miserable experience, save the three minutes of my kid. I wouldn’t have missed that, and I though I pay a heavy price each year it’s worth it.
I had a moment of clarity over the weekend while I was watching a commercial for what appears to be another cheesy talent show on fox. During the commercial, a guy took a flying leap and landed on his face, which got my attention. The show is called, “So you think you can dance?”
It came to me in a flash. I’d like to develop a show called, “So you think you can swear?”
Just think about the auditions. Brooklyn plumbers, Princeton frat boys, all branches of the military would probably be represented, et. al. Granted it would have to be on cable, but I think I’m really on to something.
On a safer note, I’ll also be pitching, “So you think you can read?” because recent experience shows that few people actually can. I’m thinking the best part would be pitting small children against stupid adults.
Brilliant, huh?
Anybody else notice that half the template seems to be missing?
Wasn't me...
I woke with the instant panicked reaction that DANGER was present. My flight or fight reflex was in full effect. I was immobilized and I was being smothered. In my moment of waking clarity I knew that the inevitable had finally happened - the children were launching their coup and were trying to take me out in my sleep.
I fought back. The vermin weren't going to get me without some losses! My arms were being held down, preventing me from clearing my face and taking a breath. With a mighty heave I ripped my right arm free, throwing the soft body against the wall with a satisfying "thwack".
I kicked out, freeing my legs. I rolled over violently, upsetting the clinging evil that still covered my supine form. In the back of my mind it registered that Lovely Wife was not in the bed. Had they already finished her or was she holding out somewhere else in the house? I had to finish this fight quickly if she was to have any chance of survival.
I leaped from the bed. As I did, the last of the pillows fell off. I rushed for the door and ...
Stopped.
Pillows?
I flicked the light on to see my vanquished enemy strewn about the room. Not children at all, except perhaps the children of Martha Stewart. They were pillows. Pillows everywhere. Plus one rather tangled up duvet.
On the plus side the children weren't actively striving for my demise. At least not yet anyway. On the negative side I now had to return to sharing my bed with nine homicidal pillows and their duvet overlord.
There should be a law about how many stuffed objects a man can be subjected to at one time.
Back by popular demand. This week we’re taking a look at etiquette. If there’s one thing that pisses me off it’s poor manners. It’s one thing to live like a caveman in your own home—but it’s entirely another thing to do it in public.
I know manners, as they were drummed into me as a child and as a young man by my parents, who hoped I’d somehow turn out better than I did. I fell well short of everyone’s mark but I do remember my manners. This doesn’t mean I’m an etiquette Nazi. I just don’t want to hear public farting. There’s a big difference.
Very few people still adhere to age old manners of the royal court and to the completely outdated standards set by Emily Post. That broad was born in 1873 so you can bet your ass things have changed. You know, with electricity and all. So let’s get to it.
Greetings
Up until the 19th century proper etiquette stated that you should never speak to someone that you were not actually, personally introduced to. That type of familiarity was unheard of in England at the time.
If you were actually introduced to someone, the only proper greeting was, “How do you do?”
The response was either another; “How do you do?” or the person could simply bow instead.
I don’t expect people to exercise these standards in modern day America, although there still is a place for them on occasion. Here’s what I do expect:
When greeting someone look them in the eye, stand up straight and shake hands. Don’t wave your drink at them. Don’t nod at them like you’re the Prince of Wales acknowledging the pee boy.
And for God’s sake shake hands properly. Nothing disgusts me more than a limp shake. Everyone has experienced “the boneless hand” before. It’s something of an enigma to me, how anyone could go through life with that handshake having met no repercussions of any kind. I always figured one day they would give the boneless shake and some guy would feel the near lifeless hand, spin the guy around and de-pants and defile him standing up right there, with a few grunts and a brief apology, along the lines of, “Sorry about the mess.”
Almost as bad is the double shaker. That’s the guy who clasps your hand with both of his hands and pumps away. I refuse to tolerate the double shake because I always get the feeling he’s going to pull me in and head-butt me. If I get the double shake I always step right and shift my weight so if I have to throw him I can.
In the old days when a man passed a woman with whom he was not acquainted he would tip his hat, where if he were acquainted with her he would bow. We don’t do this anymore. We now have two options if you don’t know the woman you are passing on the street. The first is to smile politely and the second is to ignore her, making no eye contact whatsoever. In both cases, it is polite to turn after a few steps and oogle her ass. Well, not exactly, but it’s taken for granted. It is not polite to whistle or to make audible noises or grunts. Public grunting is never good manners.
Etiquette is such a broad topic that I might have to address it in parts, as I’d hate to skip over some important topics, like distinguishing a tea from a reception. For instance, according to Post, the menu defines the event. A tea, for instance:
Only tea, bouillon, chocolate, bread and cakes are served. There can be all sorts of sandwiches, hot biscuits, crumpets, muffins, sliced cake and little cakes in every variety that a cook or caterer can devise—whatever can come under the head of “bread and cake” is admissible; but nothing else, or it becomes a “reception,” and not a “tea.”
I bet you idiots have been fucking this up for years, huh? Well, there’s more where that came from.
To be continued.
Did you know that President Gerald R. Ford’s real name was Leslie Lynch King, Jr.? Because it was, and there was no way a guy named Leslie “Lynch King” was getting elected. That’s not why he changed it, but that’s beyond the scope of this shitty post.
On the other hand, a guy with a fairly normal name, Arnold Gerry Dorsey decided it was better to change it to Engelbert Humperdinck.
More here. You might need that someday.
Also, this just in.
I told you. I must have said it a hundred times.
I said, “Katharine McPhee has no charisma, and she looks like she’s in a daze.”
Well, my track record of spotting the insane at a glace has once again been proved accurate. Now it turns out that there may be a brainwashing cult behind the blank look.
Which of these things are not like the others?
Fireman
Policeman
EMT
Teacher
Star of “Ocean’s Thirteen”
Here’s a harder one:
Which of these things are not like the others?
Tinkerbell
Santa Clause
Global Warming
Tooth Fairy
Internal Revenue Service
Here’s an even harder one:
Who the fuck is Kevin Federline?
